Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Michael King Dec 2018
Redolent May sings,
lays of perplexing antique,
wooden rose flounders.
...
Fungi is in rout,
war of mushrooms is halted,
desolate treescape.
...
This is not a game,
the colours rest in spindles,
the flag is in truce.
...
Paragon of ice,
tractive glacier, no friction,
chronotropic death.
...
Scourged almighty sea,
symphonic ocean blasted,
tranced undertaking.
...
Mort, syphoned blood grass,
waving like entrails, flooded,
blood spins, grave now swims.
...
Gritty stagnant bole,
refurbished hybernation,
the scent come to play.
...
Reminiscent moon,
gather ye, encompassed light,
that we may know life
Michael King May 2018
He is fearless but not brave.
A servant.  Not a slave.
A hater, not a hoper.
It's true.

Though he shines,  the light's shallow.
A barren lamplight so hollow.
A shadow destined to be shamed
and broken.

Take for instance his great burden.
Is this a cross?  Or a warden
of a state which is true...
Is it really?

But he holds together surely
as his spirit's dying, purely
just to show he can last
a year more.

Yet the taint of his upbringing
causes disease which starts singing
in his lungs and his heart
and his mind's eye.

So when he speaks,  close your please.
When he writes, look away and cease
from believing,  receiving
his lies and revolt

For a rebel has restarted,
fully now he has departed
and to hell with all others
who think he's not bad.

Unsmile that great happy structure.
Please frown, and he will fracture
all your hopes, to your kids
and your future.

And when you feel fully harrowed.
Just see his grave. His tombed barrow.
You will see him in your dreams.
As a shadow.
Michael King Jul 2020
You are not the cold seed you fear in your nightmares,
not a blind thought, caressing the cloak of the reaper.
As you have gazed at the trees at night, so too
have the creatures in the leaves gazed back at you.

‘We do not worship the dead’ they cried, laughing,
and an echo flows past you, barely heard.

Should you join the ranks of the spirits,
crying out your regret in a vain attempt to be heard?
‘You must rebel against yourself’ the creatures warn,
curious what you will do next.

You search for a soft spot within your own self, but
what is there to feel? The wind, the barrenness?

A searing nova of heat threatens to blind you.
Crackled light, followed by pillars of black static roses.
Nothing left now; nothing left to cling to…
but only if you can reach out, you will find a hand.

Well, a multitude of hands, rising from the ground,
covered in scales and pinions, and red as a crimson sunset.

Voices, screeching from beneath the ground,
telling you unbelievable tales of glory, honour,
asking you to grasp their hands and they would show you;
yes, they would show you the way to their own grave.

‘Then the choice is yours’ the creatures tell you now,
‘live or die. We are only eyes waiting for the sun’.

Choices… always a decision to burden you again,
but this is an easy one if you would look inside your mind.
Live or die, walk or fall, strength or tears. Fear is your enemy
in the end. The running ruin of scattered thoughts

Invest yourself in my sneer, if only for a little while.
Maybe you will fade away,  and truly know the scourge of living.
Wrote this year's ago,  and recently edited it with a friend.  Changed the title and some of the body.
Michael King Nov 2018
In days to come,  I know I will regret
not sitting by her bed,  just to regale
a hurried rhyme, or let go a soft tale,
all while in thought,  I knew her days were set.

Oh my dear, where fly you now,  I wonder.
Is life a better place where you now shine?
I hear your voice commingled within mine.
It comes in droves, hitting me like thunder.

Do you smile on the life which I have built?
Do you cast your eyes aside due to shame?
I heard all life was just a vicious game.
For which the ending prize was often guilt.

Oh what of I? What am I to become?
I let her down. Abandoning my mum.
Michael King May 2018
I've seen these woods a time or two
just flutt'ring in the breeze.
Amidst a wave of blowing grass
one stands out amongst the trees.

A chorus of volcanic red
as autumn chimes it's turn.
A hopeless place with little grace
as winter flows and burns.

But watching now as spring has set
my heart has asked me why
a single tree amidst the leaves
can strongly catch my eye.

My spirit's set. I need to know,
averting my own cause.
For as simple as this tree is,
everyday it give me pause.

So I stop and seek to shelter
my thoughts but I cannot
for my eyes have both been captured
by this life which God forgot.

And I sit upon the heather
in a glade of buttercup blooms,
and for every heart's imprisoned
by which love has no more room.

Well, the years drag on so silent
as I ponder on the grass.
And the tree just goes on waving
as my heart succumbs at last.
Michael King Apr 2018
As I walked over the mountain tops
with glory in my hair.
I saw a bird upon the wing.
It floated in the air.

It hovered near, above my head
not leaving for a while.
Just glared at me, like food for free.
I swear I saw a smile.

I swear this bird, this soaring beast
had me in terrors grips.
It longed to be the end of me
to ******* blood... one sip.

But I was not a weakened soul,
and on these heights I strode.
As surely as the sun was high
and in this bitter cold.

This bird would never get to me
or strike in me a fear
of being eaten dead alive.
Worms crawling in my ear.

Oh bird alight, please fly away.
I'm fearful of your stares.
On this day, I surely know, you'll
linger in my nightmares.
Michael King Apr 2018
What comely lass, this elven girl,
a living gem, expensive pearl.
Who clung with manacles to me,
a mighty and a wise old tree.

In forest deep she rang her bell,
and I was lost, in Elvenfell,
a place of wishes, not defeat.
A land of love, a rhythmic beat.

She walked alone, this comely queen.
Her song so loud. Her face serene.
And I, a spirit, shook my boughs,
and droplets fell on her like clouds

so that to her it seemed like rain.
Like spring had come, and summer wained
it's last bright ray. It's final heat.
And she stood there. On softest feet.

