A single crab escapes the ***
Where several would be doomed;
The fate of one becomes the lot -
Boiled and consumed.
They tug and tear each other down
Dividing limb from limb
As each attempt to scramble out
Will pull another in.
But humans are a clever lot
(Though some, we may have doubts)
For when we fall into the ***
We help each other out.
Spineless as a decapod;
The ones who got ahead,
When scrambling up the ladder, trod
Upon another’s head.
A chilling frost descends
Upon the wings of idle butterflies
That sleep amid the grass -
Like sordid memories past.
The glowing dawn ascends
Until the green and gilded meadows rise
With purple flowers too -
The day begins anew.
I want my corpse to fly.
Indeed I wish my wish be known -
Launch my body into orbit
'Til my naked body glows.
May the stars illuminate me
And irradiate my bones
While the solar winds can *******
'Till me rigor mortis goes.
Yes I want my corpse to fly
Where no corpse has ever flown -
To the boundless reach of space;
Into the great and vast unknown.
something whimsical and macabre
The rotting flower blooms anew,
Though withering and greyed,
Bewildering the twilight gloom
Where higher forms decayed.
The silent kingdom rises from
The earth where life has left
To bear a fruit by virtue of
The renaissance in death.
a poem about fungi.
The Queen revels beyond the realm of summer’s lurid light
To scorn the damp recess of shade where moss has laid its lawn.
Her pale and powdered faces flaunt the earth by starry night;
Though falling, faint and faded, by the cawing crow of dawn.
Her slender, waxen limbs are draped upon her chosen sire
Who cradles her, consumed amid the scent of her perfumes.
Wherever out her branches bend; is loveliness admired
By fleeting bat and beating moth; by men and sailing moons.
Magnificent she flourishes; dry, dappled shade her nest
Where wild and unrestrained, resplendent flowers ever grow
So fair, and verdant framed, and scarlet tipped, and golden tressed;
With flames of bronze and ivory her lighted candles glow.
The chills of night cannot befall: the hallowed earth is blessed
Wherever blooms the Queen of Night; Selenicereus.
Selenicereus is an epiphitic cactus native to South and Central America. The scientific name is derived from Selene, the Greek Goddess of the moon. They are sometimes referred to as the 'queen of the night' because the flowers open at night.
Wizard of the earth; I am the botanist or yore -
Conversing with the stars until the stars can hear no more.
I read them pharmacopoeias from catacombs of lore
To fill the vacant sky with verse of those who lived before.
Poet of the sky and the ever glowing sun -
A seven-headed serpent lays in wait upon my tongue.
I sing in sacred stanzas from a phantom in my lungs
To make my spirit rise before the day is yet begun.
Unfinished fragment from something i wrote a few years ago. needs work.
A crystal pitcher; aptly made
My trembling hand upon it laid
Then to my lips, I did lift
With loving sips upon more sips
To feel the wet and languid kiss
Of innocence amiss.
A horror from the dark;
The dreadful fiend awaits.
Its properties appall for they
Were formed in outer space.
Its skin is made of eyes.
The eyes are made of skin.
A thousand gnashing teeth adorn
The bones that move within.
The stomach is a brain;
The brain therefore consumes.
In time it shall attain a form
That human life assumes.
Perhaps it has arrived
And walks among us now.
A being so contrived will beg
The questions – Why? and How?
Conspiracy - I say -
A thing of troubled thoughts;
A fabrication made of fears
Anxiety has wrought.
So what if it were true?
- A doomed humanity -
A New World Order – new, in that,
We’d suffer equally.
But the teeth remain unseen
And the seething eyes are blind,
For when I dream, I dream instead
Of people left behind.
The fear of the unknowns
That from the darkness peer
All vanish when we know that horrors
Are already here.
The fictions that we’ve made
Conceal a world inversed,
But I am unafraid because,
The truth, in fact, is worse.
