Tag Archives: Poem


There it is again
that friggin finger that pokes and
prods each and every day of
the goddamned week,
and twice as often
come the Saturdays and Sundays of this
forsaken existence.

ceasless noise,
blood splatters reek
of cordite,
grenades, rip roaring
numb my brain,
shit, the bombs
bigger and better as
each new one arrives

Hack, slash,
Stab and impale,
Swordfights, gauntlets
thrown down in endless
armies of thousands, ready
to sack a waiting world,
its unbearable!

No, no, no
i beg of you
boom boom boom boom
enhance the bass, graphic
the equalizer, balance the bins
tweak the tone
boom boom boom boom
guitar heroes all
one day
one day soon
i shall wreak my revenge

I am the warrior
I am the mage
I am the hero
of the age
i am
who you choose me to be!

I pray for a power surge
an early death
for today
peace and tranquility
mine to but dream of
for even death
is better
than this life i

I have zero idea if I have got this anywhere near right. but I had a bash anyway. Over at d’Verse, my #1 poetry hangout, Anna outlines what Negative Capability is about in poetry. Its all a little over my head as I had about no formal education from about age 11. I have read it over so many times, anymore and I will just confuse mysef even further. I have read a few offerings by others and kinda followed their lead really. Hopefully, even if this does not quite fit the requirements, it might just raise a smile.

x box


Acid Days

I managed to miss the Mad Lib week, so please excuse me for this being a somewhat latecomer.

I asked the forever supportive Victoria to provide me with some words to play with and this is what she left for me.

N- Karma
N- Sound
V- To play
V- To seduce
V- To shadow
A- Creative
A- Strenuous
A- Resting
R- Mutant
R- Image

I am still confused how what came to mind actually came to mind, it was one of those out of nowhere moments, somewhere between deja vu and a flashback. So, this is the result of that 30 minutes of completely lost time where I am sure, if someone put a gun to my head, I still could not tell them what happened. Wierd.

The question may, or may not arise,
To play or not to play?

I read the words, but the image,
Was lost to my sight,
I was absorbed in this creative wonderland,
Only words lay before me?

Ah, music,
Demonic melodies,
Maniacal guitar riffs,
From the age of the electric dawn,
Sound in the deep recess of the hour,
The creative minds,
Of axemen and bards,
Seduce the follower, toward
Unfathomable melancholic meditation.

Drums, throb with a strenuous rhythm,
I swear, Bonham and Moon were laughing, their
demented howl,
A lycanthropic disguise?
But no, I wont get fooled again,
This aint no stairway to heaven baby!

Somewhere, a silver bullet band played my tune.

The question, though
Was never in doubt to these monsters of rock.

Cast its eerie shadow beyond our manic twosome,
Resting in its periphery,
Sat Jimi alongside Marc in a purple haze,
Those metal guru’s of history,
Watching, The Voodoo Child metamorphose,
Into the miscreant mutant,
Of the unholiest Black Sabbath.

Who told you hell aint a bad place to be?

Someone out there,
I know not who,
Maybe the fool on the hill?
Called the karma police.

The arrests were brutal,
In their intensity,
The acid days,
Were long ago banished,
Into legend…..

John Bonham: Drummer with Led Zeppelin, sadly deceased.

Keith Moon: Drummer with The Who, sadly deceased

Monsters of Rock: A open air rock concert held at Castle Donnington racetrack. Applicable to Bonham and Moon as well.

Jimi and Marc: Hendrix and Bolan of course.

Karma Police: A song by Radiohead.

Other song titles are in there as well, some you will recognize, some maybe not.

Posted over at d’Verse, the pub where the poets hang. Come join the fun and read some awesome poems penned by some awesome poets.

My Way To Hell [and back]

Those good folks over at d’Verse have offered up two prompts this weekend. Brian asks us to find some adjectives and nouns and verbs and all that other language stuff to include in a poem. Gretchen asks us to think about music and what it means to us or makes us think of etc etc. That, is obviously the right choice for me. I am often inspired by music and often include some band or song lines into a post. If you look back through my 190 odd posts so far, you will see how many relate in some way or other to a song. Even the title of this piece plays on a song title.

There are two versions of the song I love, although there are numerous versions more I have never bothered to listen to. Each version says something unique to me. I shall not venture into that  here though.

Today, I nearly died,
I must have cried, a thousand tears,
or more,
And yet, its very clear
That the road ahead
Will twist, each gut wreneching turn
until I find, the right direction,
But, although I’m down,
I am not out,
I am also proud, to say
I did it my way.