Oh lady fair, where from you came?!
I cried,  but fear her heart retained
and almost she fled fast away
but in my roots I begged her stay.

She came to me, her fear assuaged
and touched my bark, my skin so aged
yet her soft touch made me feel young
so to her heart I surely clung.

And so she stayed, my elven maid.
Held to my girth, in love she stayed.
She lived with me. Lived in my core.
She lingered here forever more.

~ Windsinger
Michael King Dec 2018
In BrokenTown it was one day,
I came across a spindly lass,
whose once clear eyes were darkened shrouds,
and weakened soul resembled clouds,
translucent after rain.

Oh,  I remember clear as day,
it was at the dusk of May
when the donkeys clacked and brayed,
when the farmers filled their hay,
and the maidens wore a veil to lure the future.

This young girl,  in tattered skin,
holding pain and hurt within,
drew a sympathy from all the sullen lives.

This girl was bones. She was so thin.
No muscles seen. A bony chin.
And lids which drooped, and watched with sharpened knives.

To pity her was not my dare.
I was so late. I should not care,
but I recall a day long in the past

when I too was lost and needy,
and long suffered by the greedy,
so I came to this young girl at the last.

Her worn out dress all dirt and shoddy,
clearly matched her worn out, used up body
and she struggled to sit up and plant a smile.

Said she... 'Sir,  for just a copper penny,
you can use my body plenty'.
Yet her face resembled madness,  and pure guile.

I had remorse for this young maiden,
whose young mind was clearly fading,
so I sat within her filth and held her hand.

Though she struggled to be free
her weakened self just failed to see
what a gift had come within the form of man.

So I bade her stand, to take her feet,
and I would give her life, complete
with every luxury a person could afford.

Then unbidden to her eyes,
shearing through her dark disguise
came a tear she had forgotten how to shed.

And all at once within her face,
was the misery replaced,
and that skin brightened up... the dark heart dead.

Thenso I took this girl to a place,
where she could live in love and grace,
to find a certain joy and life of love.

I thank the Gods I once went down,
to the heart of BrokenTown.
For in the **** I found a living dove.
Michael King May 2018
A true story about a woman I love more than anything in the world.
...
The morning brings fresh waves of pain and truth. An agony burned into her skin as surely as the memory of the blanket which moved away from her small body.

Oh the shame.  The awful pain and knowledge that her once beautiful, determined, hazel eyesnowheld only the cold aftermath of betrayal and corruption.

Memories are a powerful awakening.
The night.  The terror.  The hopes of the future. Dreaming only of the delights of school and friends... then darkness of sleep.

Good dreams.  Good thoughts.  Then half awakened.  The sliding of the sheets.  The removal of outer garments.

She is awake now. Looking into his face.  A face she knows and loves.  But why?  There is a look she has never known before.  An urgent look this 7 year old girl will never understand.

Then hands moving.  Breath seeping like poisonous fumes into her nostrils and mouth. Hands touching.  Groping. Penetrating.

Then a voice.  She opens her eyes and sees a saviour.  Pulling this creature off her.

But too late. Too late. Her body is saved. No longer hurting.  No longer with a burning scent invading her senses.

But her mind is lost. Her beautiful mind full of the potential of innocence.  Stolen away at the hands of a lust filled beast.

A light taken from the world.
Michael King Dec 2018
Crazy or not?

Is it odd to be crazy?
Or to think in a rhyme?
To believe in a world,
which is less than sublime.

To be random, impulsive,
or an uneven fixture.
To throw in self talking
just to finish the mixture.

Is it anger? Is it hate?
Are we like the whole race,
who would throw all the dirt
back into your face?

I don't trust or believe it.
I can't even conceive it.

If you told me a joke,
would I see round the lines?
Would I turn it around
and break the confines

of a freedom of spirit.
Or a hopeless recluse?
Do I win if I'm different?
Or do I always lose?

There's a question within me.
It hides in my muse.
Is it wrong to be crazy?
Is it wrong to be true?
Michael King May 2018
There are darker times coming, my friend.
So lend me an ear. We'll speak til the end.

I never imagined that one fateful day
when all love on earth was just... swept away.
My mother and sister's, all gone to the dust
while my father and brothers sat in the rust

of the house they had built with their own hands.
They looked at burned fields. Mourning lost lands
which stood black as sin, covered in death.
Holding back tears, which stung with each breath.

Yes! I tried to understand, but in their sorrow
they forgot today would lead to tomorrow,
and maybe that time, we'll wake from this dream.
Awake from a nightmare. Awoke by our own scream.

Ah, but I remember cold, the veritable chill
which stood still and quiet,  threatening to ****
all the rest of the people and trees in confusion.
I imagined these things? It was NOT an illusion

for surely you look out the window and see
the painful sight of the world and the sea.
Let it known that we suffered, but hoped,
for while others died, we simply roped

off our eyes to abandon the very thought
that maybe the history of this world was for naught.
But no! This is the world we now live in.
This is the world we bought with our sin.

Why do you stand?! I'm not finished this tale.
You fear what you hear? Though I awakened a gale
of memories bitter, and too deep to bear?
Sit you back down. Listen while I share

of the journey we started that terrible morning
when day ceased to be, and midnight was yawning
it's terrible smile, which would never let go.
Fear grew in our hearts as we walked, and then... oh!

I just had a thought, of birds and of beasts.
A saddened remembrance of children at feast,
with laughter spilling all through the air
and living was such that we had not a care

in the world. We were content as we could be.
But maybe the problem started there... Surely...
Or maybe we just did not see the signs
as the day turned to night. As the end intertwined

with our dreams and goals, and vision of wealth.
Of long life and comfort,  lingering health.
So arrogant and petty a race such as we
that maybe we deserve what we got. Can't you see?

