The Rise of the Ashen Lord
Lord above, who orbits us while in ever repeating bliss,
Give us our daily hit.
Deliver us unto the haze from which shall we never truly awaken.
Shake forth the thunderous religion that shapes our method
And changes: everything has changed.
Be kind to us on Sundays and Thursday's child.
Lead us by the nose to the African night flight that will slowly dry us
And cracked delivering disease and famine across
All the blistering globe that thy watch over,
Ever thoughtful, ponderous and wondering, with burning eye.
Be with us, Lord, when we wither.
Watch us flake into dust drawn away by the eternal winds.
Are you crying for us now, Lord?
For those tears will be lost in the depths of nothingness
Just like your blackened presence.
Until then, Oh, Lord, we will wait
For the bliss you promised us.
David Bowie, English singer-songwriter and actor, was born today in 1947.
Shall attempt to justify myself
With words that could explain it all to you?
But how does one so blind perceive whats true
When stuck alone and hopeless 'pon the shelf?
A soul forgotten, like a fallen sun
That shines so brightly till it starts to fade,
Casts off the crowning glory it displayed
Evinces its true form that all will shun.
Electric pulses through our meagre flesh
And charges us with feelings deep and strong.
Keep emotions conscious all day long
To taste the sweetness flowing free and fresh.
I'll justify myself by saying this:
We all face off against the grave abyss.
Nicolas Cage, American actor and filmmaker, was born today in 1964.
Nikola Tesla, Serbian-American inventor, electrical engineer, and pioneer, died today in 1943.
Early morning song,
Early morning smog
From distant pyres.
Charred and ruined
Among the ashes:
A lonely sword,
Lonely sword, broken.
Remaining is the worst part,
Going on knowing
What was wrong.
Fanning up the flames
And stoking up the fires
And making a martyr
For all your pains.
Joan of Arc, French heroine and saint, was born on this day in 1412.
Theodore Roosevelt, American politician, statesman and conservationist, died today in 1919.
Let me wait, still and alone,
When I'm ragged skin and twisted bone,
Like carrion amid the waste land;
Let me wait, alone in the deserted streets,
My shock and missed heartbeats
At empty gas-lit nights in cold single sleeping bag beds
And dustbin lid dinners with rubbish buffet spreads:
An empty heartbeat stalking me with ringing reverb
Repeating in this stinking suburb
That amounts to underwhelming wonderment...
I hear your question: "Who is it?"
Have no fear. He will commit...
In the shadows Spectres slowly flit
Like some ghostly hypocrites.
The greying mist heckling the waning sickle moon,
The bluish twisting mist howling at the waning sickly moon,
As if its howl could penetrate all four corners of the heavens
It masquerades as something from a special afternoon
In uptown cafes, in best bib and tucker, drinking
With uptown company stirred like silver teaspoons
Mixed up in some summer malady long ago
That raised its muzzle into canine lamenting tune.
And as I remain, fixed, a statue in mime,
I'll let out the howling cry - as if it will be heard -
A howl that may twist the moon's sickly spirit;
As if any howl that's mimed can ever be heard,
Ape the undeclared message silently conferred;
I'll mime the waiter, waiting, deferential, antiquate,
And mime the listener hearkening to busy hands
Flashing out the transparent feast upon an empty plate.
Miming me miming you,
And miming out all the many actions
Leading to the miming out of dissatisfactions,
Before the waiter smashes all the plates.
In the shadows Spectres slowly flit
Like some ghostly hypocrites.
And if I mime in my recline
Will I ponder "why I wait?" and "Why I mime?" -
Waiting offers plenty grounds to rake regret
With martyrs singing misery in duet,
The waiting can afford to criticise and demonise
That howling at the moon they so despise,
A howling that they never utilise,
Remaining constant until the relieving sunrise.
So shall I wait
In eternal silent debate?
In my waiting I will mime
The clowning and the frowning I create.
For in that waiting and creating I have lived a life:
Lived to shape my daily slog of air plays alone
To blindly shuffle out all the shapes I've thrown.
I heard me questioning myself to the afterlife,
Asked many things I already dismissed;
Asked myself: Do I still exist?
And though I wait and create I live a life
Even without the sense of belonging.
And in belonging I stand transfixed
When carving in the wall another notch with my knife.
So how can questioning myself be fixed
When asking myself the question I am longing;
Asking myself: Did I ever exist?
And I want to wait and create to live my life -
A life that could get answers when he arrives
And breathe into me a breath that revives.
I suppose that's why I insist
On wondering if we exist?
And looking into the eyes of another
Could this be a brother?
Could this be the other?
