Abide

You scream and shout,
But nobody hears.
You wail and cry,
For all the fears.
No one notices
or raises their heads.
Each one continues
and keeps to their beds.
It's because you cannot show
Even a weakness.
You keep up the face
To keep no known weakness.
You must appear strong
And show all is well;
You must do no wrong
So gossip can't tell.

The enemy waits on the wayside,
Hiding there watching.
Waiting to catch you,
When you're most hurting.
They don't just attack,
But come at you sideways.
They don't face your front,
But strips bits off you always.
They whittle you down
Until you can't  rise
And then leap in a mound
To take your head prize.
When you're not looking,
When you can't see,
They'll take the chance raking
And you can't break free.
Show them your weakness,
They'll show you your heart,
Bloodied and beaten,
Poured all over the part.

Save, O Lord,
The waters have come up to my neck.
It deepens and eddies
And threatens to pull me under.
I need a boat
To stay afloat.
I need a pail
To help me bail.
Cyclones and towers
And deep currents too,
Pulling me under,
What should I do?

The enemy's waiting
By the side
With a net.
My strength's soon abating,
Fading
Away.
Unless You save me,
No one else will.
Unless You raise me,
They'll move in for the kill.
I don't want them to take
Advantage of this.
I don't want to make it
As easy as piss.

Swirling and whirling
And building in power.
Refuse to be hurling,
Refuse will to cower.

Heart fast,
Hold tight,
Don't let go
With all your might.
Pain though,
Now fight,
Breathe so,
Light kite.
Fast pace,
Don't waste,
In haste,
Straight faced.

Hold fast,
Dear heart.
Don't hide,
Abide.

Still I try

Still I try to find something to say.
Still I feel in a helpless way.
Words are insufficient to get understanding across.
Words often fail due to information loss.
Galloping onward, I'd rather crawl.
Galloping over, I fall off and bawl.
Why must expectations of others I meet?
Why can't their standards with a stick I beat?
Much rather to raise my own flag pole high.
Much rather that than to look up and sigh.
In the morning, to rise without thought.
In the evening, to feel you've been bought.
During the day, to ears come the lies.
During the night, from cold fingers prise.
This poem's getting somewhat depressing.
This poem's not what I should be confessing.



Hail the deck, this stormy day!
Hail the wreck, this night's foray!
Belt the men about the head,
they'll not feel it since they're dead.
Are they dead? I cannot see.
They move not, so it must be.
I see their bodies, tossed with waves,
Bobbing limply, to their graves.
Hark how the wind doth howl.
Huddle deep, pull tight the cowl.
How was the message misunderstood?
Did they hear it and then put on a hood?
Clear as day, 'twas crystal clear.
The instructions told I them here.
Though I knew they'd try to see,
Still I tried to get them free.
Angry hearts and prouder eyes,
Have oft here met with their demise.
Pity the souls at home still waiting,
Who hear the storm, the loneliness hating.
Bound to this island where come the seekers.
I envy their freedom, those chaos wreakers.
Bitterer pills still I must swallow.
Could I save one, work would not be hollow.
Dig and heave,
Work shall not cease.
Into the earth the men shall go,
Into the graves, row upon row.



Ok.
I give up.
Everything that comes out right now
is dark.
So I shall cease
and hope for
light.

Story outlines

Because I tried to put this in the comments section of another writer's blog and discovered it was rather long and anyway, the comments refused to accept my comments because the date was far from the date the blog post had been written on - that or the internet had decided to stop working. Whatever happened, I have placed it here.


I initially started writing to find out what happened next in the story in my head. It was fine for short stories, I could finish those within a few hours or a few days. It was not so fine for long stories, because I could not physically write at a speed that would keep up with my brain's curiosity. This lasted for several years, resulting in multiple unfinished works which I still plan to get back to 'some day' (they're amusing to read, so rough and raw).

I used to be at a complete loss during school when the teachers made us do outlines, because for me that defeated the purpose of the story. Once the outline was written, there was no point in writing the story anymore. True, the details weren't there, but I knew what happened and my brain used to develop the story at the same speed it took for me to formulate the correct words with the correct spelling in the correct order (and comprehend it or reorganise it to make it comprehensible), before what happened next appeared to flow from my pen. Outlines were for intellectuals, control freaks and for people who wanted to become published writers, not hobby writers like me.

But the long stories... the long stories yearned to be put down - and quickly. So I discovered (grudgingly) that outlining was good for some stories, particularly the ones that enjoyed downloading themselves into my brain, rather than working themselves out via my pen. I used to hate typing too, because the pen was far more natural (but writing with a pen now hurts my hands and typing is not so trying on the little joints, until the pressure in the carpal tunnel starts to build up).

Then came a time of life where events and episodes and things flew at me like cars speeding on a highway. There was no time to write down whole stories and I had to (much as I hated it at the time) outline everything if I wanted to get them onto paper before the stories tried burning holes through in my brain to get out. It was around this time, pen and paper were scarcer and much too heavy to lug around with all the other stuff that had to be carried. Hence the reason I started typing some stories rather than writing them (these were the rebellious stories that refused to listen to my direction, until I learnt how to take digital control over them).