Well, I am tired my friend. More to tell at the break...
Well, we're not so lucky, for the night we can't shake
even though we struggle with all our might...
Story ends here my friend.  Good day and goodnight.
Michael King Apr 2018
These flowers, scented roses are Devine,
a white one, red as blood, here is the thorn.
All sung, now loved and stout, this love is true,
from a torn past, like cloth he shall be shorn.

When fortunes’s lost and hope is all that’s left,
when moonscapes cast a dreary eye on life,
when sunlight is a play on future songs,
and he do find that he is less a wife,

He’ll ponder into great and stolen gauze,
and wonder when, if ever smiles did fail,
that to the great and boundless even planes,
did poets ever watch it move and quail?

Would he pretend to hold his heart in joy?
Would he just fake a tear, in laughter’s voice?
His child is gone, she moved into true space,
and he was left with just one bitter choice.

He would arise; his grave would lie bereft,
and god would know his plaintive wrath and hide.
And all the while, while centered on this stage,
he took his time but now he knows his side.

Sincere these words, no truer shall you find,
Not even when in books you seek to know
‘bout increased life and all its ugly charm,
this knowledge is not food for taint to grow.

So seek him out, this wanderer returned,
in distance, travelled he in worn out shoes,
while soulful in the desert he did cry,
beside the fire he sang the lonely blues.

~ Windsinger
Michael King Dec 2018
If tender hearts unfolded wings,
what breeze would light our choices.
We'd fall on high into the sky,
and watch as day rejoices.

No scaly soul, or fears unrolled,
or claws which tend our fears.
No age old fire, burning mind so dire,
to grow us aged before our years.

So fly on high, my earthly friend,
unto the moon and back.
Climb towers broad, and breeze which flowed
and watch our evils crack.

Our darkness fades,  whilst in the glades
of evening we do wander.
We see the walls, the wholesome falls,
and stop to let our minds ponder.

If we were a dragon, oh just imagine,
what boundaries we could climb.
But it's all such a waste, for inside our dreams,
our fantasy belongs only in rhyme.
Michael King May 2018
He has become a poet recently. He could
not believe it.  The pen he had used all
these years had only given words...
and structure. Form and flow. Rhythm
and rhyme.

But the Evening whispers things.  Cruel
truths, only he can understand.

'You are not a writer!' she whispers in
a current which almost deafens his spirit. 'Look at all you have accomplished.
Your pen writes life, not imagined folly'.

His soul departs from his body in an
attempt to flee this truth but the evening
grasps it by the fingers and smiles.

She disappears and in the moments
after...  her voice in his ears.

'You are the flow of the universe. Be like
those before.  Be like the greats ones
who knew no boundaries'.

So he picks up his dagger and cuts open
his finger. Dipping his quill into the
blood he looks at the open air around
him. As he writes on the wind... the world
begins anew.
Michael King Dec 2018
Should you debase,  the structure in place,
which seemingly lives here without a trace?
Or see with due cause, the untimely flaws
which poets detect and mold without pause?

What are we to do? I have a wide view
of what should be done in poetic tune.
But the fools of today would take that away,
and tell us rhyme has long since had it's day.

Just imagine a while, each scribe has a style.
Is it right for them to blindly defile
a brave institution, which came to fruition
long before they even held an ambition

to fight against rhyme. To fight against time.
Oh... to see their mad schemes is surely a crime.
So I ask of my muse, 'What way would you choose?'
But she turns away, for fear she should lose.

It sits, plain to see, conveying to me,
a message that writing is drowning... silently.
If you relax your pen, step backward and then
you'll see the rhythm the world is, and when
you finally see, the things I can see...
maybe the world will truly be free.
Michael King Mar 2020
I can never be the sea in your dreams.
A vastness of life, crushing your peace
as you turn and you toss like the waves
you so long for.

I can never be the mist in your forest.
Never the cooling of your breeze, or the
hush as the grass blows, or the leaves
flit about like elven children at play.

I can never be the wish on your tongue.
A hope come undone. A shackle which
lays waste to your mind, and sullies the
love you hold for the world

I can never be the need in your voice.
A trembling word. A formless sound,
driven to hold onto desperate redemption,
as you scour you soul and your sight.

I can never be the Muse in your core.
As you flay your own skin with words
which will forever be undone by the
barrenness which follows.

I can never be the twin of your soul.
Though we two are connected, by a smile
or a song. We will never be one soul. We will never belong to each other.

I can never be the love you long for...
Michael King May 2018
Innocence

If only innocence could be packaged,
then maybe this world would still shine.
What if the dark just... went away,
then maybe... somewhere... you'd still be mine.

What if... no, that's too soon mention!
As harsh as these memories seem...
maybe I'm just... floating in silence.
A portion of midnight. A flickering dream.

I crave for some life... just a glimmer...
maybe a piece of shrapnel... in my heart.
But if I am honest... maybe just this once...
maybe God will let my soul depart.

Oh, if only innocence could be bottled...
Then maybe you would still be here.
But dreams and wishes never come true.
Not stopped in a bottle. Not shed in a tear...
Michael King May 2018
We contradict here, all the premonitions of old,
that as hollow men and women, we should rise,
and take into our hand a pre-existing cause,
to band together, kindred of our character.

Though we strive to be forbidden to the difference,
harvested collaborators to our unrestrained hearts,
As our spirits try to ascend, we prohibit their actions.
We are bidden, overridden, and we are ******.

Did we grip our brother’s hand when he was losing?
Did we tend our mother’s hurt when she was broke?
We deprived our very sister, to implore till she was dead,
and we refereed the fingers, which fed us until they bled.