Well, its true, then. That I have howled aloud at the moon
And sat and listened to the echo of the void
Of me alone, waiting, waiting. Waiting.
I should have mimed that too
But that would never do.
And even now the waiting continues,
Propped up on the hope for answers
Ailments... Disease... Cancers...
I lie out like a slowly dying man
That knows the answers deep inside
And knows that no one answers anymore,
No one will come knocking on my door.
But hope still gnaws emptiness more
And evokes that drowning howl, guttural, feral
Leaving me and the moon in great peril.
I will wait on still for the man with all the knowledge,
The one that has definitely been to college,
To put me out of my misery.
Was the misery worth it?
Miming out all the mistakes I made?
Miming out a great internal debate
That I threw up later on a plate
And served it up, like a faithful waiter,
Who waits just in reach, just to serve,
Just to wipe your chin, as you deserve,
And wait patiently for you to finish,
Clear up the mess as you diminish
And say was it worth it? Was it worth the pain?
Was the waiting, creating and debating, worth it?
Could I have done something better?
After all these long years of yearning for knowledge,
I could have left, I could have travelled far.
But now I'm propping up a bar,
An empty bar without a drink,
Without a glass or a space to think?
Without the waiter, waiting for me
To take a well deserved cup of tea,
To slowly brew within the pot, thinking:
Was it worth it? Was it worth the pain?
The pain is such a constant thing,
Holding me on a course to new thoughts
And new ideas, and new questions,
Questions without answers, until he comes
And offers many other suggestions.
And offers directions out of the slums
And offers many different reports
About my conducts on matters of life
And how I wasted it waiting.
I would have been better painting...
But I am waiting. How will I know when he is here?
I will probably be asleep then, and miss his arrival.
He could have already been, I was too concerned with my survival
To notice he didn't want to talk to me...
I should have known it when the moon didn't return my howl.
I should have known it was inevitable as the passing hours
And see his passing in the dying flowers.
I should have known the answers to my questions lie
Deep in my stopped heart turning my blood from red to brown
Till the answers come flooding and I drown.
I've never heard the vital information
That's why I got locked up.
I never saw the monster,
'X' marked the spot, but I didn't understand
What 'X' meant. I never looked at the key.
After I missed the monster I
wrote up a piece, but the 'X' key was missing on my keyboard.
When writing about an 'X' file, that key is key.
That got me angry, but finding an outlet
Made me angrier.
What to do about that.
I took it out on my neighbour's car.
I scrubbed it down and gave it a nice spray job.
He was beside himself.
He didn't like peach.
After that, I felt better,
I sat down, lifted the fallboard,
Tickled the ivory, but middle 'C'
Was gone. It ruined my Piano sonata No. 10.
How can unlock the secret melody
If I can't trust my own piano?
Such is life. Determination is key.
Sir Isaac Newton, English mathematician, physicist, astronomer, theologian and academic, was born today in 1642.
Jacob Grimm, German philologist, jurist and mythologist, was born today in 1785.
I remember green.
The colour of life.
The colour of naivety.
Of joyful exploration.
Of vitality and nature.
Take Rosemary: the wiry sprig of nasal fog.
Open, like the relief of an unblocked nose
Assaulted by the smokey tone of the herb,
Punching the clear shot to the brain.
Feel powerful, deep green
That shimmered at Thiepval field,
Iridescent as the zephyr that sprawls through,
It bows before the writhed eye of the sun.
The drizzling richness of the silky pressed Olive oil sliding
Over the ripe lettuce leaf, glazed with
The summer dew: the base of the
Tossed salad with the tomato, basil and mozzarella.
The trees mumble and shoot the breeze,
Ascending further into the crown. Hear the gossiping leaves,
Deep in treacly rumours about forfeited stretching and
Lost yawning and overslept branches in absent spring.
Crumbs, salty, with rich tang and sweet bite,
Tumble over the frosting twinkle of the
Scooped ball of ice cream, the pistachio
Nuggets sliding into melting portion.
The pea green of growing salty ocean caressing the beaded shoreline,
The billowing Kraken breath of the sea
Sailing in on the tide to chase away any trace of briny scent at
Summer picnics in the foothills of flowing dune mountains.
The fruit bowl hosting the huddle of green spotted
Granny Smiths, ripe, like a pregnant pause,
Aching to be crunched to a tart blast rippling
Across the tongue.
The pastel green of the last jade tiger,
Prowling a mantelpiece,
Coiled to strike at the unwary,
Stalked by the perpetual tick of the clock.
The fresh lime zest zinging a jet of juice,
Straight from the squeeze, across the spicy
Aroma of the Thai green curry,
The chillies and holy basil fusing in memory.