Step, yes step – nay, dance -
Upon my grave
But do not wallow, whine or whisper
Nor in lamentations rave.
I am gone; I am past;
Into a quiet place at last.
The world is warm and bright
Though I lie beneath the grass.
Pick flowers, if you must
But do not leave them here for me.
Bring them home
To be loved
By friends and family.
There’s always time to stickybeak -
To stop and have a look.
You never know unless you peek
In every shaded nook.
Who needs a reason to explore -
For any reason’s fair.
You won’t know what your looking for
Until you find it there.
So take your time - investigate -
The place where no one’s been.
It’s easy to appreciate
The things you’ve never seen.
How to write ones final words? How find the will to carry on?
When I know this ship and all - all of this - will soon be gone.
Yet perhaps, if not my bones, at least my memories will be found
Amid the wreckage of a land where none but swaying palms abound.
So may the finder of this bottle bring these words I duly pen
To the family of the sailor - Kieran Dacey Boylan -
Though my body lies in rest beneath the roiling of the sea -
Know my soul forever soars above the verdant Irish lea.
Horror dwells in glistening eyes
It cannot trouble the deceased.
Our fears are born and here reside
Until by death released.
A red convulsing chamber -
That thing inside your chest -
Defiantly it throbs in spite
Of everything that rests.
Burning embers fade
Swelling tides always recede
Life eludes yet then pervades
Like bacteria it breeds.
What crawled out from the ocean
Will return at her behest
All things must lose their motion -
All things ephemeral at best.
But when you move, so does the world
You are the cosmos manifest, and
Defiantly it throbs in spite
Of everything that rests.
(A midnight liaison to appease an insatiate infatuation with the unknown and the abysmal).
Pallid flowers white as bone
Hang down heavily from the weight
Of their scent alone.
I inhale perfumes of death
Exhumed in luminous plumes
That drifts invisibly like mist;
From petal’d lips it pours
As ferns uncoiling, shiver.
Her whisper silently implores
And summons fungi from the floor.
Dancing on a blackened sea
A vibrant veil of emerald leaf
Conceals her ghostly glow beneath.
My femme fatale, a mystery,
To each nocturnal ear she sings.
A sweet miasma of insanity
Now rises with the moon.
With tenderness I pluck her down
And lay her there upon the ground.
I strip her petals, counting five,
Until in pieces there she lies.
Lets go far away, she said,
Or anywhere but here.
Then guided by the silver light
We sailed into oblivion.
Brugmansia is a genus of flowering tree from South America. All parts of the plant are as powerfully hallucinogenic as they are toxic.
One Summer night I lingered late
With pensive gaze and idle pose,
Intending there to contemplate
The wistful, blue tobacco plumes
That rose augmented and illumed,
Enlivened by the beaming moon
Whose living light in raining columns
Brought a landscape into view.
Reclining with a cigarette
In shade of cypress silhouettes;
Upon the trembling page I scrawled
The very strangeness that I saw,
When fairly faintly I perceived
The queerest notion I received;
That I could not draw the night
For the night was drawing me.
Supernal shades of blue,
Best approached in early hours,
Lend the blooms a heavenly hue
Where the Morning Glory flowers.
The leaves are trident shaped, or hearts,
With rambling stems and coiling tips;
Every searching tendril starts
As the glowing sun uplifts.
Growing swiftly as a ****
Morning Glory onward climbs
Over shrubs and over trees -
All are smothered in the vines.
A blemish mars the leaf
Where a caterpillar chewed,
Though beauty is best perceived
With imperfections viewed.
Morning Glory I revere -
Of that there is no doubt
But my passions are austere
For today I pull you out.
This residence is haunted
By no one but myself.
My room; a silent kingdom;
Yet is prison, and is hell.
Still-life inside a chrysalis;
My own skin forms a crypt.
The struggle to break free
Entombs me further yet.
It’s not that I am scared
Of the worlds’ one thousand things -
I’m scared that I will free myself
To find I have no wings.
