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An earlier poem - born out of free writing.

In subatomic dreams I walk,
I dredge the inner sanctum of the sky
For all the dreams and God given blessings.
For fortnights waiting, caves no pain.
No fear of daylight future.
For me, not even the clouds can be seen in a different way,
No elephants, or puffed up trains in my view.
My wisdom is clouded with mushroom plumes,
As they strike out in the distance, between
Aquamarine and turquoise.
I keep on walking, the sun beating down
Through my vision,
Down to the earth, by nature mine,
No killer, time, no vessel, wine,
A vaudeville screening Over the Rainbow,
Reaching my eye level in horrific jollity.
We make merry by the old carousel.

King of Ages

The penultimate poem in the King of Ages series:

The famous archer extends his bow,
The shaft glints in the half light.
Through the thicket he can see his quarry.
All is quiet - even the reeds and bushes
Seem to silence, for the archer and his bow.

His quarry stones, a standing stone of fleshy
Beast, tense as thunder.
His bow shines again, from more sunlight
Passing through the trees,
And the quarry sees it, through the thicket,
A spark, as eye meets eye,
And the archers mind, for a second,
Admits failure.

Seconds seem to last an age,
As the beast looks still, but then seems to look beyond the archer,
And he knows he is undiscovered.
The arrow sings through its thunderous route, in no time.
And the beast bolts
Bleeding.

Thought for the Day

Afterwards, never far away,
Tired of trekking, in languages not far speaking.
Hence we lay upon our tired eyes,
Slanting gently to eventide,
With the mass choirs finishing their tired ode,
I glance, as if in trance, to the tidal TV,
Washing over me like a black and white horse.
I feel sleepy - and hungry.

King of Ages

The third poem in the King of Ages series:

King of Ages III

The secluded ticking of the natural order,
Has become cluttered with patches of industry.
Faint clashes of stone on stone and
Antler on rock can be heard above
The constant ticking, disturbing the order.
Soon, people will wield iron,
And rush in new dawns and new times,
No need for archers with their wooden implements.
We have swords and huge forts,
Gouged into the landscape like a gaping wound.
Ready for who knows what,
Time itself is kept at bay,
But, just in case, we shall meet at some waters edge,
And offer some trinket weapon
To dead ancestors.

King of Ages

The second poem in my King of Ages series:

King of Ages II

So now, alone on the moors,
The archer turned farmer,
Wanders around for food and substance.
He was a nomad, now he is just lost,
Creeping around with an old bronze hammer,
Hoping to catch one last glimpse of the blue henge.
Though no sign anymore, no sun, it seems to cast his way,
It rains all the time, more than the crops need,
But what does he care? Alone, on the moors,
With an old bronze hammer.
He lost his bow months ago,
Out on the road in a scuffle,
Managing to escape, but with only his arrows
And a bruise on his hip.
Now, wading through the reeds, on the starless moor,
He must forge himself as farmer.

King of Ages

I've been reading and discovering only the tip of the iceberg of prehistory. From these readings have come an idea for a group of series called King of Ages. Here is the first of the series:

King of Ages I

Time ticks away, through years and years -
Decades fall like bronze armies,
Centuries rattle by like a high speed train.
In the time it takes to close and open your eyes,
(a nano second of life)
It seems a millenia has fluttered by
Spreading it's wings like an unearthly soaring beast.

It ticks away through ages without clocks,
The ticking sound made by huge blocks
Of Saracen and Blue stone -
A definitive shadow, standing still.
Out of the leafy darkness, a gifted archer
With his brittle bow, settles upon
One of his bounties of the Kingdom,
a huge red stag, waiting to be made prey.
Force upon force is witnessed, except the archer has the henge
To guide his arrow and kill the wild one.

The hills surrounding the henge are uninhabited.
The view is unspoilt and uninhibited,
Except by the top of the mounds,
For they contain the hefty exhibits, the Kings of the landscape.
Each summit can be seen for miles,
Each with its own burning fire, which is always kept alight.
From down bellows, or on entry,
These kingly, carved crowns are wooden Gods and stone Deities,
Places were sacrifice is made and time is told.

Bronze is given as if gifted by the sun itself.

Random Thought

A poem:

Forgotten, in memories mind,
Floating peacefully in boats
Bound for the West.
Not miserable, listening to the rocks
And stones, the echos of science,
Space, scribbles and scrabbling,
The boat docks, memorising the past.

Matilda

We were at the RSC yesterday and saw their production of Matilda: The Musical. It was absolutely fantastic! The actor playing Miss Trunchball was a revelation. Well done RSC. I look forward to my next visit to see Anthony and Cleopatra in March.

BeatShake

Imagine a world without the Beatles or Shakespeare. I don't think I could. These two incredible cultural icons are the inspiration for my blogspot. The title hopefully describes something of my love for music and literature- especially that of the Beatles and Shakespeare.

One of my interests is writing poetry. Here is a sample to start the blog off:

Here we rest, under blue suburban skies,
No more is this the Winter of our discontent,
As here in the warmth of music and words we fly.