As a single man once intoned, on a stairway miles away;
We must subsist and struggle as one great homeland,
carry our neighbor’s burdens as though they were our own.
one kin, one race, though the color of skin may diverge.

Let us not stop in our virtuous endeavor, our strong destiny,
We are Lords of the future, master and slave, there be none.
We have risen from the catacombs of supreme despondency,
have accepted the heretical pressure of a ruined significance.

The night is no longer our mission; we travel unstained portals,
those which have always foreshadowed our meager gains.
We live for love, and cannot only give earned compassion.
We must love for the sake of devotion, and the sake of bounty.

We will take the apprehension of the mother, and the father,
and we will pacify it, will comfort their woes, and they will smile.
We will teach the child to go forth into the Dark, an existing torch,
upholding what we see as the shadows of bravery and optimism.

And when the times comes, and we lay down to die in peace,
we go, knowing the world had its little exploit of freedom,
its earned hope, not wasted, against bleak souls of the depraved,
having permitted the sun to shine; smiling as we resign to fate.
Michael King Nov 2018
Dear nature stutters to a start,
and warmth fills in the cracks.  
The heart no longer seeps with cold.
The core's no longer black.

So on a twirl of leaf and grass,
and other things that grow.
There came to life a living thing,
which melted all the frost and snow.

He rose upon a starlit night
and wandered with a stutter.
As trees gave bloom, and flowers sang.
Water flowed, mountains muttered.

All wilted things, each drew new breath,
and gloried in this sight.
A godly host. Powerful spirit.
And lit all things with natural light.

He fashioned bird, and crafted beast,
and said that it was good.
He hollowed out the very stars,
crafted every glade and wood.

Then in the last, he blew a breath,  
and from the very sand.
A form with legs and arms there grew,
and this he labelled man.
Michael King Mar 2020
Each note played. A dirge, flickering
luminous above my haunted apparition,
the wight told of in tales yet to come.

A mist travels low tonight in the tombs.
It holds the grass in stasis, like a frigid
spirit, bitter and rampant.

Alas my dear! Too young. Too bold. Too
naive, and yet... wisdom pours from your
veins in rivulets of silver tongues.

And I, standing by unseen in the barrows,
unable to mourn, unable to bear witness
to your fall from this pale earth... I cry.
A shattering sound of heartache and loss
to make even old wives quiver in their
tales.

Ah, my love. My heart. My warmth.

Visit me not, I beg. Do not grieve for me.

Remember the words written on my
tomb. Recall what I told you. These words...

'The wanderer wanders. He waits ahead'.
Michael King May 2018
Last night... they fumbled. Stumbled,
failed, ending in her disappointed hope.

'Why do you not lust me?' She asked him
but his sorrow was too much to bear
and he slowly faded away, leaving
her cold and empty.

He is doomed. He bears the shackles
of indifference on one hand. Love on the
other. They cause a hesitation so strong...
no arrogance cam ever overcome it.

So he falls to his knees and screams in
anguish. 'Help me Cre'Atus!' But wind only
answers with a breeze and the occasional
furore.

He hears her calling his name from another
world. His saddened sigh is enough to lay waste
to entire countries,  but he goes, a little
slowly. A little hesitantly. Hoping she
will still exist when he gets there.
Michael King May 2018
Little Lady Lost (Sonnet)

Rebellious thoughts in youth descry a hold
upon the very minds of virtues tongue.
Our Little Ladies soiled by men so bold,
within an inch, their very lives are flung

upon the tainted mattress where they’ll lie
until their bodies waste through large misuse,
and fey their voices close, too oft they die;
slow *****, fast killed, Light broken through abuse.

Though one there is, not timid in her haste
she knows the way to take away the pain,
she lies there, pretense moaning; what a waste,
a Lady, Little girl born to the chain.

I ponder now, these words under my pen
of children lost, to suffer under men...
Michael King Dec 2018
Lonely path

I tried to write my sins away.
But they have stayed another day.
No freedom comes,  though I believe.
No soothing call. No curt reprieve.

If I succumb this very night
If I walk, lost, to the grey light.
Would you remember all we had?
Could you recall when you were glad

to hold my hand and breathe in time
with my own breath, with my own rhyme?
Or would you know,  deep in your heart,
forgive, forget, regret... depart.

I know I lost. I know I failed.
I know the songs of me regaled
just wrath and pain, and tears of mist.
When all alone,  you cried and wished

that God had not sent you my way.
To walk the night. Deny the day.
And you would curse the God above.
In screams to take away this love,

which holds your hand, and guides your feet
to where,  at last,  our souls will meet,
within the clouds, or in the flame.
With the regrets, or less the shame.

I tried to write my sins away,
and so I kneel, and long I pray,
that God may turn aside my fear.
That God again, will lend His ears
Michael King Jan 2019
Not often do I boast about my own writing... but this one is good. Perceive the darkness...
---
Longings

I long to hold a can of worms.
Corruption in my hands.
A seething rain of gnashing teeth
to filter through the lands.

Or moths to claim the skies and clouds,
in darkness they shall reign.
And silence shall endear the earth,
the fields and barren plains.

I long to view a memory
of blood, and heightened screams.
A wail of such regretfulness,
it lingers in your dreams.

As the days grew cold and quickly
life begins to freeze.
I long to be the life-force that
resembles your disease.

I long to be a single tree,
the last among the ruin.
Or maybe just a frozen rose,
the last on earth to bloom.
Michael King May 2018
Love not the taint of ladies of the night.
Their barren hearts intoxicate the
purest of faces, drowning courage
behind the lusts of false need.