To plummet or not, I am never sure,
Is the grass always greener,
On the other side?
Once, these tears subside,
Will life,
Again have meaning?
Senses numbed,
Thoughts suffering defeat,
Despite, dark holding sway,
I’ll do it my way.

The bitterest of pills,
Taste of honey,
When consumed,
Without, emotion,
The first cut,
Is often the deepest,
The scars, still bear witness,
Revealing their tragedy,
Beside life ebbing,casualy
Calmly away,
I did it my way.

There’s no regrets,
There’s no more tears,
I cried them all,
Across many years,
This once empty shell,
Houses my soul,
The fire blazes bright, yet
Life took its toll,
Throughout it all,
I learnt, to stand tall
I declare, unto the world,
I did it my way.

The two songs tell a completely different story in both imagery and lyrics. I have my favourite, but I am not saying which it is. You can decide that one for yourself 😉

The Look

I happened to read, the other day, a post from C. Rose that is in the form of Hyper- Thrice.  It is a form I have not come across before and I just had to have a bash at seeing if I could write one to the form that made some semblance of sense. So my task for today was to attempt my own Hyper Thrice and see if its creator thinks I have done it justice.

So here goes,

That lost look,
That most beautiful face,
Haunted by lies, untruths, betrayal?

Could that be a twisted portrayal?
For us all to embrace,
That lost look.

That hard look,
That granite chiseled face,
Cold eyes freeze glazier deep, vivid blue?

A persona you wish to construe?
One that would help replace,
That lost look.

That soft look,
Tender, loving, fervent,
Enslaving my soul, bend to your will?

This prophecy, the urge to fulfill?
I am bound, a servant,
To that look.

Any comments, constructive critisisms accepted with gratitude as it only helps me grow into a better poet and person.

Heartfelt Lies [a Tanka]

I am on a learning curve and am hungry for it. After some research earlier today, I found myself at One Stop Poetry sifting through their Form Archive. There is some terrific information there about different forms of poetry. So far, I have had a go at Shadorma’s today and now its the turn of the Tanka. It takes the form of a 5-7-5-7-7 syllable poem, but I suggest you read about yourself.

I have so far attempted Haiku’s, Octains, Shadorma’s and now the Tanka. I will eventually work my way through the whole archive, but Vilanelles look too complicated for now, although very interesting. One Stop Poetry is a great source of information and inspiration for the budding poet.

Here goes,

First you see the blood,

My wounded heart lies bleeding,

Your lies tore it out,

What once was yours to own, now,

Lies damaged beyond repair.

No Choice [Shadorma]

This has come about in a very roundabout way. Its yet another form thats new to me, but one I shall attempt to embrace and do justice.

I was looking for somewhere to post today. I visited Victoria’s blog to see if there was anything that she follows or submits to and found this lttle snippet,


I immediately thought, hmmm, whats this? Upon reading, I find its yet another form of poetry I know nothing about. So I do some research which led me to One Stop Poetry and this archive and its follow up.  After reading them both, and some other material, it was time to have a go myself, I just can’t resist the challenge 😉

The challenge in part II was to use either one of two poems to then disect and make into a Shadorma. Well, I did, but didn’t do that.  The first poem was an untitled piece from Lovely Annie and seemed to me to be about smoking and the possible repercussions. So I decided to do my own slant on that.

3 years ago I quit smoking. I was hospitalised for 12 days and just thought, if I can go 12 days, then I can go 13, 14, 15, so I did and that was that. Smoke free and all the better for it. So here is my take on that period, using an idea from Annie.


Mute contemplation,


Just one hit,

The craving for toxins strong,

Yet impossible.


I think I have it right as far as syllable count goes.

Mind Dance

Just play,
for me and
no one but,
this is my fuckin song,
you wrote it for me,
so play.

So she played, with gusto. The chords ripped from the strings. The echo was faint, but audible. The volume was cranked up to the max, the vibrations were palpable, travelling up my spine to tingle the lobes of my brain. This was better than any crack ever could be.

So she played,
for me and
no one but,
my fuckin song,
written for me,
she played.

Like she had a choice. Its hard to disagree with a .45 in your face. So she played, fast and hard. The tempo was building to my favourite part of the song. The riff here is almost perfection, thats how I know she wrote it for me and me alone.

So she played,
for me and
no one but,
my fuckin song,
written for me,
she played.

