Painted World – a narrative poem

Into your snow painted world

I stalk, ‘neath high veils of stormy grey

In flux, hiding shadows, taller trees

Reach to claim a stranger, warning.

*

What waits here few mayst know

The tales, bar what be told by

Those harbingers of old doom

Speaking ever and anon nay.

*

“Hold, cutter!” calls a familiar

Voice vaunted, known of old to me

Like the caress of nails on spine

Vertebrae, nerves reacting, gently.

*

I hail you, alert and smiling here

In your very own painted world, of

High tree, dangerous skies looming;

We are a pair here amidst such art.

*

Why did you come here? What sought

You in this world of your design?

So many questions have I, yet no

Reason for coming do I say so on.

*

Soon on this walk to your high tower,

Soon I expect you to ask, but no

Questions come forth, only quiet talk

Of old wars, older homes, family members.

*

I will try, try hard to give you all

That you are fairly due for your great

Victories and loving soul; and walk

Slower, slower, postponing the blood

On ice.

*

The Valley – An Offer Made – a poem

 

Melancholy, maudlin and merry brought

Are the mirror’d reflections as I muse

Upon the darkness illimitable residing

Within this slender frame, the calm surface

Reflected back at me, a lie told calmly.

*

Nothing but health is shown, clean, bright,

Hale self-assuredness, yet assured only

Is the darkness living within, not

A cancer or some entity cacodaemoniacal

Yet rather just my nature, rarely fathomable.

*

Little known, barely by others understood too oft,

Was it little wonder that I drifted away

And left my flock a’grazing and went forth

To that secret place, drawn in by sweet

Scents of opiate bliss? Of course I went.

*

Others had been drawn to that special valley

Yet why was I offered such a prized deal apart?

I was like no other they had ever seen

Or will ever see, so they whispered soft

To me, over the soft sibilant soughing of bitter bliss.

*

Embrace the darkness had become my mantra

Once I partook of those dangerous delights,

Deathly to many, a prison to more, horror

To still many others, and I bothered much

Before, and now clearly I see clarity, balance.

*

Those flowers, though they mayst be fulsome,

Winsome, bright… all kinds, not just hanging

Ruby Devil trumpets but yellow, hungry mouths open

For Ra’s sunlight, spiked obsidian leaves, so shiny…

The dreams they all bring are opiate shaded,

Colourless.