The eyes of a deer she had; poised yet unassuming
And possessed with impish beauty, her gaze averted, now resuming
To assume a countenance beguiling and alluring.
All the night she’d naked dance with flowers in her locks.
Retiring by the day she’d rest her cheek upon a fox.
We’d walk the forest shade beneath the dark and sunless pines
Yet with a glance she’d part the boughs to let the sunlight shine.
Her step and skip across the stones was delicate and airy.
Thus concluded I, that she must be a fairy.
Recurrent dreams of butterflies; my inner vision sings.
I saw my very happiness dancing on the wind.
Metallic iridescence like a precious living pearl;
Their wings receive the sun as they gracefully unfurl.
My fumbling hands swat the air to cage my merriment
But wings of bliss are transient, so my joys must end...
Waking from my reveries I find myself content
That butterflies and happiness will visit me again.
Imagine a cave where no human has strayed
Nor a scurrying creature has crept;
Ever haunting the deep, subterranean glade
Where the bones of the forest are swept;
A piteous icon is carved, drip by drip,
And forever in darkness it sits -
Who beholds of this vision will tremble, afraid
Of the place where Time sat and wept.
That it was broken once,
Makes it precious to me now.
When the porcelain vase is shattered,
Embrace the pieces tenderly, and
Heal the cracks with gold.
Hatred came to fill my heart
But here it found no home.
From the earth a kingdom rose;
Not of bricks nor made of mortar
But of seed, and soil and sun
And of sweat and stone and water.
The garden waits within my hand;
A future paradise concealed.
All I need is time and land
Until my heaven be revealed.
One day you’ll hold your head up high;
Yes, higher than the Sun.
When joyful tears befall the light,
A rainbow reaches everyone.
Severed serpent cut and writhing
Both halves now dance alone.
In the blood was written
That all things turn to stone.
The cadaverous gaze is screaming
Without a sound expressed.
Obsidian eyes unclosing
Yet forever, now, at rest.
Moths in great abundance - cavorting and obsessed -
Flit about the fluoro lights with single-mindedness;
They spiral in confusion as they misjudge the view,
Believing that their beacon lies as distant as the moon
They ride this fatal arc until their final destination;
With exhausted wings and will they then collapse in desiccation.
The sky is blue, and water wet;
So the ocean must be too.
Once I sunk beneath the waves
To gain a better view:
Pink and spongy; black and scaly;
Yellow jelly, cold and clammy;
Beady eyestalks glaring
From an urchin crusted cave.
Clustered tubercles protruding,
Searching tentacles recoiling,
Pulsing mandibles awaiting;
Ever lurking in the shade.
The universe exploding with
One billion burning suns,
Is empty, void and meaningless
When all is said and done.
So for those inclined to measure
What hue the ocean be:
Ignore her gaudy creatures
For the darkness in between.
The sky is blue, and water wet,
But the ocean – it is black
And I fear the vile abyss that is
Endless, dark, and black.
Writing out poetry, line upon line,
As the Summer rain, silently, dripped down the window,
I solemnly scribed every rhyme upon rhyme,
Forging sentiment slowly distilled from the page.
Whimsical musings yet tinted the scenery -
Colourful, fancy and folly imbued –
As the wondrous flashes of visual tapestry
Filled me with passionate fervour renewed.
In this poem I strictly adhered to a dactylic metre (the title itself; a dactyl) as it was the first poem I wrote after I had begun to actually study the basic precepts of poetic metre. So many modern poets appear to disavow such strict adherence to poetic metre (perhaps they find the form dated, simplistic, or stifling?) but I really enjoy the musical qualities of such poetry.
Flowers ever rise
Come the dawning of the day.
Skyward though they strive
They are plucked and thrown away.
The festival of life
Welcomes chaos to the fray;
Yet flowers ever rise
Come the dawning of the day.
— The End —