Love not the corruption of the wages.
In life, desired.  In truth... a downfall
of the senses,  burdened by a murky
wave of greed and always more.

Love not the insistence of the glory.
A hollow shape. Not hallowed as some
believe,  but bereft.  Lacking a centre
of moral. A judgemental state of fear.

Remain empty. Remain a jug to be filled.
A *** to be planted. A trough to be doused
with nourishing, life giving water.
A dark room waiting for a single torch.

Remain chained. Remain imprisoned.
Become yourself in ******* then live
free of the lack of uncontrolled self tyranny.
Become yourself. No chains. A truth of life.
Michael King May 2018
This is a metaphor of my own life. WARNING. IT IS LONG. I don't expect anyone to read it.
---
A shadow claws up your skin tonight.
Combing each wrinkle with heightened delight.
Each pin ***** tendril sends an ecstatic
amount of confusion into your mind.

And you wonder...

If fortune was true... then what of the man
who came in a storm, while before him ran
an energy source he named Midnight Eve
who caused him to rise. To fall. To believe.

For while he was nothing, with time left to squander
his feet were too restless, for him to just wander.
Though the dark of the sky, clouded his eyes
and the tower above which rose through the skies

set a sample of truth which was hard to ignore.
A sample of face. A chime sounding core
which left behind music, friendship and charm
and fought against peace to cause some self harm.

Yes he strove by the day. Every minute and hour,
possessed by a height, a young,  dying flower
which in truth was a game to confuse and deceive him
but he knew, he foretold, and refused to believe in

a whelp made of feathers, claws and two wings.
Meant to defy him, and rip hearts of kings.
But moved onward, further, forgetting her name.
He played his own style. He played his own game.

He moved on...

He had a hand in throwing down the tower.
Each step he took, deprived it of it's power
til at the last he looked back at the sky
and saw a sight his mind could not defy.

For in his huge desire just to escape,
and maybe soon his mind would not be *****,
the blackened sky produced a single light
which held his gaze forever from that night.

That light beheld the shadow on his brow
and brightened up the sky, still up til now.
The God made structure fell, to dust it crumbled.
And he was free, so onward he stumbled.

Time carries on...

Oh Midnight Eve, he longs to see
your dark shod eyes revived.
For in those pools, he is a fool,
a piece of life denied.

He met a God, of light and waste
who tried to snare his bell.
He picked her up and tossed her off
the world and so she fell.

Wanderer returns:

While he travelled he often stopped
for rest. On one such occasion, as
he slept, he was visited by a beast
claiming to be a friend. This beast
gave him wings and power and
disappeared into thin air.

The wings were snares.  The power
was contradictory to true strength
and offered him only chains and
lack of hope.

The sun sets:

Winter has fallen,
yet he must find her, his light
before she moves on.

Always she's two steps.
And no matter how he runs...
he never sees her.

The truth and an end:

He caught her once, peering at him
through a different reality A sphere he
could never perceive.

He clove at that rounded ball,
impossibility chipping his wings,
stripping his power, yet always
she smiled at his efforts, love in
her eyes.

It drove him crazy with desire, to
see sadness within those beautiful
slanted eyes, and with his last bit of
strength he forced his hand into
another world, touching for a second
her beautiful cheek.

Then he was gone... and she was alone
again. She looked at his gravestone,
and with her love, inscribed it with
his own heart...

HERE LIES DISTANT WANDERER
WHO TRAVELLED TIME AND SPACE
TO FIND HIS MIDNIGHT EVE.
Michael King Dec 2018
I love my frog, my little Ever-Pie.
Beloved of my heart she is to me,
that when I caused my little one to cry,
I sensed her pain, and battled it, to flee.

I love her for she is my favourite lass,
she jumps into my arms, to see me smile.
I love to see her jumping in the grass,
or swimming contentedly all the while.

I love her for loves sake; she's worth it all,
she is the greatest pet, in all the world.
She'll be the best, til off the earth she falls,
and in her death, my sadness is unfurled.

Wait there for me, my glorious green sprite,
I'll seek you out; we'll travel through the night.
Michael King Mar 2020
He died last night, our cheerful boy.
His body wasted. Skin draped in veins
of blue and black, and bones which
sought to burst apart his life...

His weakened breath. His stare which
scared us to the core, since he was there,
but not as who he was just two days before...

His mother stopped her tears hours ago...

Ah, my boy. My boy! If only I had seen.
This raging virus, in so much rumour,
yet spread so fast, like unchecked
tumours... and I let you loose, to play
in that sun... to have your fun...

WHY?! WHY GOD?! Is it not right that
you should have taken me? That the
light in my eyes should be torn away,
and I lay awake, delirious, bones
splintering under my very skin...

But as always... God doesn't answer.
He just stares at us, occasionally
poking us into reaction.

He died just last night... My boy. One second breathing. The next... silence.

I will never be able to get that silence
from out of my mind..
Michael King Jan 2019
Origin

How do I find the pathway to origin?
I have searched all the pasts of the past,
and held onto the past longer than necessity.

I have seen an awakening turn into a darkening
of clouds,  as breeze sharpens with each gust
and this brain yields to... what?

Nothing.

In the distance I see a reflection. It is
emerging to me,  and waves into a
silhouette of shapes and confusion. Who is this? Is it bravery I see? Or just imagination.

Help me!

Help me?

Do you even hear me?

Do you even listen to a fool such as me?
What God worth following would answer
the wretched of the world. Me,  and me,  and... I. And I alone have abandoned the
God within myself..

I had a mercenary as a muse. I think she
left and seduced a better writer.

© Wanderer
Michael King Dec 2018
Rebellious Poet

The world is a **** travesty!

