The Sadness. A poem.

The sadness creeps over,
a ponderous behemoth,
encompassing my lands and being.
It seeps into my streams, polluting them
with its murky ill-will,
making a mockery and a mire.

It kills off my grass and trees, turning
my greens to blight, leaving
animals once proud and determined
now abject and homeless;
caricature mascots.

It crawls over my buildings, infesting
every room and board, making
inhabitants into castaways
with the shore so near, so far.

And everything collapses under
the weight of its load, a gravity
far too serious for this light

head(ed) over heels,
a Hercules turned weakling,
bent knee and broken aspect,
an actuary who can’t reconcile his records
to account for the loss
of his greatest love.

My first book of poetry, The All or the Nothing, is available now as an e-book from most online distributors. To find out more, click here.

Fools’ Gold. A poem.

The road smouldered as
steel-tread fingers ran over it,
each car an indifferent lover.
Nothing was out of the ordinary
but the extraordinary.

I could no longer look upon you,
the pain too sharp, a constant thorn.
My cannibal hypocrisy consumed me
with self-deception.
One last glance
(you, the diamond amongst coal)
and I drove away into the
hazy mid-afternoon grey.

That was the day.
The day I let my muse fade.
The day I turned from you, away.
I realised dreams were
mirrors and reflections,
untouchable and jaded.

I wanted tears, but an empty
shell holds no water.
No reason to
cry/hope/dream/love.

Melodrama, my cold and
calculating friend, nudging me
awake and laughing at every
stuttered riposte
(all in good natured fun),
smiling in deepest irony.

I typed these words
and let my muse fade.
The clouds let loose their
ill-gotten gains to ply
a sympathetic trade.

Dreams are fools’ gold,
shining brightly.
And without my muse,
all mere deception.

Frost. A poem.

I live in surreality,
not quite alive, not quite dead.
I wander from one point to the next,
a confused and weary traveller,
conspicuously without intent.

The pleasures of the material
and the impractical align in
tacit disapproval.
I am a wanderer in confusion,
lost in the blizzard of bodies,
grabbing myself for warmth
like a frost-bitten seeker
faced with his last
insurmountable peak.

Someday this journey
will be done, and the last thing
I see, may be the first I ever saw.
As if all that mattered was the
concentric circle I travelled in
and the hoarfrost patina
on my windows,
obscuring what could have been,

and should have been.

The King Spoke. A poem.

The King spoke upon
the mount
to thousands who’d come far.
His words would
change
the world.

Did he know how much?
Yes, he did.

The same way he knew
He would be
betrayed,
and on his cross on Golgotha,
His Father would
forsake him,
then raise Him from the dead.

Did He know His
words and actions
would mean so much?

Yes, He did.

And He would do it all
again,

to save us with His
Grace.

Coriolis. A short tale.

He stared at the mirror, at the composite he had become. It held a reflection capturing his bitterest Hyde and Jekyll moments. He placed his hand firmly on the vanity, turned on the tap and watched the water spiral down the drain.

“You f$&@ing, arrogant, conceited prick,” he said. In the mirror his other self sneered, spitting vitriol. “Who do you think you are? Do you think you’re better than everyone else? Do you think you deserve more? Are you entitled? Who gives you the right to think you should be f$&@ing happy?”

The unblinking visage stared back at him. He was eye to eye with a ghost, a soliloquy made real. “She doesn’t even know you, you stupid, f$&@ing idiot.”

And there it was. The source of all his ire, ensnaring and holding him hostage, his personal Stockholm Syndrome. The one thing that kept him awake every aimless night. The thing that kept him longing insanely and losing himself sanely.

He thrust his finger at the mirror accusingly. “Why would you even attempt to believe that she was right for you? She doesn’t know you from a bar of soap.” He grabbed the slimy soap block from the vanity and threw it hard into the bathroom wall, where is clonked and slid to the floor. For dramatic effect? He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore.

Tears welled in his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. “I’m giving her up,” he said. “I’m tired of loving and hating how I feel when she’s around. I’m tired of never being able to let her know how I feel. I’m tired of fooling myself anymore.” His mirror self slumped, the weight that should have lifted now magnified a thousand fold.

