*
I’d sought the source of that land as it crept
Closer and closer to the realms of man,
Little knowing the epicentre of the madness
Encroaching on all lands, uncaring for culture
Or civilisation developed, devouring in frost.
*
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Tag Archives: Excerpt
Zoar – pt 2 – a poem excerpt
I knew where that road led, where all such paths
Do, letting the self become confused, blurring
Past with future, present tense ever into anon
Temporally fragile reality, and I…I chasing that
Scene where explanations dwell, story in frost…
Zoar – pt 1 – a poem extract
*
Far over the icy tundra roams the wind,
Signs of that hyperborean vastness just
Barely seen, hardly known for what they are,
Indicators of a lost world going unnoticed
In these days when slow slumber the woods.
*
High teeth stabbing towards the sky only now
Come into focus, the patterns of so many days
Assumed to force the same again going forward,
Loops in time forming frosty lines that delineate
That shadowy past I struggle to remember, recall…
*
Zoar – pt 13 – a poem excerpt
Half promised land of madness lies
As a viper biding within the nest made
Of vanquished spiders and bird feathers,
Strange and foreign in the known extreme,
More than we can or would ever imagine.
*
For aeons longer than expired demigod lives
Have been forgotten has Zoar dreamt over,
It’s grand spires of madly reaching bulbs
Grown above more horizons than go told of
By the travellers who only glimpse up in passing.
*
Bathsheba – a poetry preview
***
Greetings.
Today I am bringing to you a piece which some of the readers from my previous blog may recall. It is only a little piece of the first part, edited slightly for grammar and presentation. The work is 23 parts long so far, written in August of 2013, telling the story of a lone warrioress in the desert. It is called Bathsheba – Queen of the Desert.
It is a strange style, kind of alternate rhyming couplets, nothing formal, little of my work ever is, but it remains an interesting record of a narrative poem series from myself as a different man to who I am now, who I have become. I have changed much in the past 7 months and I turn to Bathsheba with a different mind, a new perspective. I am planning to edit the whole of this narrative poem series and publish it as an ebook
I hope that you enjoy this small preview.
Raviera.
***
Goldset in late summer
As the desert guitar calls over
The dunes woven by winds
Caressing baked sands.
*
A masked wanderer makes tread
With rough shod feet,
Crests a dune without dread,
Though not as others before her felt.
*
Sunshine coming down,
Falling all around
And its weight is a tome unbound.
*
Weary with the long trek directionless,
The wanderer saw the board,
A long while ago in time fathomless
And has set out with at her back a sword.
*
Her hips bear a revolver each,
Solid grips of dark crystal rock,
Weapons of her far reach
While the blade is her close lock.
*
If she finds the one she would beseech
Before the desert clock
Ticks night-time over the breach
Then she is sure that no others do there flock.
*
Face a masked thing,
Hair all silver under a hood
Atop the cream colour robes bringing
A lighter top to the light flood.
*
Heat, heat, heat all around,
And nary a less inviting sight
Is there to be found
Than the crows in flight.
Insect Uprising – a poetic excerpt
This is a world where insects seek
To overthrow their Queen,
*
Millions in the hundreds
Of years have made fuel
That we burn, the dead
Bones of lost creatures,
Fossilised and Petrified
To make our world of smog.
*
Hundreds of millions of years
Have made fuel for a few
Hundred, single digit billions
Of people swarms roaming, eating.
*
We have smoked toads without thought
Of the sins accrued by waste,
Those bright shades swallowed
By the concrete Molochian philosophy…
The Chairmaker’s Soul – part 2
A Red the lurid shade of rotten roses dyes
Bloody the sun’s sinking skies above wind swept dock streets,
Dreaming lazedly about curious shoppes along lanes twistingly followed,
And what rode in on strange winds brought from sleepy seas.
Amongst their draughty alleys he made
Enquiries of all craft purveyors wizened
Or young, with their secret sigils
Or those particular altar finneals.
No joy there among those odd stores
Of needful things and biscuits buttered,
By knives far sharper than want sheepish spirits
Of mortality, grown and mortally breeding.