(Pencil pusher in a suit seeks a talented
personality. Has many references to
personal opinions. Will **** d*ck for
fame.)

My question is this. Are there any voices
left at all? Any fingers with which to
actually inspire?
Are all the poet's really dead and extinct?
And only hopeless left, extinguishing the fire?

(Young teen seeks ways to vent rage.
Picks up a pen, writes about false suicide attempt. Cuts self for release. Will remove shirt for attention)

What happened to the singers of the past?
Did they all get lost in the crowd of rejects?
Is a spot on a page really considered art?
Makes me confused and very perplexed.

(Old man seeks renewal of old hobbies. Picks up a pen and writes. Shows people,
and is accused of radicalism. Will read
basic works just for love)

Am I wrong in my view of this world?
Has my heart truly died to all life?
Is it wrong to see flaws in existence?
Is it right to think difference has died?

(Young boy seeks love. Will allow self to be groomed and abused for attention).

Injustice. Ridiculousness. Absurdity.
It is wrong to be radical? To be free?
Will I let you chain my uncontrolled soul?
Nah. Never. I like being me.

I have seen my share of the world and its kicks,
and I tell you my friend... it is not a pretty sight.
Racism is put on the back burner now.
No more black against white.

For the world has resorted to grey and death.
They are not people.  They are just... normal.
While the romantics. The real rebels,
and the sympathetic of life are abnormal.

I want to read a really great scope of life.
A philosophy of hope on art and song.
And although there are many who are useless,
I pray they raise their voice and sing along.

So join me in this final, last embrace.
The truth of life that many have ignored.
This young guy just seeks a world of artists.
A place where sight and sounds can be adored.
Michael King Dec 2018
A sigh.
A smile.
A chuckle.

And then... contented guilt.

Oh to feel the pulsating vibrations once
again. The chaos of her fruit.  The lust
of her delight.

If only... nothing.

Her ripples led to destruction. Well, a fertile ending of all things good.

The cry in the night.
The tears of a girl.
The loneliness of desire.

For each wave of madness ended some
other pleasure. A glee long since regretted.

We called him Josh.
Michael King May 2018
He holds a hand against her chest.
A softer place than cheek or back.
She sighs a moan, and breathes
a quickened breath.

'Lay here a while,  oh wifey true'
He says to her,  and she just smiles,
and down he places her and raises
up her wilful heart.

'Remember this one night of truth'
he sings as he looks at her shade.
She shivers, hoping for great heights.
But not yet.

Then closer still he moves until
it's all her vision sees and knows.
A moan escapes her lips... a pause
and then she shudders.

'Come to me my lord. Invade my peace.
Fill me with a new world made of us'.
In barest whispers she summons her
kingdom.

So he takes his dive,  summons up a ship
to break the walls, and take the flavoured leap.
So soon... she climbs a height before unknown.
He holds her. Sheltered from a storm
Michael King Apr 2018
What song can contain these words I sing.
What love can express this cause.
I see her stand on platform raised,
watch her bow to an earthly applause.

Of smiling grace, and **** poise
she harbours a golden, shaped heart.
A faithful embrace, love worn on her face,
a humane, work of God's art.

She holds unto me, a starlight you see,
a portion of my own embrace.
She stands there all smiles, a kindness; no guile,
wrapped up in her own skin like lace.

Oh she captures my senses on the borders and fences
of her own little homestead of joy.
And allows me a piece, which I hope will not cease.
And forever be mine to enjoy.
Michael King Apr 2018
Be vigilant. The dark is coming.
'Stay silent' he said. They almost listened.

'Wrap yourself in the coldness
of our words' and in his voice was
a touch of danger.

They almost fell. Almost gave in.
The world became like a glacier
of shapes. Always seeking to fit
within the assorted mess of notions
and opinions.

'Forget grace' they told us.
'Praise hate' they commanded us.
'Love death' they spoke in unison.

But... we are not a wall to be broken
down on your insistence.

We are not a voice to be calmed
just because you think you are a storm.

Should we be silent against the false
preachers of lies and guile? Or
are we going to stand firm, each
life a block against the tides of
stoic insistence?

We will not shame ourselves any longer.
Our voice will be like God's own voice.
Our rhythm will fall into truth.
Our form will fly into the sky,
abandoning your need to satisfy the
greedy and lazy digits of material
plains of death and destruction.

Ah... tell us to shut up one more time.
See then how loud our words can go.
Michael King Dec 2018
(I hope a modern poem.  But I don't know.  First attempt.)

There is a beautiful breeze by the sea,
but the wind will not connect you to the
Wi-Fi you so desperately seek,  holding
the latest phone up in the air,  as though
the sun will connect you to that guy you lust.

Nah. Just salt,  sea, and seasonal beauty...
A canape load of sea crustaceans too, waltzing around your stilllettos, like
lost PTSD veterans. Walking must be difficult.

The grains of sand pilfer your balance,
and you tumble to the wet **** of the
ocean,  which has been piling up for days
waiting for such a person to show up.

The calm of the ocean. The chuckling rage
of the mighty gulls. The clattering of those
**** ***** again. One has just clipped onto
your long heel.

Frustration. Anxiety. Regret. Maybe you should
not drink that home made crap your brother
made. Especially not on the beach... At night.
Alone. And where the hell were your friends?

The wind is whistling now. Spelling a
rhythm in the air which your deaf ears
will never hear. A music which has been
around long before you were a *****
floating around in misery, and will be here
long after your grave has disappeared
into the ages.

A song of the sea.

But all you hear are clattering noises,
disrupting your lesser IQ thoughts,
and that main concern that hopefully
after last night,  you are not pregnant.
Michael King May 2018
Augment to me, exotic Lady rise;
just let me touch your spirit in the flesh,
support my pole, and I’ll withdraw my eyes,
this pain ascends the heart like reformed mesh.

