They keep falling.

Some still green, clinging.

Some drab and shrivelled, already dead, not merely dying.

Some, painted red, yellow, tan or oxblood,

Are spiralling and flying.

They keep travelling.

Some chase each other as they fall, dancing

In winds that take them far from their beginnings,

A last journey of delight and new-born wonder,

With wishes granted for those catching.

They keep drifting

Some dry and edge-curled are high-piling

Into mounds of brown with crimson or ochre peeping

When feet, finding the ground obscured

Simply plough through, crunching.

They keep rustling.

Sounds of life and summer faintly crying

Until rain spreads spores of decaying

And the sodden mass merges with mud

Or drains, sighing.

They keep wandering.

When all have fallen, a few, staying

True to some heroic myth of surviving,

Maintain lace skeletons to delight

Anyone finding.

Above all, and beneath all lying,

They keep dying.

Coach horses, coach horses, what time of day?
One o’clock, two o’clock, three and away!

The rhyme slips smoothly through my mind.
While your star seeds prance,
ready to run with the wind.

Children try, excited,
for the smallest number
and the fastest end.
Once upon a time
I might have copied them.

If I blow gently,
with care the count might reach ten
or even midnight’s chimes.
No point beyond that.
Starting again at one would not
help hold back the time.

These horses should plod slowly.
The coachman should restrain
his team and let the days pass
quietly with sunshine-filled laziness
in the long grass.

Summer is not for thundering hooves
or scattering hours.
In a season too short for true pleasure.
Even the wildest of flowers
should learn to enjoy leisure.

Your clock is impatient
but my breath is contained.
Dandelion, your coach horses must stay;
without my soft huff of agreement
they cannot yet race away.

Meeting.

Words skip across the internet
falling rowdily into emails,
excited and on edge
with the thrill of planning.

They tumble from mobiles
texted with trembling fingers
(on a train then on a bus)
with the joy of arrival.

A few gush (from the same mobiles)
identifying time and place,
worried and intense
with the concerns of finding.

Many bound across a table top
skirting drinks and food,
relaxed and confident
with the pleasure of the moment.

At last they sigh into the night air
slipping softly into departure,
glad, sad, remembering
until needed again.

She came out
on the first day of sunshine
and stood proud
(in a carpet
of last year’s dried grass)
through a week of hail and rain
even braving snow
to show
her beauty.
By the time her sister
(who could have been a twin)
joined her, she was fading,
but still strong.
A bold spirit wrapped
in gold-shot purple silk,
she held the frost at bay.
When their much younger
sibling (or niece or daughter)
came peeping
blue and fresh behind their skirts
(small and impertinent as is the way
of the very young)
she was old,
paper-thin and ragged
but still challenging
the cold.

I wrote this last Christmas in a slash fanfic context but as I didn’t give the characters names it could apply to any couple involved in law enforcement or other dangerous occupations. The voices alternate and it should be fairly clear that one  of the pair is naturally much more reckless than his companion. So you could try guessing which couple I wrote it about.

 Questions and answers.

(a conversation for two voices)

So if I were to say to you, ‘Take care!

Protect that face and body that I call

my own, my world, my universe, my star,’

would you be thoughtful, heed my words of love,

draw back from conflict, take the quiet road,

or would you laugh and disregard my fears?

#

I’d rather take you by your willing hand,

pull you all helter-skelter down the way

of danger, laughing, yes, but smiling, too,

and leavening the peril with a kiss.

I think you’d follow me and soon forget

your fears, your very thoughts, your warning words.

#

I scarce can think. And if I followed you

all thought would soon be lost to me indeed.

Whirling around the planet of my love

I’d come to see the wild raw atmosphere

as usual, familiar, naught to fear;

and caught up in your smile I’d laugh at death.

#

We’d welcome all the winds of danger with

a kiss of friendship and a loving gun.

Together we could make the stars our home,

forget mere mortals with their slow concerns.

We’d run from earthly plots and mundane crimes

towards the splendour of the undying sun.

#

And yet I have to spare a fleeting thought

for those we fight for, those who need our care.

Without that conscience which should underpin

our actions, would our feelings sour and die?

The stars might fail to note the earth’s concerns

but if we did not heed, could we still love?

#

My feelings are as constant as the stars.

Whatever creed or ethic underlies

our deeds I care not, only that you should

be mine, and follow where I lead and be

my constant sun, the light by which I steer

my life; my follower and my final goal.

#

I’ll follow you. I’ll chase you through the heavens,

careless of danger, laughing in your wake,

but if I am your sun then let my rays

shine on this earth and lighten what they see,

then we can watch and smile and kiss and dream

free in our starry skies, safe in our love.

#

Then take my hand, come fly with me and see

what wonders we can find, what legends make.

Let’s kiss and  let our love spill out and down

upon the lesser mortals if you wish.

So long as you are mine I am content

and will go gladly to our destiny.

#

Consider me content too, but I must

tell you again I’d rather have that face,

that voice, that body whole and in my arms

than gathering glory in the void of space,

so take me by the hand and lead me on

but listen when I say to you, ‘Take care!’

###

Does anyone know how to persuade WordPress not to put extra line breaks in poems? I’ve tried pasting in plain text.

I have used unicorns as characters in my series of ‘fae’ novels. A few years ago I was looking for art to decorate the fae blog I was writing to expand my ideas, when I came across a website of unicorn illustrations and ‘information’. I got into online conversation with the site owner and ended up writing a poem for the site. The site is not actually to my taste – the unicorns there are too sweet and innocent – which is why I’m not advertising it here. But I thought you might like to see what I wrote. The piece is another series of haiku-style verses. I am, by the way, well aware that these are only a modern and western approximation of the haiku, and not true to the Japanese concept.

