A Coin for the Journey

Moonlight Bay by MovingStill

Moonlight Bay by MovingStill

Without the tempest howls,

Leaves rust: dreams claimed by dust.

The heart is fickle

And from this world of damaged things

It shies away, embracing in its stead 

The promise of tomorrows. Endless lies…

For this one dawn may well be too, your last.

Weeks, hours, mere seconds –

The naiads of our age –

Are ruthless in their passing …

Take hold then of my hand, my heartbeat measure.

‘Tis hidden in the pulse within my wrist:

Here lies my time

In memory absconded.

I’ve gambled it away and now too late

Have learnt to prize its value.

Let go. No… Stay with me a while.

This, my diminished life, will presently depart.

How bright this moon…

Could linger here a lifetime

To feel its golden sheen upon my cheek.

How sweet the scent of lilies in the air,

And listen to the ripple of that wave…

Is that the sound of a paddle slicing through?

The ferryman will reach our shore anon.

A coin for the journey,

If you will.


Daily Prompt: 190 Days Later



In the shadows


I was asleep,

But in that dream…

Believed myself to be awake.

So crisp the coolness of the day,

Such vivid – textures… Could not shake

The feel of you, so real still

That it enticed my senses all,

Beguiling chance within. Without

The questions bayed unanswered.


Caught in the chase, the thrill

Of days long disremembered

To resurrect I sipped the offered prize.

Pierced through

How cruel a vision where a loved one dies!

A dream to nightmare rendered.


For there too abandoned soon

My body eddied. Cut away

From your arm’s grasp, it lay tormented

Under a hellish moon.

I cannot tell you why it was not meant to be.

I waiver in the dark…

In leaving you extinguished

My light.

Now set me free!

Last Kiss

Last Kiss

Come rest awhile in my embrace, my mournful writer.

Let my unswerving hope your longing gaol

And banish from your eyes the flow of tears.

Obscured to the many, their ghostly presence,

I know, is never far.

Please do not frown. Such scorn does not become you.

It scathes in its aloofness. Make your move.

I may not know the rules to play the game with sharpness.

But if you fall – a vagrant – on this plaintive land

With me you will find refuge

From trouble and from sorrow…

Will wait until the morrow

And then will stand again: with you against the deluge.  

Give me your hand.

 Such beauty – almost music – it plucks with modest aptness

And sculpts from mere letters to soothe

Or perhaps question

What fate will strike the many, yet known by so few.

You speak of seas contracting into a boundless star,

Its light subverted to one point of essence.

To write is to defy the gods: inked well, immortal fears

Abandoned, lie ashore.

Give me your hand.

And let me guide you through the land of shadows.

The journey nears. You’ve known it long enough.

Be not afraid. Your words will breathe alive

Long after you are gone.

Hear them howl? Do not ask why.

The time is come.

So weightless in my arms, and like a whisper.

I’ll drink from your lips’ cup the last goodbye.


In reply to OM’s Death of a Writer


Asymmetric. Tango for One.


Asymmetric. Tango for One.

My life was one of poetry
And now it’s vapid prose.

Within those empty phrases
How can one find repose?

Besieged by thoughts, I slumber.
And yet am not appeased…

How can one find fulfilment,
When lusts – all – must be pleased?

Within deliberation
There is but vain contentment.

Death must be then the only
Remaining valid statement.


Memento Mori

The grass was soft underfoot, freshly mowed.  Ismay breathed in its fragrance: her favourite smell. It reminded her of her grandfather, the long walks and horse rides he took her on when she was a child.

For many years after her grandfather died, there were a few dozen smells that reminded her of him. She could still remember the smell of his cheek after a hard days’ work at the farm: sweat mingled with a trace of rolled up tobacco. His hands were earthy when he patted her head.

His scent underwent subtle changes through the seasons: baked apple, cured ham, dandelions, pea shoots, sunflowers, grapes.

Time had been cruel. It robbed her of what she held dear. And little by little, it picked away her memories too. She was grateful that some still lingered, even if only as brushstrokes, impressions, moments captured within.



My Depression… and Yours

Walls pulled apart.

Inside and out:

Rubble rubble rubble.

Breathing in deep the dust

Of human existence.

It is not that I fear death.

It is not that I do not know

The pointlessness of life.

It is the pointlessness of pain

That drives my fears;

And when the world crumbles

All around me,

I ask

Have I no shelter from this pain?

Is there no end?

Rubble rubble rubble.

For my grandfather

I stretch my fingers forth

Towards the frozen ground,

There just beyond my reach

Your stilted body lies.


No matter how much hope

To turn the tables round

Had been within instilled

I know it was just lies.


Your hands will never move

Whole lands to have me near,

Your whispers will not soothe

Away some naïve fright


You will not draw me closer

So that to better hear

My sorrows all, my hopes,

Into the star-lit night.


I cherished every moment

Life gave me at you side.

With every breath, still treasure

Your memory and love.


I wish I still believed

That heaven awaits yonder…

But losing you has robed me

Of faith in the above.