A Life Of Fiction CLVI

For those of you new to this WordPress site, this site is about me and my writing – and a little about my role-playing, as well. It gives readers a chance to sample my work; and gives me the chance to say a little about the genesis of each novel, or about the process of writing in general.

More Poems: Here are a few poems from collections on which I am working. All of the collections are works in progress, and I have no idea when they will be ready to release onto the Kindle platform. But, in the meantime, here are two poems from each of the collections. The first two poems are taken from Modern Haikus; the next two are taken from Songs Of Bliss and Despair; and the last two are taken from This Monkey Has A Typewriter. Enjoy.

A final note: yes, I am influenced in my collections by coming up with a name which I like. Modern Haikus, when completed, will simply be my most recent collection of haikus (and there will probably be a Modern Haikus II, and so on, as long as the muse doesn’t abandon me).

Songs Of Bliss and Despair will feature one life affirming poem followed by one depressing one. It is a themed collection. But the only problem is that I am a lot better at writing depressing verse than blissful odes, so it may not be coming out any time soon.

This Monkey Has A Typewriter will be where I put poems which do not fit in any of my other poetry collections. The title comes from the idea that an infinite amount of monkeys tapping away on an infinite amount of typewriters for an infinite amount of time must rewrite the works of Shakespeare. I like the title and had to do something by that name.


The cuckoo hatches.

He kicks out the other eggs;

And gapes his beak wide.


A stream: sunshine glints;

Its flow a sweet lullaby

Over smooth pebbles.


The meadows buzz with busy bees

Busying around the grass and trees

Seeking out the hearts of flowers

Busying on for many hours.

I sit and watch as hours pass

Sitting on the meadow grass

Nothing to do, nowhere to be

But sit and watch a busy bee.

The sky is specked with clouds of fluff

Cotton wool castles, fairy stuff;

But most is blue and very bright

As though there’ll never be a night.

There’s a river, beyond the leas

I hear it flow, it will not cease

Its music plays all lifetime long

I sit and listen to the song.

The meadows are my peaceful place

Where I escape the human race

Long may I sit beneath the trees

And calmly watch the busy bees.

A Walk

A plantagenet pinned to her coat

A silken scarf around her throat

She walks up on the high moors

Where there are no walls or doors

No slate grey roofs or windows

No company but the flows

Of jagged breezes through her hair

Where she can dream of anywhere

And all those secrets of her heart

With which she will never part

But nurture just like some child

As she wanders through the wild

Pushing through the blushing heather

Not caring once about the weather

Except to wish that it was colder

And that she wasn’t getting older

But times must pass and walks must end

The ticking clocks she can’t suspend

So she unpins that pretty flower

And throws it away with all her power

The wind throws it back, right at her feet

Even in this she must admit defeat

For base time will conquer all

And everything will one day fall.

Waiting For Shelley

I’m waiting for Shelley

Sitting by myself in a quiet corner of the pub

I know he’ll come and speak to me

Of truth in beauty, and beauty in truth.

I have his drink ready, beside my pint.

I want him to explain

How we are the legislators of the world

Of Logos becoming Lex.

That is what I want to be

To bring some hope to my misery.

I’m waiting for Shelley

Ignoring the background drone of voices

I am not interested in the tales

Of failed executives, policemen and plumbers,

And of the football matches they have seen

And of their holidays in Norway

And the takeaways they’re going to buy

On their way home.

I’m waiting for Shelley

To instil life in a failing soul;

His words eternal ring through the deep

I weep for adonais – he is dead

O weep for Adonais though our years

Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!

Or maybe I’ll get out my mobile phone

And see if Godot would like a drink, instead.

The Water Of Light

The water of light flows into the valleys,

Searching out each dark hollow,

Each cup filled full, each crater steeped

In this golden wine, this nectar.

Drink deep of the light, let it flow

Into the shadowed recesses of your soul,

Bringing warmth to the cold and

Youth to the old; bringing hope to

The doomed as it flows, as it flows.

The water of light flows over the hills;

Over the glabrous grey granite where

No moss clings; over the harsh peaks

And the goated screes; down to where

Thin grass cuts its way up

To sip at the light; to quench

Its thirst for life; and the light

Flows on, as bright as a crystal dawn,

And we smile for it shines, for it shines.

The water of light flows over the roofs

Of grey slate quarried from the dark hills;

It flows past windows of weeping glass;

Past where the last milkman is on his rounds,

Past the closed post office, the red post box,

Down the hedged lane where an old woman

Clad in shadows struggles to tea and comfort;

And the light shines her to old memories

Of her youth, for it loves, for it loves


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