Rudimentary Rumblings

Virulent vitriol, violent in his hate,

erupting without encracity -

flaught infant flocks watch him vesuviate;

he devours young hope with voracity.

Fremescent rocks rained from the mouth of his vent,

a fusillade of barbed, bellicose bricks -

burning the innocence of all where he went;

sending souls along the lava of Styx.

But through the rumbles, the roots where he stands

grow a verdure still of verdure and pure - 

remaining unmoved by chaos he demands;

standing up for all hope; steadfast and sure.

That rubicund ridge could foam in its threats

but dowsed with indifference and peril wets.

Autosarcophagy

If I could eat through these walls of hard bone

to find an exit from my dingy cave

then my jaw might clamp onto some unseen zone

that leaves me with fresh strategies to save.

I know that soon my gnawing teeth will yield

when they start to pierce the layer of thick skin

that's worn so thin it can no longer shield

my empty vessel from the mess I'm in.

I've come to terms with my fruitless escape

now that I've noticed I'm my own jailer

and if this prison is one I can't reshape

then I will remain wrapped up in failure.

But I will still keep biting at my skull

for my restless stomach is never full.

Bare Branches

I look out to see the branches are bare

but I don't remember seeing leaves fall.

It seems we go from having it all there

seamlessly to having nothing at all.

It makes me wonder just when did they leave

and where have the vibrant times gone?

Has the sun merely had a small reprieve

or has the light permenantly moved on?

I know that there will be new leaves to grow

but there's a cold winter to endure first,

and if the branches can shake off the snow

then I can cope with old leaves being dispersed.

We've suffered the season's sudden refresh

but we can look forward to starting afresh.

Contrasted Cliffs

In layers of scratches and incisions

your form evolves along the bumps and bends,

shaped by passing time and man's decisions

where sturdy lives may meet their crumbling ends.

But amongst the chalk, granite and the sand

there is something of beauty to be found,

for throughout the differences of the land

it's all anchored by the same common ground.

So let age not define your sense of self

nor be it the colour you have been formed,

you are not your possessions or your wealth

but sculpted by the beliefs you have formed.

Do not discriminate texture or tone

but see beauty in all kinds of stone.

An Avalanche

The aberration of comfort is such

that pain becomes a remedy for angst,

irrational counters irrational

and I can see all my flaws with disdain.

It's as though observing an avalanche

with fond memories stored at the apex

and though safe in the knowledge that I'm safe

I get the stuttering sense to absond.

But do I flee from the danger I fear

or fly towards that which I'm set to lose;

how will I know that which I already know

if I'm concerned with how instead of why?

In indecision, I'm buried by snow

but I feel no fear with my skin aglow.

Point of Migration

Morning mist blooms in a murmuration

that swoops between pastures seen from afar

and folds in its own fickle furation

both passing and ent'ring the window ajar.

I can barely fathom the fog's flirtation

for those who flock cannot see where they are

until I watch you break through the flocculation -

a morning fog broke by my morning star.

And the rays catch a golden elation

that glitters and dances like those birds alar

and having found the point of migration

we sail off into the sunset cinnabar.

No longer concerned by the follies of mist

but welcoming warmth where our wings have kissed.

Feathers

Feathers in your mouth and blood on your tail:

I can't help but be a fool for the facts.

Immaculate paws point to faith I'd lacked

and oust me as someone fragile and frail.

Yet we're still clearly left with a dead bird

and its carcass conveys a carnal sin

so it takes all my strength from within

to dismiss the tweeting that I had heard.

For sometimes feathers are merely feathers

and blood can come from natural sources;

when careless suspicions run their courses

fearful minds can break free of their tethers.

I still nurse that bird in my gentle hands

knowing not who did it harm nor where it lands.

Night Gifts

Those gifts we sometimes receive in the night

are met by an audience expecting

to see on our faces, signs of delight,

but find the scattered wrapping perplexing.

There's no doubt thought has gone into the gift

and it is something we will come to need

but when there are presents through which we sift

never is it the instructions we read.

So the gifts are collecting dust, somewhere out of sight

and each one is in need of dissecting

but there's a danger that would cause a rift

from a prior warning we didn't heed.

Since, I've paid great care to each gift I've got

and rue every gift I have since forgot.

Iceage

Oh how you've been clinging to those icy grips

like languishing leaves lost among litter.

The weather, it tries its best to warn you

you'd be left directionless and bitter.

That's not to say it's cold all of the time

but rather a sudden forecasted front

and what meteorologists once said;

they'd now rather not be taking that punt.

The forecast's grim; but at least not for him

who's walking around in shorts and a vest.

His happiness shows, for he really knows

he's on the cold Earth only as a guest.

And when the ice melts, he'll swim in the flood

and when he's drowning he'll say "it is good".

The Fortitude of Fallen Foliage

Often is winter's arrival mourned

as an icy season of bitter death

but I find it rather a time adorned

with the opportunity for fresh breath.

The solstice is dark and hard to endure

and it represents the pessimist's peak,

but after that those dark days are fewer

and the skies steadily appear less bleak.

So do not mourn the fallen rusted leaf

separated from the embrace of the tree

but rather take solace in the belief

that it will benefit from flying free.

The fallen leaves, once so solemn, stir

from the comforting pick-up in the air.

