Pure of any mortal mote
and boundless
(but for sight)
:
The deep dry sky of Autumn
inscribes the shadows
bright.
(
For what could dusty leaves conceal
from such an endless eye?
What crackled branch could hide the earth
from all-consuming sky?
)
Replete with light, devoid of warmth:
a strong and wayward king.
His tirade… tires, bruised to black
and homeless winds start prowling
.
And then the people mourn his sleep
and wait as candles
quake
.
Blankets huddle shoulders
as they pray the king
to wake
,
and waking, chasing night he comes
to light the shaded places.
Stones will drink his meagre heat
and men will lift their faces
.
Category: Stories
The Fish of the Bowl of Golden Fear
This is a poem from a decade ago, which came to mind recently as we got some goldfish. Gladly, they’re a lot happier and well equipped than the one which prompted this dark-humoured poem. Please don’t read too much into it! Here it is, unedited from my younger self.
There is no greater fear than this:
the fish of the bowl of golden fear.
I lie and watch distorted man
as I contemplate my life in here.
Then all asplash my green world’s gone;
I’m found in a bleak white arena.
Then another hubbub and I’m sent right back
to familiar home somehow cleaner…
In a round of odd sound and fear of here
there’s little to do but cry;
four lifetimes per minute yet still I am bored,
and without thumbs a noose I can’t tie.
Joe Spring writes 