Muse |
Muse |
In the morning, crocuses spawn from the soil like coral on a reef; soon to bloom their lilac cups, where sparks fly as fireflies sitting in the tea leaves.
In the day, seagulls flash their white wings in a hush, a snow flurry heading towards the river, quivering in the breeze, swirling round as a fowl tornado. In the evening, the lights of houses twinkle like stars in the night sky, and before me they peek out from behind trees as I walk past, along the lamplit path through the park.
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I like it when it's sunny, It makes me feel alive; I like it when the trees are green, It means I can survive. But no, the trees are falling down, Too soon has autumn come around, The leaves are dying on the ground, Screaming out; there is no sound. No flutter of the heart as one skips through the dappled shade, Wrapt in the wonder of such beatific rays, Through the embracing green That we all should have seen, On those boughs; my, aren't they strong! Not able to sit among an elder and ponder, Nor to watch the clouds float by on a summer's breeze, When all the while you fly still in the trees. Of all the meaning in these gifts, We instead plump for mere pips, We strip the trunks bare and limit out air, Signing the death warrant before it's been ironed. Originally written in 2015, age 19
Flying in a reflected sky Engulfed with cotton clouds. The whir of the engine Like a soft hum of a sustained note. Snakes lie on the sand, Washed, in their way, By the tide. Landing again, and surrounded By flowers and buds on bushes, That avenue the straight road On the way to Cardiff. Through the Grand Gates of Toll. To step on the Welsh ground; Earth; continue to the city. Passing fields of grass, Shining in the sun. Old bark; gnarled, on a Thunder Tree Standing tall, hosting mistletoe. Urban, out-skirt houses Display their best garments, Hanging on lines suspended. Sectional fields come in Waves with the occasional flat. Manes of horses flare, Billowed by that passing of us. Empty bottles thrown and hidden Beneath twigs and dust. Parallel. A conveyor belt For cars and us; On the way to Cardiff. Widen lines to accommodate, Travellers on the road. The Eiffel Tower of a network Supporter amidst barren shrubbery, Keeping the conversations going. Home to shops and cars And building standing Grandioso, lining the streets, On the way to Cardiff? We are here. Photo by Mike Erskine on Unsplash Originally written in 2012, age 16
The rain drops, streaming across the window Like stars shots, running across the night's sky; They sparkle on their sides and Dance against the black backdrop, A deep navy canvas that reflects Travelling faces. Through the window, amber lights shine And passing fairies glitter their way As the festive hearts of travellers Flitter at the thought of coming home For that family Christmas, Or altogether fast to a lonely room. A perpetual exhale of exertion Accompanies quiet conversation and Dulls the station call To the blue-lit eyes that consume; Those stimulated moons that Cut down the social to the subdued. Dinner tables fold out for work Or as an extra hand for a can of Carling, Keeping it cool for the night out on the town Or to hold forever for a friend. Crumbs from a late supper decorate the seats, Encrusting its fibres with a crunch. Closed in shut on a cold day, The air conditions exude human odour; The doors revolve as travellers go their natural course, With a burst of rich diets following, Wafting its way through the passengers; Some wrinkling, others staying plain. Stacking the shelves with memories, Overhead and hoarded, No space for bicycles that offer a greener step. The oiled engine rumbles far from electric energy With the hybrid only a puffed idea On this excursion. Tired heads bob along to the rhythm of the Track clacking its tacky tune; A tinny beat that sways its way home. Numb minds and silence Are more than the merrier here; Rain away and wash out the gloom. Copyright © 2019
The train moans on, hissing its angst across the tracks. People penetrate its walls Day in, day out, Dulled by the blowing thrumb Of a job done and gone. The rain hits the window pane; It cries out into the night, A spyglass to the abyss Or early morning bliss; A stage of fear running far, Far, far away from here. Faces blurred and conversations unheard, There move the ants of the business world Inside a millipeed of speed. Copyright © 2019
The black water, pooled, like a pot of ink