Yonderly Shores

The susurrus brush of sinuous waves,

systatic with the siccaneous sand,

is soft in her sun-clad syzygy

guided by the virason's weathered hand.

The fusillade of over-turned fossils

foraminate the fool's merry frescade—

a farraginous flânerie falls short

of foaming footprints he's now forced to wade.

And so the shore laps up the shingled kiss,

an insatiable disregard for man;

insidiating with the sea to spoil

his own lecanoscopic day-dreamed plan.

And so the shore stops his saccharine kiss,

the velleites of man in ignorant bliss.

Endless Oceans

We sail along on a boundless ocean
each ripple a life which ruptures the shoal.
Meager from mass skies, we seem so small
til our gentle sway makes giants of us all.

For when ripples touch, they expand and fill
like our hearts which invite and imbibe love.
From connections, we seem greater from above
and to make great waves just one ripple's enough.

Beyond the surface we hold hidden depths—
memories swim along the ocean floor,
which live on long, in love's sentimental lore
fondly retold through time for evermore.

So take strength in the ever-constant tide,
with each ripple made, our wave will never die.

Beneath the Surface of the Sun's Silence

Phosphenes float in the fleecy clouded sky,

like restive woken walkers, weaving to work.

The withered yellow leaves have all but died;

the worn arms that held them plea for a perk.

The grass-blades shave their early morning frost

as the sun ascends and purifies the night.

The cows complain about the latest milk costs;

the price could not justify the budget's bite.

The wind's peppermint breath conceals its scent

plundered from depths of desperation,

a breakfast of sulfurous sorts, nights spent

ruing the winter's rapid inflation.

And as day swaps shifts with the oscitant moon

the phosphenes know they have arrived too soon.

Obscure Junctions

Spanners can so swift and suddenly spring;

the coils of life leap like a jack in the box.

We cannot say what the next day will bring

so we cannot be prepared for life's shocks.

The fog on the path obscures the cliff top

but we have no choice but to walk blindly,

hoping our feet don't reach the sudden drop

and, if they do, the fall treats us kindly.

We should not become bitter about the road

for it too leads us to places of joy.

This route can take us to places so broad

so we should walk; and both rise and fall enjoy.

The twists of this network can lead us dazed

so open your mind and become amazed.

Smiles Behind Dustmasks

A forgotten world, so gritty and grim

yet full of the ethics which made us proud.

Thick powders of dust in which you could swim

packed full of the hope which time's not allowed.

I wish to go back to this greyer grass

which I've heard so many stories about

but I'm seeing parallels with out past

and I find the vibes are in their second bout.

Bridged between defamation and delight,

we're in the slog away from recession;

determined to put all our mistakes right

we're in a world of euphoric progression.

And so a bit of squalor makes me smile

knowing the future scenes it could compile.

Tightrope Act

I've always thought myself an acrobat

but I have been becoming less agile.

When you left me with no landing mat

my fear of falling made me feel fragile.

I've always relied on your safety net

and so I must find more faith in my skill,

realising that doubt is my only threat

I could achieve whatever's in my will.

I'll always have that small voice inside my head

telling me that I can never achieve,

but I'll listen to the angel instead

who's imploring me to always believe.

I will continue to walk those dizzy heights

and focus on futures rather than frights.

Sheep

At just 21 I feel like mutton

when I took for granted being the lamb,

but people much older still pull it off

whilst they are giving much less of a damn.

I'm starting to rediscover my spring legs

but I'm wondering how long they will last,

if they'll buckle at a heavy future

or succumb to the build up of the past.

At least for now I'm happy in my wool

and I hope that it will endure the cold,

no longer content to follow the herd

I will not let my identity be sold.

To you, I may just be another sheep

but I still have my own values to keep.

Careworn Comfort

The old faces, so fresh and full of verve

greet my heavy head, haggard and harrowed.

I cannot tell if we've drifted apart

or if our separate paths have narrowed.

Their visage is a taunting reflection

of everything that I could have been,

a diagram of my distancing dreams

with labels pointing out things I've not seen.

But if I start to look past the facade

I see they're just a ghost in a jester's attire,

their smile extends either side of their jaw

but it isn't matched where their eyes lie higher.

So I'm quite content to be rugged and rough

because my honest form is comfort enough.

Burned Bishops

Brittle and brisk, like a kiss on your lips,

such sharp sentiments to match the songs.

Clear-cut and crisp, like the depth of my risk,

such languished lyrics reflecting my longs.

Drawn-out and dark, like your clavicle's arc,

I could not retrace where my tips should lie.

Welcomed and warm in a comforting form,

I could only point them straight to the sky.

Piercing and pale, like the point of your stare,

but I could not pick up on their sad shine.

Fearsome and fair, like the sting of your tail,

but I could not look back on things which aren't mine.

I can't control cravings I don't contain

but my burned bishops still play on my brain.

Running From/To

I could get into a good position

but then I would let the world pass me by.

My intentions never reach fruition

because I'm afraid of crossing the line.

I have much talent that I've buried deep

and it's so frustrating to slow my pace.

I cannot rely on a pair of feet

that do not believe they can cross this race.

I am hoping that time will make me strong

and I'll no longer have a need to roam,

then I'll find that which I had all along

and regard the ribbon's embrace as my home.

...but 'til then I will run and run and run,

and when I have stopped I can say that I've won.