In sight this stalwart climb becomes your test,
you smile, you know that this will be your last,
and so you start your groove at my behest,
and minister your hands upon my mast.

In stride, now stroke, just play your graceful hands,
you do it like so many times before.
So wilful, to adhere to my demands,
just let me guide my ship into your shore.

And so I go to my deck and I steer,
while in the crow’s nest you shout land is near.
Michael King Nov 2018
In terms of life, I sunk to lowest form,
and all about,  my glory came to naught,
for God had sure abandoned His creation,
and I was living in the death I'd wrought.

No life for me,  beyond this current hell.
No hope to ride,  no meandering retreat.
For sure as heaven spat upon my presence,
so too did Hades signal my defeat.

So where to go. I lingered within madness.
I wandered through a shame I'd bought with glee.
I thought if only I made my own choices,
then God would surely let me to be free.

But never in the history of heaven
has one like I been left to wander madly.
For just as that thought entered to my mind,
so too God cast aside my heart... and gladly.

Now I wander sadly through the darkness
wearing my shame like a hardened quilt.
But I know if I could redo my choices,
I'd do my best just to avoid this guilt.
Michael King Nov 2018
This pen could write as others write,
all full of woe and self defeat.
Or send this ink,  like tears of shame,
to tell a lie,  and forge deceit.

To moan of loss,  and whine of life,
and sit there seeking eyes
to hold this heart,  and hear these words
and see through a dark disguise.

To never perceive in reality
what lingers beyond the dark screen.
Oh,  but to shelter a pain, we hold in vain,
is nothing less than obscene.

So tell us a tale of why you are loud
and why you don't accept the fact,
that nobody cares bout how you once lost,
or that day when your words were attacked.

To write of this woe and signal denial
of the social encumbrance all round,
is to harbour injustice for false offences,
and to always lie broken on the ground.

Could we lift up our hearts and sing of the past
when love was not just a myth?
Or would you rather die to get attention,
a plain,  barren,  wordless wordsmith?

So, with love,  I tell you,  all wannabes and such,
to quiet your voices and listen.
For when your mouth shuts against life's complaints,
then that is when your life glistens.
Michael King May 2018
(This was a metaphor on the long distance my wife and I suffered. Two years on a screen)

Oh Lady Lost, amidst the fallen grass,
in Autumn where the chivalrous do see
that there beneath the candlelight’s soft blush,
a woman with no face lies down to grieve.

She mourns the fact that Light is now an outline
of what she hoped to hold in futures grace.
She sees her need across moonbeams crescent,
her love, her lust, an oath she set in place,

that one day soon into his arms she’d fall,
and then they two would stay forever sealed
together in this longest of embraces;
the truest of all loves will be revealed.

But hardened their two hearts in the shallows,
and stolen are the means they both require.
Passion moves about in jangled music,
while in their hearts remains a secret fire.

They want to touch, to know each other’s eyes,
they want to gaze in words from out their lips.
But this tale is longest in the making,
they live in different lands, on separate ships.
Michael King Feb 2019
I've seen blood dripping from the willows.

Seen it rolling in drops down the cheek
of a young girl,  not long in her adolescence.

The confusion was the worst part. She
didn't know why she was dying. Alone.
The ****** grass beneath a lost friend
of comfort.

But the white man knew. As he pulled up. his trousers,  a savage grin on his face
as he rubbed her agony over and over...

She lays. Fragile. A heart now gone. A
beautiful life now stolen.

The sun sets as the man walks off.
He is thinking about his wife and kids.

His other thought is how he put just
another slave where she belonged.

A butterfly glides through the willows today.
It floats and lands on the outstretched
hand of a dead girl.

It looks towards her face. Another river
running red. Another of God's
master works removed from life's rhythm.
Michael King Apr 2018
When I was just a little lad,
with nare a scratch on me.
I climbed up high but lost my grip,
and fell out of the tree.

I fell so long, and so **** hard,
I bust my head up good.
I landed in a thorny bush,
and lay there in the blood.

The neighbour she rushed to me quick,
and grabbed me in her arms.
She called her man to start the car,
to save me from the harm.

She drove the road, like kings of old,
within her bent up car.
Her husband looking back at me,
and at the future scar.

They drove me to the A and E,
the nurses rushing round.
The doctor came and checked me out,
and this is what he found.

'This lad is fine', said he to they,
'Just stop him climbing trees.
He's barely bruised his noggin there,
and slightly scratched his knees'

The neighbours they looked so relieved,
they took me to my place.
My ma and pa were happy then,
to see my broken face.
Michael King Dec 2018
Twin love

Infest me with your stolen kiss.
The very heart shaped lips I miss.
Creating love, within my breast,
a swollen heart, unfaltered test.

I sit here smiling, I am free,
to sail the stars, just you and me.
I woo, just you, and you, me too,
I love you my sweet Evening dew.

You are the sail. I am the song.
You are the wind. I am the gong,
that goes ahead, a heralds cheer,
and proclaims this... Twin loves are here!

The oceans bow to see our form.
The sunrise cheers to keep us warm.
The breeze regales a soothing balm,
as all about the world is calm

And so...

Aloft into the skies we climb,
two hearts as one; one heart in rhyme,.
And we will here,  forever be,
a single form, to sail the sea.
Michael King Nov 2018
Spear of life, crown of virtue,
blood relaxed on slab of hate.
To the wind, in raised agony,
metal shards crush bone and fate.
There the light, the helmets glint,
forsaken he, in hour of shame.
But never bowed, in half life saved,
to the skies, and not the flame.
Parched soul, but never succour,
bitter taste of blood and brine.
Feels the tug, the Lords right seat,
one last breath, now is the time.
His spirit flees, mountain cracks,
from quaking mighty land and whence,
his body gone, neath tomb of stone,
to rise again in three days hence.
Michael King May 2018
A proper view of life. Do we see what is just in front of us? Or do we see beyond it? Open the eyes of our spirit. See a world average writers, even good writers,  can never even hope to glimpse.