He looked at the empty eyes—the hollow, skeletal black holes were event horizons from which only sadness could escape. “It’s better this way. Who needs hope, anyway? There’s no point in purpose. It’s just another anchor to drag you down.”

The room seemed darker now, the embodiment of his thoughts. He slid to the floor, pulled down into a personal ocean of despair. He turned his back to the wall and collapsed into himself like the singularity he had become.

“It’s better this way.” But there was no one else to listen, and the whisper of his voice sounded even more hollow in the tiny tiled room that was just as much a cage as his head. Better this way, he thought.

The tap kept running, the stream of his pain a twisting coriolis, swirling downwards to a confusion of pipes and an endless, empty sea.

.

Actually, a true story. But if you’ve been following my posts you’d know that, lol.

Cheers

Steve 🙂

Haiku Friday. ‘Bereft’, a haiku trilogy.

Bereft. A haiku trilogy.

1. Ebb
The last ebb of life,
seeping like sweat from my pores.
Let it go, you fool.

2. Ash
My heart is sliced
from my chest, burned alive;
all feeling, now ash.

3. Bereft
My solution lost
upon a sea bereft of
possibility.

.
Well, I hope you’ve had a better week than me.

Steve 🙂

When (part 3). A poem.

When will I be free of this life and all its bitter swill?
Force fed, every grueling meal mixed with bile and contempt,
returned to sender in a spray of misgivings,
a spent force that paints the tile in acrimonious colour.

When will this life leave me be, so I can rest in audacious peace?
When will I sleep and dream of nothing, free from pain and imagination
that only ever led me astray.
When will I break the chains you locked me in, through no fault of your own.

When will I leave this sad and weary shell behind,
wander with spirits, both bottled and ghostly,
and drown my last remaining dregs of hope in failure.

When?

When (part 2). A poem.

When did I lose you?
When did I turn my back on you,
then turned around and you were gone?

When did any hint of recognition
leave your eyes.
When did I become a third wheel,
constantly turning out of place
in time and space.

When did this supple heart grow dried
and worn, to wither in the sun
like a weed.
When did I lose the will to be with you,
let the scales unbalance and my
love be cast aside in bitter rebuke.

When will I ever learn?

When (part 1). A poem.

When I talk to you,
when I’m lost to the sanguine artfulness
of your words.
When your silken, soothing tones
surround me like the warmest winter blanket.
When the only light I need to guide me
is in your rainbow eyes
and sunshine smile.
When the aspect of your face is the only
solitary star in the darkening sky.
That’s when I know
I’m home.

And that’s when I awake
and know I’m still alone.

Shopping with the Olds

I went to the mall with my aged parents to do some Christmas shopping.

Note to self: find some excuse next time to avoid going with aged parents to the mall to do Christmas shopping.

I don’t dislike my parents–I love them very much. All the more so because they’re allowing me to live under their roof until my property settlement is finalised. In fact, I don’t mind sitting with them in a car or at lunch and hearing them squabble over the smallest and most ridiculous things, as long-term married couples do.

Here’s some other things I don’t mind, either:

  • I don’t mind adding my mother’s mobile phone number into my dad’s phone directory because he didn’t realise he deleted it and doesn’t know how to get it back.
  • I don’t mind that my father buys innumerable pairs of underpants every time he goes out (he has a draw full of new, unopened, old man undies, and insists on getting more. Just in case of an underpants apocalypse, I guess. You can never have too many pairs of undies when the s$&@ hits the fan at the end of the world).
  • I don’t mind that my Mum insists on telling me how to drive, even though she can’t drive herself.
  • I don’t mind that by lunchtime I’ve done most of my shopping and they’ve bought one pair of socks.
  • I don’t mind that dad asks me to buy him the new Simon Scarrow book for Christmas, then goes and purchases it anyway without telling me, literally ten minutes after he asked me to get it.
  • I don’t mind that my mother argues with me over the price of a DVD box set I’m planning to purchase as a gift, because she thinks I’m too poor to afford it.
  • I don’t even mind sitting in the backseat on the long drive home as my parents have an extended phone conversation with a friend on loudspeaker without ever acknowledging to them that I’m there.

Shopping with the olds. I don’t mind it at all.

But I think I’ll go shopping on my own, next time.

Cheers

Steve 🙂

Game Over. A poem.

