I write poetry, short stories and plays, and have recently started writing poetry within the bounds of Tweeting, as the #BreakingBard (a totally different discipline!); these are written mainly for myself but there is always the hope that someone might appreciate, and / or take something from what I have produced.
I shall be adding to these pages as time goes on, alongside any reviews of books.
Contemplated by the clouded brow of noon,
Ant-scampering under ancient, golden gaze;
Our mayfly lives are short & spent too soon.
Savour these moments of diminished days.
You acquiesce to Death as if t’were lordly being;
A being without our bonds, who knows no bound.
Yet, such a thing it is, as to accept is seeing.
Realise Death’s worth and woe;
Peace shall be found.
The darkling night flays us with dread
& draws us close. So close.
Deep-drumming heart’s humanity
Is clagged with thoughts morose.
And yet, the halo around us all
Is merely dimmed, not dead;
Nightmare dooms that would keep us cleft
Become sweet dreams, instead.
The storm has passed.
In the distance, thunder murmurs;
Clouds lighten between branches.
Beneath the trees, rain still falls,
Pattering on our hoods
As we soft-step the loam;
Our careful tread avoiding
Sky-mirrors dotting the soil.
Before I knew, the hedge maze had me
Held within its verdant heart.
The rustling leaf walls of the labyrinth
Refuse to bow or part;
Cursed and railed at, it roots unmoved
As un-solaced, I seek egress.
Hemmed in by this not-garden;
Lone path, one of distress.
Honey drapes the dawn-saluting trees;
Sky asks for five more minutes,
Peeking blue-eyed from within winter bedding;
Sheepdog sniffs freshening breeze & dreams of lunchtime warmth;
Purpled light waxes & wanes on branches,
As the slumbersome world stirs to life.
Muffled sound & sight meet us this fog-filled afternight;
Greet us with treewraiths & spectred sheep;
Strange guardians against the dark & disturbed sleep.
As sun lifts head, grey ghosts are goldened.
Emboldened, raised from the dead,
I am brought to life & light.
Trees sway to the rhythm of the breeze,
At my feet, cat rolls in luxury
On soft-bladed bed.
Fettered by coffee cup, pages try to fly.
Pen lies, unmoved by zephyr
Or writer’s pleasure.
Eyes closed and deep-breathed,
I share nature’s company.
Coffee chuckles through machine,
“Without time, there can be no space,”
As my sudded hands caress plates clean;
“Therefore; matter moves through time,”
Cradled calm, as against the pane
“As well as space…”
Coy gusts of wind bring playful rain.
Slate sky weeps softly in gloomed afternoon.
Silver-lidded gaze shines spotlight onto lone hawk,
Following its hopeful hover for umbrellaed field mice.
Now, curtain of rain falls across those eyes –
Brings verdant dreams to unjaded countryside.
On looming hill, once-mighty castle dost lie,
As lances of light pierce Heaven’s iron husk.
Cowers like a cur as destruction draws nigh;
Lit by sun’s blood, we march t’wards doom & dusk.
Spears cleave the benighted sky,
And ramparts quake at our battle cry.
Steel-blue & bright-lit sky belies the cool of day;
Butterflies meander, sap wakes.
Buzzing by, a bee goes on its way.
Birds call in ownership & want,
Flight full of Spring.
Wedding ring is warm on my hand,
As sun moves to depart the land;
Towards dusk, March-ing.
Sun-kissed and ambered, mellow mist rolls away;
Meadow sloughs nocturnal linen, replaced by the warm embrace of sky;
Unduveted lea lifts tufted head from fresh and earthy bed.
Should you seek the root and fruit of life,
Here is the ‘why’.
Waking was hard today;
Wondered which words would find a way
To my sleep-addled brain,
One step away
From facing dreamy state.
This my first morning tweet;
Wordsmith should greet
The dawn on a better road.
Yet, tread the mud-clodded feet;
Lead Breaking Bard to wake.
I am working on a project with a brilliant photographer friend of mine, Andrea Kennard; the process is essentially ekphrasis, the verbal interpretation and description of visual pieces of art. Sometimes my title and thoughts will come direct from her title, sometimes I focus on a smaller part of the whole picture and interpret it as I see it (or wish to see it)
Below are some examples:
I Think I’m Barking
Near the entrance to the park,
Stood Willow softly weeping.
Had she been here all her life?
Was this a dream, while she was sleeping?
No memory sprang readily
Of how she came to be here;
No knowing if this was here and now,
Last week, last month – or yesteryear.
Others’ children played around her,
Not seeing her there, at all.
What must she do to be noticed?
Must she catch a disease? Or fall?
No-one tended to her these days,
She weathered her life, as she could;
Stayed strong as wind blew through her crown,
Hid her heart under skin like wood.
Through the ribcage of the Barrier,
Metal barren beyond distress,
Meadow sweetly sings of bees and timeless wilderness.
We see with hungry green eyes
A dance of breeze through long grass,
The whisper of cirrus across ice-blue skies.
We could use those chains to scale the height,
To escape from this dark to life and light.
But we do not.
Links hold us foetally curled,
Spine-deep in the detritus of our world.
Instead, we dream our time away;
Our heartbeats measured in items owned,
Hours worked and money earned.
And skin forgets the warmth of sun,
The power of earth,
The joy of breathing day.
All writings the property of Andrew James Deane and all photography the property of Andrea Kennard. Copyright 2018 Andrew James Deane