Of unwritten words; a pit of dark reflections Of the night sky in broken glass; steely, galvanised by the stars; A distant memory of past destruction. A stream of blood crying out All those lost at sea, in a forgotten time in an unknown future. Fragmented and shattered, The surface shifts in shards, like tectonic plates in the deep. Broken waves lapping on and over, On and over again, as purple lips lick the sides, Tasting the frozen dirt, which reveals white jagged teeth; water crystals far from ecstasy. The black waters, dull and lulled into quiet, Spills its secrets to the rocks, Splashed and dashed to the still air, Spray falls as ice among the ruined, Landing among the shipwrecked and gnarled branches of old; Twisted in their wisdom of such bygones. Down dribbles the black water, Down the narrow shallows, unable to breath Or be any more than passing strangers to the passing Stranger crossing over and away from harm; Calm in ignorance of the black water beneath. Its presence not known nor minded; Silent and ever-flowing, ever-growing in momentum To an unknown end. Ebbing into bends, ebbing in two As the lip splits, with a guttural scream From a nearby drain, draining out its story To find a new end downstream. The split lip bleeds and tears a new path, Alone on the road to a dead end. The black water moves on, leaving the dead behind, Rolling onwards, curling its head in and under, In and under again, gliding along its own glazed impressions, Expressions of the cold unspoken. The sky cries over the black water, Dripping its misery into the shallows. Vanity and dignity but a whispered question. Swollen with sorrow, the black water groans; Bloated, it sinks deeper and into the river. Lost to another force. Brave the cold, Shoulders up; On my guard. Heavy step on every exhale, a Puff of smoke escapes my lips in a flurry. Trench coat, with vampire blinkers On both sides, Cowering in the eye; Shadow or blood clot? Dizziness swells as the temperature drops, Fizziness in a nose-tickle; The air goes on the lungs. Vacant pavement Parallels to the halo on the horizon, Slowly hiding behind the line of houses, Their roofs a dark tile, Glistening slightly of the Diluted black watercolour that Looms as a vast blotch On a wasted canvas. No comfort, All progress lost and shut out; Thick blinds and curtains Damp out the frost. Smiles formed on a crystalline window, Its pane quite apparent in patterns; The lattice work of dirt. Extending fingers to a flowered palm, Blooming in rough lace, The inside obscured. Take pity on me in my plum coat. Purple dye. Gothic hide. My last breath all out in A sigh, the life visible In the void, a moment’s ghost Glimpsing the other side. It rises again, And again, And gone. Thin thoughts remember naught. On I trudge, to endure those Shadows once more. Originally written in 2013, age 17
Three other-worlds phase in And out, in and out Again, changing as clockwork seizes time, As perception alters: The dissonant scream or Low-note moan, groan on And on, on and on Again, as the hill swells, As the body hastens, The road straightens, Round a block getting back, Back, back to the spot Where Christmas lights shine then stop Silent on the brow of houses, Standing blushed and blank-like, Square-eyed and box-mouthed, Winking at early dusk, drunk and Speaking only loud lies, An augmented argument With no alliances, “Save it for the jury! Love.” A hand; a passive cold touch To put an end to the second sight passed. Three other-worlds phase in And out, in and out Again, the only true world Is mine. Originally written in 2013, age 17
Midnight blue like the sea in its deepest reverie, Boathouse lights glimmer warm and amber, Anbaric peer through the misty bank, Smudged like oil as if on canvas. In reality they oar on the bank Opposite as steady as the eyes That behold them. Resting within the tide of a night Veil streaming through the valley. A gatehouse stands black-eyed And scarred, guarding the only Bridge it knows. Its pupils dilated by the bright Lights it greets that cruise along. The pass. In darkness once more. Originally written in 2012, age 16
The clouds, fairy-fluffs, melted, and whipped rose-quartz, blushing cherub-cheeks, are the promised lands of dreams, some so high they become impossible to attain, Yet, are still willing to be aspired to. The clouds, eraser-marks, scrubbing mistakes out of our predecessors, arched eyebrows, an angry omen of a bad day, are no longer, but the turbulence of a disturbance kind, being the tears of challenge and uncertainty. The clouds, damp-cloth, mask to the outside, its visor a dull and fading reach, consumed by the earth, authority are as mighty as ever, yet are in the decline, placed high as the clouds, but clouds have not substance, and the rain relief will fall through, landing as a lie sold to the nation. Originally written in 2012, age 16
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AuthorSamantha is a doctoral researcher researching the power of figurative language in advertising, social media, and mobile technology. Copyright © 2022
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