It was also during this time period that despite the outlines being down on paper, the stories refused to be 'over' or 'finished', as they used to be. Now they demanded detail, proper plots, costumes and voices that carried. They discussed their life stories in my head, whilst I lay in bed at night. They debated how they really would have reacted to that situation when I got up to go to the toilet during the night. They argued over their rights to become real when I woke up in the morning and ensured that they had clear settings by making me dream of maps, locations and the laws of their societies. During meal times, they talked about what they wanted for breakfast/lunch/dinner and what their favourite snacks were (made up or not).

Outlines turned into well annotated documents that at times required a magnifying glass to decipher. Before long, maps, illustrations and histories demanded their paper space. Suddenly, the stories were not just stories, but little worlds swimming in scrawled paper, begging to be put in order. I couldn't leave them in that chaotic state. How would they ever find themselves if I left them like that? How would anyone else see them for who they were if they remained what looked like a pile of papers stuffed into notebooks, stuffed into exercise books, stuffed into folders, stuffed into bags that were piling up at the foot of my bed? (I don't have a desk.) What if someone did not recognise their right to leap off the paper and threw them out in the trash? (I did that once to some completed stories whom I told to get lost and never to come to light of day again, and surprisingly, Mum fished them out the bin for me, thinking I'd thrown them out by accident. I was not pleased, although those stories were. I didn't take them back though. Rubbish is garbage which is a waste of space and should stay in the trash where it belongs.)

So I started writing the stories and typing them and they keep expanding (the notes and understanding of the characters, not so much the actual story). The outline changes sometimes, but so do the characters and so have I. Some of my WIPs are over 10 years old and I'm still working on them - a different one for every mood, since different WIPs require different atmospheres and sometimes more patience to sort out all those notes. I guess I'm still a hobby writer, with the aim of improving my writing for my own benefit, since I don't have the confidence to do anything more than that with my writing. (If they were medical literature or systematic reviews of clinical trials or similar, that would be a different matter. I'm quite confident with those... that is until I reach the statistics sections, which is where my creative writing gets to come out to play so that no one knows I have no idea what the math is really saying.)

One thing I will say for outlines (albeit still somewhat grudgingly), they are handy for figuring out where you are in a story after you've come back to it after several years and can't remember what it was about anymore; and for discovering that you have written the same story plot/outline with rather similar subplots, themes and characterisations, multiple times in various settings with different character names with the same personalities. I'm on the trail of hidden duplicates these days.

All duplicates shall be found.
All duplicates shall be merged
or deleted.
Exterminate.
Exterminate.


I realise that this post makes me sound a little older than I am, but I'm in an 'old' mood today. Likely because it's bedtime - or should I say, time to get up?

Sunshine in a storm

Amidst the storm, water trickles from the stony ledge to the powdery soil below; the droplets slowly being absorbed into the reluctant earth. The sheltered ground beneath the jutting stone is just the place to wait out the thunder and lightning. It's cold, but I guess you can't have everything. At least it's dry and protected from the rain with a pile of old dry leaves for a cushion.

From the leafy cushion, small green fronds curtain over the stone's lip a bit like a green waterfall, from which the rivulets of water runs. There are layers to this curtain, made of various mosses intertwined with delicate frills of something that reminds one of crocheted lace and ferns. Mini ferns with tiny fronds that underlay the heavier, but no less fine grass blades and other intricate creepers of a miniscule nature. It's like seeing a mini forest within the forest and gives a sense of worlds within worlds within worlds and where will it end?

In the distance, a tiny bird is huddled under a clump of leaves in a tree, its feathers ruffled up to retain extra heat, but looking like a miserable man standing at a bus stop, with coat collars turned up, trying to keep out the cold and hoping that the bus will hurry up, so that he can escape the wet and cold.

A rabbit comes dashing suddenly through the undergrowth, pausing momentarily under the shelter, giving no second glance when it sees no sudden or unnatural movement. It takes each ear in its paws in turn, wringing out the extra water and fussing at which way the fur should run. Licking its paws and washing its face, the rabbit glances over, sneezes and dashes back out, probably hoping to get back to its warm, dry burrow before it is completely soaked. A flash of lightning and an almost immediate boom of thunder causes it to jump sideways, skittering a little on the slippery grass, before it finds its footing again and is gone with a bound.

Water drips and drops in musical notes over the background drumming of the downpour. One more roll of the thunder and suddenly there's a patch of blue in the sky of heavy grey clouds. Brilliant sunlight streams down, making the water sparkle everywhere like freshly polished jewels that have been purposely scattered to reflect the sun's radiance. It's almost too bright, but at least the streaming sunlight brings the remembrance of what warmth is.

For a moment, time stands still.

Like a musical pause and before a thought can be thought or an emotion felt, the rain returns in angry earnest, the clouds denying the existence of the fleeting patch of blue, pretending the sun had never been.