Unicorns at play 

In the moon’s white light

We play in our soft meadow

Dancing over grass.

Beneath the gold stars,

Piercing the dark of the land,

Our bright horns shimmer.

While the black clouds roll

Our manes flicker with lightning

And our hooves thunder.

At dusk in the trees

You may see a faint shining

Welcoming the night.

When dawn opens day

Our shadows might still linger

In a loving heart.

As you can see, I still haven’t persuaded Word10 to agree with me on line spacing, and by the time whatever I’ve typed reaches WordPress the spacing seems to be set in stone. I’ve tried retyping, to no avail.

I recently posted about fanfic and thought I would share with you a poem I wrote as a gift for a fellow fan. The fandom, for those of you who are not sci-fi lovers, is Stargate SG1, in which a race of symbiotes tries to take over the universe through all the humanoid races it can find. I chose the photo of one of our Portuguese lizards to complement the reptilian nature of the symbiotes. The poem is a sequence of linked haiku-style pieces.

Symbiote.

Whenever bipeds

Step through the liquid circle

We have to wonder.

Will we symbiotes

Emerge intact or might our

Slender forms be changed;

Submerged in the flesh

Of our imprisoning slaves?

But still we travel.

Needing to conquer,

Defying space and logic,

We quest to survive.

Perhaps if they knew

Our needs truly, our hosts would

Close the gates firmly.

Keeping separate

Their lonely planets they could

End our dominance.

Without the journeys,

(Despite the risk of changing),

We would surely die.

I have been somewhat MIA recently – the problem has been a crashed laptop and time spent trying to get to grips with a refurbished old one, with an unfamiliar operating system. This also explains the annoying formatting that seems to have invaded my poem – I have so far been unable to get rid of the double spacing within the verses, which was not present in the original document.

I wrote this in a mood of frustration, a couple of years ago. I spent quite a lot of time on online gaming (role playing games or RPGs) but was eventually persuaded by a friend who also played that I was not a gamer but a writer who entered games for the purpose of story development. The game was never enough in itself. But at the time I was immersed in the story and the character I was playing and hated it when the game folded, as they so often do. I stopped playing eventually – a kind of self-preservation.

To a gamer who is moving on.

(Sometimes the organiser of an RPG will abandon their game before others are ready to leave.)

We played hard.
Through woods and mines, into cities of frozen stone,
And vast graveyards of polished bone,
We took our swords, two-headed axes and sharp spears,
All down the years.

Our hearts beat
With the heroic cyber pulse of might and story,
Making us virtual wizards of dread and glory,
Pumping your writing out along our veins,
Singing our names.

We stayed close,
Playing the game, fighting the fight, killing monsters that haunt dreams,
Defeating ghouls that emitted eldritch screams.
We never questioned whether you were true.
We trusted you.

Now you turn
Away from the roles, the play, shelving those who served so long,
Abandoning soldiers who, for you, were strong,
Telling your friends in a voice that hints of shame,
‘It was just a game.’

Who would say,
Compared with friends or kin in London, Paris or Rome,
Compared with loved ones here at home,
That we who kept the faith are not, at the end,
At least as real as them?

Birthday.

While I wait, the clock chimes.
I note time’s passing and the hour
Of  bewitchment nears,
Weaving the magic of years.

Can a single second add maturity,
Or responsibility of a sudden kind?
Does the right to roll home drunk and appear on the electoral roll
Depend upon a minute’s passing?

Is there a difference
(Like day and night, like dark and light,
Like sweet and sour, like here and gone,)
Between this moment and the next one?

I  have been powerless to show my love
Until the new day proves you adult,
Just turned sixteen (and sweet, unkissed);
But soon we can consumate our dream.

What if the striking hour should turn you back
Into an ordinary man,
Available at last, no longer charmed?
Could that enchantment fade so fast?

Before we find out, before time has had time
To trick our senses, plays with our love like a wanton god,
At exactly midnight I shall kiss you and say,
‘Happy Birthday.’

I ought, perhaps, to point out that I am British and in UK the ‘age of consent’ (for both men and women) is 16. The voting age is, however, 18. I should also make it clear that this was written with a particular story in mind, and both protagonists in the story are teenagers – the narrator is not intended to be me! I had been reading about the tragedy of teenagers placed on the sex offenders’ register because they dared to love each other at just the wrong age, and their parents not only objected but called down the full force of the law. I think most police forces and prosecutors are more lenient today, but this was written a few years ago.

I’ve been somewhat absent – our Portuguese internet provision is erratic to say the least. The lemons in our garden are erratic too. Now I’m back in the UK and back online. So to get another post in before the end of the month I thought I’d share a poem I wrote some time ago, originally for a gamer who was also a musician.

While my music gently plays.

There are goblins playing in our streets tonight;
Sharp teeth snapping,
Thin hands clapping,
While my guitar gently sings.

There are ogres creeping past our gate tonight;
Large ears swivelled,
Huge feet muffled,
While your drums gently thrum.

There are orcs standing at our corner tonight;
Fierce arms folded,
Wild faces calmed,
While my pipe gently thrills.

There are elves travelling on our road tonight;
Bright eyes laughing,
Wide mouths grinning,
While your accordion gently hums.

There are warriors knocking at our door tonight;
Shields held proudly,
Swords shining boldly,
While my cymbals gently clash.

There are creatures pasing through our town tonight;
Filling your dreams,
Playing my games,
While our music gently plays.