A mystery of the still twinkling emeralds
Set in gold band eternal upon the clasped bony finger
Of the long loved wife in celebration of the longer loving
Years of companionship held together in the aether.
The glisten of garden mint leaves ground under pestle,
Lifting the nose as its explosive bouquet
Mingles with the tingle of vinegar, wringing glorious
Salivation in anticipation of dreamy roast lamb, potatoes and gravy.
The lulling roll of the ferns, like giant silk fans,
Swaying in the fresh air of the forest floor, a Doe nestled
Deep within, milky eyed, curiously peering from the
Protection of the glade at the approaching pyre.
A disguised log, green, with ridges and teeth,
Ripping up the rising river into furious foam,
With smashing tail whipping to ambush
The fording Zebra in deepest Africa.
Soft pillows of moss clumped like fat monks,
Nestling in drunken slumber upon the slick roof tiles,
Reaching out with the prickled nubs of their snail eye
Calyptra, slaughtered in the dissolution.
That land that is green and smiling,
Its wide grin constant, despite the rain,
Fuelling a flourish of emerald Shamrocks
Across the fields, furlongs and country lanes.
Nature, revealed in the flash of green,
Is dispatched, draped in the standard of dust,
And across these sceptred lands, now bowed
By unverdant arc-en-ciel, we lament our perished hue.
I'll always remember green.
Here's a scoop!
On the cutting room floor
Exist the edited.
Touched up too much
And out of relevance.
Snippings from old glossy magazines
Pasted on to cardboard stands
Even the bokeh backgrounds fade.
The exposure flared and candid,
Chimping them into obscurity.
Wiping the angle
Without any more inches in columns or
Snaps in borders, wrapped
In panned watermarks,
Drowning in their tears.
The wrinkles are showing
And their off to jungle,
Warts and all,
To wring a few more minutes
From their fifteen.
David Bailey, English fashion and portrait photographer, was born today in 1938.
boys always stood at attention
twitching with tension by extension
i had a boy once in the garden
in hand hard
i had a bird twice in the bush
i heard her singing
twice in the bush
and that was enough
William Wycherly, English dramatist of the restoration period, died today in 1716.
Morning all. I wanted to wish you all a happy new year. Also, I wanted to thank you all for joining me on my journey through poetic adventure. I hope you will continue to help me with my experiment.
Unusually this isn’t a poem. But, don’t worry. I will write one for today.
For the last year I’ve written a poem each day about the day. The poetry is inspired by the people who were born or died, or events that occurred on the day, and I have included links to all the relevant subjects.
So, that’s 365 poems. I’ve also added a couple of extra poems along the way.
Originally, when I decided to start this, I thought I would only produce haikus, but slowly over the course of the year I expanded the forms of poetry. Now, you’ll find villanelles, sonnets, odes and ballads (as well as haikus)…
I enjoy the process of writing the poems and will be continuing this year. I have been considering only using fixed forms, but I think that could be too restrictive.
I think I will be using fixed forms, but will vary when these are used. I originally thought I would use a specific form on a specific day. You know… “Free verse Friday”, “Sonnet Sunday”, etc. But, I think I’ll switch it up, because the form needs to fit the poem, rather than forcing a poem into a form.
Also, I promise this year I will also include a sestina. However, I think the sestina is probably the trickiest form to use and will take a considerable amount of planning.
During this year I’ve attempted (not successfully all the time) to publish the poem each morning at 9.30am UK time. This has been especially tricky at certain times of the year, especially over Christmas. So this year I’ll aim to publish the daily poem at some point during the 24 hour period.
I wrote the first 3 months of poems before I published them, but now I’ll be working through each day.
So now I have 365 poems, what am I going to do with them?
My first and only thought was to publish them. I’ve already started collating each day. I’ve decided to maintain a published format as close to the website format as possible. Most images you find on Wikipedia are already public domain, but some have a specific licence. So the hard work is in identifying the source of each image and include the acknowledgement and licence.
I aim to get these published very soon, so keep an eye out.
The other thing is that with so many poems the content could get quite dense. So I thought about creating a greatest hits selection. Perhaps 45-50 poems from the year. If you have any favourites please let me know in the comments section.
Once again, let me thank you all for subscribing and I hope you will continue to enjoy our journey together.
It's New Years Eve again today
And with it comes more mourning.
Memories cloud my happy times
And diminish them til morning.
Father flat cap fishing from the breeze
To catch a netherworld netful.
I'll throw myself upon objectives
But feel nothing but regretful.
I'll weld together resolutions
And watch them turn to rust.
I'll loyally follow all commands
As I'm ground into the dust.
Fumble blindly in my attempts
To divine what future will bring
And be safe in my own knowledge
I'll never come to anything.