But it had.

And the memory of that moment of bright warmth warms the heart through the long hours whilst waiting for the storm to pass.

Ruins of Maratore

Another old one.


I travelled valleys high and to valleys low, until I tripped upon it. At first glance, it was just a half buried stone hidden amongst long windswept grass within a wide rolling valley, with groves of ancient, vined trees tucked far from any known trade routes.

Shaking out my throbbing foot, I was about to continue on my long journey to rediscover the lost ruins of Maratore, when something about the stone's uniform shape caught my eye. Unearthing it, I discovered it was of a similar blue hue that the city had been known to be made of. You know, the deep sort of indigo blue that reminds you of warm blankets and soft comforters, but in a stone.

Hope beat in my chest and I cast my gaze out over the rest of the valley. Tilting my head this way and that, I was struck by the way the rolling valley floor contained straight and perpendicular lines. Were they streets? The remains of building foundations? Had I really found the ancient city that had once been famed for their wisdom and love of all things blue or indigo?

I was so excited that I couldn't decide what to do or where to start. I could only stand in awe, my imagination replacing the old walls and streets, until before me, I could see a vision of what the city had once been.

I saw people bustling about, calling to one another and trying to escape the crush of the streets. Children ran after animals which rooted within smelly heaps of garbage at various street corners. Street vendors cried their wares in high pitched undulating voices, whilst merchants waded through the press, forcing a path using their large,deep chested horses.

Something fluttered past my ear, just brushing my skin like a drape of velvet brushing by, breaking my reverie.

The butterfly was brilliant blue, veined with deep purples and blacks. I had never seen such a specimen before and couldn't think what it might even be called. It looked somewhat like a blue emporer and yet it was larger and more majestic than that. It flew with purpose toward one of the great groves of trees with canopies that stretched out great shadows.

Without really thinking, I followed the butterfly into the grove and into the cool shadow. Walls of vines rose about me, intertwining with the trees, leaving a tunnel through which I could travel.

The light beneath the thick vegetation was very dim, yet the butterfly continued onward, its wings capturing the struggling light and reflecting it in bright flashes of sapphire blue.

The sound of running water reached my ears and the smell of moist earth seemed to make my mouth salivate. I hadn't realised it before, but I was thirsty and couldn't wait to reach the water to which I felt sure the butterfly was leading me.

A black hole opened in the ground at my feet, causing me to stumble and nearly twist my ankle. There were steps. Leaning toward the hole, I could hear the water below. The butterfly had disappeared. Dust and dry vegetation littered the ground at my feet, but the air within the hole smelt sweet.

Taking a step of faith, I descended the cobblestone steps into the dark. For a brief moment, panic struggled against curiosity, but failed to stop my feet moving forward as if of their own accord.

Then I saw it. Soft light at the end of the tunnel of stairs, highlighting the browns and tans of the dust and fading vegetation against the indigo stone. Bright greens peeked out at me from their moment in the sunlight, looking as if they were cheering with uplifted hands.

From the dark, I emerged into what must have once been an elaborately decorated cavern, its walls lined with images of flora and fauna I had never seen before, now worn with water and time.

At my feet a pool of turquoise water swirled with fine white bubbles caused by the small cascade of water that emerged from the mouth of some fish-like creature on the opposite wall. Bright light streamed in through a jagged hole in the roof of the cavern where there must have once been a rockfall long ago. Ferns and mosses dominated the space beneath the hole at the pool's edges along with some fine bladed flowering grasses.

It was above the tiny flowers that myriads of those brilliant sapphire butterflies danced. Fragrant wafts of fresh grass and flowers filled the air, mingling with the wet smell of the dirt within this place.

Taking a seat on a cushion of moss, I closed my eyes and smiled. I turned my face up toward the light and contemplated the peace and beauty of this place, still not quite able to believe how blessed I was to be here.

Open spaces

Something old.



Open sky over open fields,
closed in spaces with leafy shields.
Sparkling water running by,
yet by them all still sit and sigh.
Waving grass ripples in the breeze,
petalled flowers toss heads with ease.
Still on sun warmed banks there lie,
looking up and wondering why.
Here in in water in firm ground stand,
when there's someone to give a hand.
Never mind thoughts running high
of possible things to go awry.
When it all becomes too much to keep,
look up to the hills whence help will leap.

Frosty morning

I woke to find the world encased in cold, crisp crystal layers. Where every breath is like a puff of steam and red, benumbed noses are expected. Through the frosted windows, the world is shattered in coloured shards and the clothes you try to dress in seem to be as stiff as card. The water from the tap, feels like snow melt from the mountains and while the coffee's boiling the steam drips condensation. To gain some warmth, hands are wrapped tight around the mug, while face leans toward the brew and a thick coat is buttoned snug.

The light is dim and sullen, coloured through with greys. The earth smells sharp and sudden, assaulting nasal ways. Grass crunches beneath the feet and wind bites at the ears, while it scratches at the eyes and brings unbidden tears.