Martin Shone's Blog, page 42

Real

https://agapintheclouds.files.wordpress.com/2015/04/real1.mp3

–

Missing you

I wait for you to return

as clouds send their shadows to kiss

the way

I shiver at the thought

; mountain snow silences the horizon as my demons avalanche

Missing you

I taste the golden heat

as the cold glass belies the warmth within

the way

whisperings sanctify my desires

; black songs born upon wings against the cold blue of my turmoils

Missing you

I ride thermals of solitude

as heavy sound echoes through skeletal trees

the way

I dream of your touch

; blossom releases to give grass silken pleasures as worms eat into my mind

Missing you

I wait for you to become …

as the phoenix dies to breathe

the way

whisperings breathe to die

; rainbow’s butterfly how you shine silent storms upon my heart’s fractured beatings

… real

It’s all a bit purple

Incense of rainbow

***

Thunder and sunshine

coalesce into a something

a something

sparkling and darkling

Twisted elements

of the same storm

burn incense

of rainbow

Oh to inhale

to rise and ride

to be the turbulent calm

within your perfect storm

to be at the centre of you

***

Shadows of pain

I remember walking barefoot through wet grass

and how its first chill felt like

a shadow of pain

from fractured memories

and how each blade of grass

seemed to sharpen the shadow’s point

till it broke through the skin of resistance

to reveal

the distance of time

a river of rain

and the shadows of not knowing

why I was walking barefoot through wet grass

Perhaps I was hoping for a rainbow

–

–

–

Joined a writing group tonight (Castlecroft Writers) and we had an exercise for the last 15 minutes where we had to make a list of things we remember. Well you know what my brain is like for remembering things, anyhow I sort of went off on a tangent and came home to write this.

To be the sky

***

It is in those, those

moments when feelings like, like …

Feathers kissing sky

It is in those moments

when solitude

aches

to be the sky

***

A delirium of golden fractures

What is it but a rose opening

where in the clouds there rests a silence on the brink of rain

and just at that moment when …

when the air settles

when the scent

the fragrance

the passion

calms and drifts

just then

just then

a beginning

a magic

a feeling becomes more than a feeling

when inside you there is a whisper building into a snowstorm into an avalanche

into a frenzy of petals flying in the breeze

and there upon one of these petals

there rides a tiny tiny creature

a creature of impossible theatricality, of tantalizing electricity

of sublime creativity waiting for you to hear its song

waiting for you to imagine it into a reality which resides within your imagination

waiting for you to think of what this creature looks like

and so from within you there births a seed ready to deliquesce

and so rise on thermals of light and so become more than itself

in which a delirium of golden fractures

become brave enough to explode upon the page, upon the canvas, upon the world

and so a rose opens

and it is beautiful

~

London, Book, Fair

I never win when I enter writing competitions and so here we are again :)

This week I entered a competition to write a Sonnet, a Haiku and a Nonnet. Now I’ve not written a sonnet or a nonnet before, or at least I don’t think I have but that’s beside the point. So first up was the sonnet and it was to be a Shakespearean sonnet.

(Click here to read what it should be like) and I now know why it didn’t win ha ha! :)

The theme was London and so here is my failed attempt!

Upon thine banks I hear siren songs sung

in whispered imaginings to enhance

Upon thine waters I feel as if stung

by beauty rushing hither, thither – thence

Upon thine streets I tread within history

to find myself at home in England’s soul

Upon thine bricks I feel the dust of me

foot printing, hand printing, heart printing whole

Upon thine meadows I sleep beneath time

resting in smiles till sundown you wake me

Upon thine night I wander your sublime

your magnificence of wonders to see

++++ Oh how the depths of thine eternal love

++++ is being battered by the ruthless .gov!

~

Next up was the haiku, which is a very short form of Japanese poetry of 17 syllables of 5-7-5. The essence of haiku is “cutting” (kiru). This is often represented by the juxtaposition of two images or ideas and a kireji (“cutting word”) between them, a kind of verbal punctuation mark which signals the moment of separation and colors the manner in which the juxtaposed elements are related. (Wikipedia)

The theme for the haiku was a book or books and here’s mine

Trees do breathe to live

for hands to hold, eyes to read

Deathly white leaves, talk

~

Now for the Nonnet which should have nine lines with the first line having 9 syllables, the second 8 syllables, the third 7 syllables until the ninth line which has one syllable and is to have an iambic meter (stress every other syllable). (Wikipedia)

The theme for the nonnet was a fair and so here’s mine.

Milling, spilling, chatting and chilling

crowds colour the arena’s mile

as children tug at held hands

Coffee is served so nice

goods are sold with glee

as children tug

Hours pass by

fun ends

Tug!

And there you have it :)

 

Promise of rain

love cries loneliness away

for we are not alone

when we taste soul’s tears

and as the rose is left bare of petals

and as the scent is wafted away upon the breeze

all that remains is the promise of rain

it is because she is the beginning of everything

his spirit clouds upon her

and there

she remains an elixir within his soul

candle reflections

keep the widening night at bay

and so solitude

flowers into a fragrance of her

and so it begins

as tears that dwell

taste of rain

Shimmerings

In the corners of

in the shadows of

in the stretch of

dawn’s first moments

there are shimmerings of

kingfisher light

as clouds break

as sunrise creaks through branches of tangled yew

to highlight stained glass

and so reflect upon memories in stone

to awaken those angels who watch with their silent weather worn graces

as mist turns to dust

to rest in crevices

to form new expressions

and so turn angels into gargoyles

in the corners of

in the shadows of

and in the stretches of

your scratching, shimmering, yew-tangled imaginations …

Those dreams

Dreams, those invisible libraries of our soul’s imagination

those soft furnished nights of delicious heartbeats

those memories yet to breathe what they wish to become

those cushions for which we lean upon to drink deep of the longings for love’s glow

those early mornings whose wings of mist embrace all those who dream

those spring budded trees within Gaia’s garden aching to bloom into a reality

those simple little things we would say in the silences of being together

those simple little things we would do in the silences of knowing each other

those simple little things we would become in the silences of becoming, one

those desires to be found in the hearts of those who desire nothing

but a smile, nothing but life and happiness

Those dreams …

… those dreams are the invisible stitching – mending our broken soul’s cries

for those dreams