Zoar – pt 3 – a poem excerpt


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.



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



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.



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.