Left sleepless adrift
Beneath moon and star
I sit in cataract haze
Mired in candlelit murk
A snifter of port is no port
For this shipwrecked heart
My pen falls from fingers
Onto words unwritten

A lofty ship is spotted far out at sea.
It looms in the pellucid distance,
a maroon and grey colored
vision of possibility.

I imagine scores and scores of packets of rice
held tightly together like sandcastles,
eager to be used and washed and boiled
And buttered and lightly salted.

Or heavy machinery assembled by
Weary and jealous hands
that wish they weren't so obedient
That too wish they were strong enough
To attempt the buoyant dance of exile.

As the Atlantic Ocean belches muscular waves
that melt like smoke ash at my toes,
another vision gathers at the horizon.

A seacraft is maundering,
It croaks its dissatisfaction as
Limbs knitted together like
Unruly ***** poke into every crevice.
Bight of Biafra’s children have been cloven.

The salty spring of the water mixed with
The rust of ***, dried sweat and lifeless bodies
Makes for a particular entrance to the Caribbean Sea
This is life now.

Nothing sweet or nice about this.
Port Royal is not far off and she’s
Eyeing the new load of hesitant visitors
Tasked with tilling her soil and harvesting her sugar
She sighs with them.

Will  daffodils dance near a lake?
Will Heaven still do battle with Hell?
Will you have an NHL?
Will a woman still count the ways she loves?
Will man have his place in love?
Will hawks replace the release of doves?
Noble savages won't be your theme;
Nor Idols leading  on the silver screen.
What happens if you can't dream
On starry, dark or moon-filled nights,
Where waves lap endlessly on your shore.

Do you ever
reread your words
and think,
"****,
what is wrong
with me?"

“Just a simple little ditty, not too long and not so witty, but a feel-good sweet refrain that I’m proud of all the same.” — Poet


I feel alright when I write
doesn’t matter day or night
Writing helps me clear my head
helps me sort all things I dread
Writer’s block tends to confuse
good to have a helpful muse

There’s not a more exciting caper
connecting mind and pen to paper

I feel alright when I write!

~~*~

“Don’t knock it till you try it, writing’s free (don’t have to buy it), pen and paper (and a muse) is all you need — it’s guaranteed!” — Poet



© 2025 Mark Toney

Sometimes I do not know what to write,
What to think or even,
How to feel.
So I let my subconscious take lead,
and my fingers obey
Like a loyal dog with fleas
I feel I have to write
As desperate as the dog needs to itch
But sometimes the dog will itch so much it leaves a wound,
And the wound is still itchy
Soon before the dog knows, it's infected
Now it's on its way to the vet
Where the vet gives it cream and a cone around it's neck.
Unfortunately for the dog and unbeknownst to the master
The itch cream doesn't work.
Now, the dog is stuck with an itch and no way to scratch it.
But at least the dog doesn't have fleas anymore

Raw,
a grey knuckle-***** day,
when the wind blows through my skin
pulling at the cord
which holds my insides in,
oh infernal internal wall
keeping without without
and within within,
off key Wednesday
crashing chords that I have swallowed
not a passing thought for the blue tunes of tomorrow,
or the music I have made thus far in life
and the ones that I have begged or borrowed
as always I’ll wait for it to pass
fill the gallow glass
to fetch me a drink while I think
but no-one is near
my fault, not because I fear them
I hear them in the hall
scratching
but I don’t let them in
it would give them a chance to win
I need them on my page
to take away the blank
fill it with ink
because being empty stinks
I don’t want the void
empty yarn from a ragged yawning hole
so I’ll sleep,
hope to feel when I wake
no idea how much more time it is going to take
will it break me or make me
perhaps I will try the fake me
the one with the smile
the one I revile
but there it is
sat on my face
smug and satisfied,
all while I’m melting away
a Dali soft watch
on this raw knuckled day

Humble greetings all
we rise or fall
upon the swords which are our words
steel of critics teeth to edge the blade,
a thousand stings and stabs
or gentle and much softer blows
which fortune falls upon the writers head
is not for us to tell,
what literary hell awaits
who knows

What shadow am I,
Lurking on this page,
This blocked out feeling,
I need to go away.

I don't read,
I don't write,
Cut at my roots,
Neither ink or water comes through.

We must carry great faith in our young writers,
I must carry great faith in me,
Carry great faith in he, they, she,
Who?
Those who will inherit the art we cherish,
Keep it close, stringing together what emotions were lost,
We know the real cost.