I’ve tried to forget you
(I don’t want to forget you).
My emotions lay on the table
like spilt wine;
I tried to lick them up
in a desperate alcoholic binge,
without a care for my fellow
patrons’ regard.

Why are you fading from my mind,
like an Alzheimer memory,
like the seaside whispers
of a shell, broken to
pieces.

I’ve betrayed me, so.

I’ve
let
you
go.

I should let slip the
dogs of war
to chew on my weary bones,
to remind me that I’m just a
lonely man,
that you’re just a
lonely woman
and that soon you’ll be

gone.

Swept off your feet
by some new broom,
who’ll sweep up the dust
of my passing,
and soon,
every trace of my passage
will be polished from the wood
of your floors,
as they rightly should.

A fitting end for the man with
no name,
who in the end, was purely an amateur
trying to play
in a professional’s game.

Chuck. A character study.

I created Chuck for one of my short stories, written for uni. Following is a character study I wrote for him.

If you’re not familiar with a character study, it’s used to develop a character’s background and personality traits. From these elements the character’s mannerisms and dialogue come to life.

Some character studies are complex, some are very basic. I like to keep mine short and to the point. This gives me more ‘wiggle room’ in the story.

Cheers

Steve 😊

 

He had been Chuck most of his life. Charles was his father’s name, and the less he remembered about that man, the better. Chuck remembered Daddy’s huge fists and the indelible marks they left. But he remembered his mother much more, whose solicitous yet indifferent fingers crept to places he preferred not to think of, but could not avoid.

Chuck’s stutter and southern twang caused people to look down on him, even though he towered physically over them. His schooling had been the streets and a succession of foster homes; places where survival of the fittest was the credo and the only philosophy he required.

Chuck didn’t fit in. Naturally he gravitated to solitary roles, places he could be his own man–no complications with relationships or body language, as foreign to him as a cellphone to a neanderthal.

Chuck was a truck driver now and good at it. He tamed his mighty beast on the primal tarred veldt, his whip the double shift, country and western anthems his habitual companion. He worked the long highways like a corner beat, with scars as evidence; his belly peeped from under his t-shirt like a misshapen eye, Rip Van Winkle beard and Garth Brooks t-shirt decorated with spilt drink and dried food scraps.

Justice League. A movie review.

I read about twenty negative reviews of Zack Snyder and Joss Whedon’s Justice League prior to going. I took my son with me to see it and we and everyone else in the theatre had a fantastic time. Screw you, critics.

The big DC heroes come together in this huge romp ‘em, stomp ‘em popcorn flick. I’m not sure why critics had probs following the story. I didn’t, and neither did my son. And the CGI was great.

Basically, Batman and Wonder Woman bring Flash, Aquaman and Cyborg together to face bad guy Steppenwolf, a failed Apokoliption commander who lost the original battle to take earth for Darkseid thousands of years ago. The forces of the Amazons, the Atlanteans, the humans and a Green Lantern(!) capture Steppenwolf’s three Mother Boxes (living energy sources he was planning to use to change Earth into a version of his home world Apokolips) and hide them away. When Superman was killed in Batman vs Superman, the Mother Boxes came back to life and called Steppenwolf back to finish the job. No more spoilers!

Every hero got their fair share of screen time. There were laughs, there was conflict, there were heroes facing off against heroes and heroes versus villains. And yes, it all made sense. The fight scenes were well done, the action was great. The camaraderie and the character scenes were great.

We had an absolute blast with this movie. Go see it. And tell all those idiot critics to go f$&@ themselves.

Oh, and hang around to see the two awesome post credits scenes.

Rating: A

Haiku Friday. ‘Wings’, a haiku pentalogy.

Wings – a haiku pentalogy

1. Moment
One tragic moment
to turn your heart into ice;
extinguish the flame.

2. Deficiency
Such deficiency
within your mind, body and soul.
Pray you find the light.

3. Your Turn
Heaven weeps tonight
with all the unworthy souls.
Is it your turn now?

4. Redeemed
Walk the endless night,
a tightrope of redemption.
Return on gold wings.

5. Open Arms
Dare you try to fly
into heaven’s open arms?
The earth holds you firm.

.

Wow, this became a bit of a 5/7/5 syllable opus.

Oh well, sometimes poems have a literal life of their own.

Cheers

Steve 🙂

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