What makes a true poet? To see a sunset. To view it as a whole. To know it. To see the colours. Then to forget the all they see and write what lies within. Beyond eyesight. Beyond belief. Beyond even imagination. That is a poet. And there are not many of us left
Michael King Jan 2019
What is a racist?

Wow,  you are so wrong on so many levels.

This is just another hater account. Your
words drip with nothing but hate,  and not
even the pure hate which rots and
corrupts. You speech slander which so
many have already turned into a
monotonous cliché, and the strength is
broken.

Like the ticking of a broken clock,  it needs
to be thrown away... the hands of the past
revitalised and used to smoulder love and
passion to change the worlld for the better.
Not for anything which has already come
before so many times like a domino effect.

Your mind seethes... That is a strength I
could use,  but not in the robotic symphony
you so currently speak in mindless refrain
over and over like a badly written chorus.

So I ask you this. Is hatred what you really
seek?  When what you hate is a length of 1
millimeter deep,  and what really shows
through is the heart behind that darkness...

But is it the darkness you really hate?  Or
do you fear the strength of that dark skin.
Do you fear that the new day,  the past
slave becomes the future master? It seems
to me what you really fear and hate is not
the colour of a black person's skin.

But really the cage the white man fell into
when he enslaved them in the first place.
Michael King Dec 2018
What is a truth?

Truth is, a scale. A weight.
A line between distance.
A time within patience.
Hope within strength.
The grey in your hair.
The blew in the wind.
The cold in a heart.
The posture of deception.
The curve of a smile.
The flow in the air.
The faith of a spirit.
The love of a God.
The shower in the rain.
The burn in the sun.
The focus in the study.

These are truths.

© Wanderer
Michael King Apr 2018
He swims upon the lake and swell.
Inside the waters where she fell
on that moonlit winter morn.
All alone and now all gone.

Within that wet, that lake of ice,
he spots her shade. Not once but twice.
She's smiling still, all hope and bells
just like she looked before she fell.

Oh Cre'Atus, please cut her loose,
his words fall dead like neck and noose.
And so he swims, his body cold,
in hope his heart gives in and folds.

This longing hits, and loneliness
becomes his friend, as bitterness
invades his soul, has come to linger
in this man once known as Wind Singer.

Of wind was he, and in his rhymes
there would be joy and better times.
His lips would purse,  his whistles call
and all the birds from sky would fall

into his home, a barren field.
A homely place, with little yield,
but tenderness, this man would give
to all the beasts and birds that live.

Inside the woods, he passed with light
around his feet, and in the bright
green heart of leaves and trees he chimed
with each pure whistle. Each soft rhyme.

He met her there, a girl of peace
so great her smile should never cease
and from that moment he knew joy.
An angels face. Heavens envoy.

He took her in, and showed the world
how God had surely carved this girl
from summer winds, and autumn song.
She stayed with him, where she belonged.

They walked the fields, the barren soil,
but with her laugh and through their toil,
the lands became a place of worth.
A place renowned throughout the Earth.

The love he knew. The heart they shared.
And every time he showed he cared
her love would swell. So would her life.
And so, he took her as his wife.

Time passed by quickly...

The nights grew long. The trees grew old.
The starlight those days seemed so cold.
The fields were bare. The harvest cleaned.
Their home was peaceful and serene.

But shadows crept within the trees,
so soft, so harsh, like a disease
it swept upon the woods and beasts
until all life had surely ceased.

There man and wife, unknowing still,
knew not their lands had fallen ill
with taint and shadow,  dark refined.
They sat in bliss while light declined

around their hearth. Around their love,
until the shade, wrapped like a glove
their home and with it in it's might
it weaved a spell, their hearts couldn't fight.

In fear she fled, and in her stead,
her husband stayed behind and bled
as he took arms and fought this fiend
with strength in men, so rarely seen.

At last he overcame his foe.
Threw down this dark, had overthrown,
but not victory or respite
had he,  for where now was his wife?

He fled into the trees and brush,
past deadened trees which once were lush.
Past beastly corpse, and silenced bird.
He called her name until he heard

a song, a sound. The heart of her.
He ran toward the sound in fear,
that he should somehow lose his light.
Should suffer loss because of blight.

And there he saw his beauty fair.
Against the sky he saw her there,
upon a cliff top, doomed to fall.
She answered not. Heeded no call.

In her despair her senses fled.
In her fear, panic in her head,
She saw her husband dead on the floor.
No more love. No more! No more!

And so as all the tales have told,
this lady fair. This beauty old,
jumped to the sky and met her fate.
The husband came, but was too late.

He screamed his pain to the skies.
'What was it for, Cre'Atus, why?!'
But silence met his pained demand,
and so he jumped, took life in hand,

but fate was not with him that day.
This life was not for him to slay
and he lived, he still breathed, still fought
against the death his loss had bought

for what is life without her near.
Why exist without her here?
Why go on within his fields,
alone, no song to grow the yield?

And so he swims within the swell.
Inside the waters where she fell.
His love is lost, straight to his core.
The Wind Singer will sing no more.
Michael King May 2018
If wishes were kisses,
our eyes would be dry.
No counting the bottles
of tears we could cry.

We'd challenge the night-time,
to bring us our heart.
And when it arrives,
the end is the start.

— The End —