Fumbled?

It tumbles,

the leaf it slowly falls;

a graceful decent.

Slow swoosh and swing.

It tumbles,

as if the tree had fumbled.

Nature releases,

sometimes letting go.

From quiet extinction, to

violent armageddon.

Nature lets go,

for nature to grow.

Writing the Way, part one.

Countless words for countless times.

In stanza's long or simple lines.

With devices, tempo, scale and structure;

emotions are made and couplets rhyme.

With half a mind,

you'll have all your ears.

Yet it's not always enough to hear.

Words sung sweet can end in tears.

Style can beguile, with meaning lost.

In malevolent intent or careless construction,

we set sail on journeys of destruction.

Sin

Sin seeps, through time and choices.
Dripping it oozes,
Congealing on the turning points of life.

It's the little things, the white lies and half truths,
They drip, drip, drip through the pages of your reality.
Forming a turgid flood that awaits your falter.
A hideous punctuation as a paragraph ends.

It's the big things, the betrayal and deceit,
With their seismic shock that knocks you to the floor.
An eruption of destruction.
Sometimes the story ends.

Yet sin does not exist,
Guilt is not yours and blame can go away.
Your actions, at worst, just distractions,
From the things someone thought you should have done.

Through commission or omission you are you, what the hell did they expect?
Your actions just gave satisfactions to your person clear and true.

You'll disappoint and you'll offend those so called love ones.
Left in tears they chose their reality of you over yours.
Their sin?

In choices, decisions and actions we may have erred.
Mistakes are ten a penny.
We need no gods to tell us this.
Yet liberty is ours to squander,
and we pick those loved ones,
to share the pages of our reality.

Then sin we do, in our liberty and freedom.
Our Godliness is our power to create.
Possibilities and hope exist on the precipice of doom and destruction.
Our sin is to sink into one expecting to swim in the other.

The early morning

Early morning darkness,
in swirling misty grey.
Ideas are ghostly phantoms;
that have come out to play.

Not just there to scare,
though fear may grip your bones.
They'll tantalise and tease,
and haunt the very things
that play upon your soul.

You'll get itchy fingers,
a fidget plagues your skin.
Can't sit still and wont think straight.
In early morning darkness,
when everyone else does sleep.

A tingling knowledge of what should come,
it whispers to your mind.
Jump or leap, nudging you to the edge...
But cold take over and the morning  does arise.

Ghosts become echoes and memory fades away.

In the early morning,
when all is grey,
the possible may come to life.
An infant fire, easily extinguished by the waking mind,
may through primal embers carry a fire.
And in the waking day time,
things may burn again.

Write back

It’s not me staring at a blank screen but the blank screen staring at me, that most alarms me. There comes a time, though, when it doesn’t just stare but taunts and jibes me; and then it moves. The screen warps and weaves, pulses out and ripples back; slickly transitioning from convex to concave, a rippling wave of sinusoidal snigger.

Reality swings back and all goes cold. Silent.  A white void before me, an open expanse of temptation – the arena of dreams, thought and imagination. A universe inviting creation. Such promise, such possibility ill met with silence and inaction. Frustrated desire to let the forces of creation let rip, energy burning itself spent.

Soon night time has arrived and the void is not yet filled, nor dented, marked or encroached upon. Hours ticked by, frigid torment not laid in release.

Back in the dark

Bin away,
but not thrown away.
Recycled or just returned,
not rubbish anyway.
A denizen of the dark.
A heady swirl serves a savage welcome;
with vapourous cosh a welcoming smile.
Home returned the gloom greets.
A denizen of the dark.
So back in the fug,
senses stymied and output obscured.
It's the same old, same old.
For a denizen in the dark.
Back to tread to streets of grime, no shine;
Pen hits paper, thoughts unwind; but we're in the dark, this could be unkind.
Pace and rhyme just metrics in time, and we'll be on the run; we'll be victims and crime.
A denizen in the dark.

Idle time

Like a whore, whose legs are swayed by the jingle of a purse;

So a flag flaps funny in the wind.

No mind, no integrity its pimp like mast erect to its brazen flutter.

Choices we like to think that are made with the depth of integrity, the fulfilment of soul and being;

They are but prostituted, flapping in the wind.



Us many, we deluded mass.

We hope in fear, and fear our hope.

Freedom is a bestial prison of choices.

We dare to dream and damned in a nightmare.



Give us each day our daily poison,

Keep the mind and body feeble.

A tablet, pill or lie.

Tax in life and tax in death.



Ramble and roam with thoughts,

Fall down a rabbit hole.

Wherever that may lead.

We’re gone.