Foot tapping rhythm burst from the speakers. The Marshall amp was tuned to hint subtle distortion. The mix left you numb if you let it. This was music how it was meant to be. Soul shaking rock n roll. You could not find this at no fuckin crossroads. You could not make no deals with the fuckin devil either. He was never this good.

So she played,
for me and,
no one but,
my fuckin song,
written for me,
she played.

The beat slowed, just for a few seconds. Twisted chords sang their own song, somewhat briefly, that was part of the beauty. I don’t know how she did that, but it turned me on. Angels would dance to this song, if it were played in heaven. Instead, it ws just me and her. We danced in our minds, our very own Masque of the Red Death.

So she played,
for me and,
no one but,
my fuckin song,
written for me,
she played.

And on she played, never stopping for breath. Her fingers bled, staining the strings red, but still she played. She played as if possessed, backed by the orchestra from hell itself. You couldn’t write music like this. It lived within, you either have it or you dont. She fuckin had it, thats for sure,in bucket loads. She played for me, for me alone, until I told her to stop, which of course I never would. This song fed the soul and was the food I devoured, craved. I could not live without it.

So she played,
for me and,
no one but,
my fuckin song,
written for me,
she played.

So it was to be. This is where we met our demise. Listening to the best fuckin music there ever was or ever likely to be. Here and now, the heart of our Rock n Roll stopped beating, but the music lived on. Encased in our own purgatory, we danced our dance.

Submitted to One Shot Wednesday

Eye of the World

Oh great eye of the world,
What do you see?
Looking, aware,
It see’s you, it see’s me.

Unblinking observer, of,
Man, Woman and child,
Of humanity,
Sight of you,
Sight of me.

Sleepless solitude,
Lidless stare,
All knowing sight,
Imprisoned, not free,
Sight of you,
Sight of me.

Oh great eye of the world,
What do you see?
Looking, aware,
It see’s you, it see’s me.

Watchful ever watchful,
Escapes its glare,
Timeless destiny,
Sight of you,
Sight of me.

Overseer of fortune,
Guardian of the gate,
Vigilant servant,
Of finality,
Seeing you,
Seeing me.

Oh great eye of the world,
What do you see?
Looking, aware,
It see’s you, it see’s me.

Submitted to Magpie Tales 07/06/2011


The theme for One Shot Wednesday as featured on OSP  is Dark. Anything dark. I have some dark poems in my archive, but as per usual, I strive to post something new as often as possible. So here is my submission for today’s OSW.


and you shall speak,though broken
your mind,
the thoughts contained therein,
in truth,
illuminating words, softly spoken,
in rhyme,
much to my chagrin,
yet again.

and you shall see, through eyes
so blind,
that bleed the tears of sorrow,
and jubilation,
name hidden in veiled diguise,
no answer,
dawn renounced on the morrow,
yet dark.

and you shall feel, by fingers
yet numb,
touching distant souls without solace,
or savor,
spectres of reluctant fear yet linger,
your touch,
frigid as a winters embrace,
ice cold.

and you shall hear, through ears
yet deaf,
to the terror that crucified your lament,
of regret,
screams encountered the disappeared,
the lost,
flagrant speech, harbinger of dissent,
to heed.

deserter of

High Octain Poker

The challenge from OSP on Monday was to attempt a High Octain, which is a double version of an ordinary/low Octain. Its a new poetry form, created by Luke Prater. I had the honour of him taking a Low Octain I had written, in a local dialect fashion, and giving some constructive critisism and ideas of how to improve the effort. So here we go, never one to forsake a challenge, I have produced this effort in the hope that it is somewhere close to the form required. The title is a play on words and should make the subject matter fairly obvious.

The race began, much like the last,
Some players old, some players new,
Novices play and make their debut,

Table the stage, players the cast,
Rail was set, awaiting first bet,
Action came thick, Action came fast,

Of limpers there were, only a few
The race is on, aim to outlast.

The race is on, chips are amassed,
Short stacks will shove, as if on cue,
Blinds stolen amidst latest coup,

Final table, bubble passed,
Making the cash, do nothing rash,
Taking it down, rail is aghast,

Standing so proud, champion new
Race won, opponents outclassed.

There are a few instances where poker terminology is used.

Rail: The audience in a live game.

Limper: A player who only calls the Big Blind.

Blind [big and small]: Forced bet at the start of every hand, raising as time passes.

Short Stack: Player with hardly any chips left.

Bubble: The point where you make the money in a tournament

I hope I did the form and myself justice here.

You can be the judge of that.

My submission to One Stop Form