Glossed over

They lay in wait, under the surface,
Glossed over.
Brown, green, grey, black, beige
Occasionally blue, red and yellow
Something’s happened!
Some new event requiring a response
They bubble and swirl, rise and fall
Flow like a stream through a shaded glen, the sounds bringing calm to all who hear.
Surge like a storm ready to lay waste to it’s environment, destruction incarnate.
Gloss it over!
It’s starting to get out!
Apply on another coat!
Now grey, response subsided.
The layers are thick, they crack and peel, they won’t hold forever.
But for now they are back in their colourless prison
Glossed over,
They lay in wait, under the surface.


Photo: Harold Hollingsworth  Some rights reserved No changes were made.



A tortured soul
The crushing weight
Emotional burdens
Social injustices
Need to help
Need to improve
Self sacrifice
Probably immolation
Maybe flight
Lay in bed
Can’t compute
An empathetic Atlas

Changing Verse

What is this feeling I can’t quite comprehend?
A melancholic sadness without a joyous end
Sorrowful acceptance of the way things were
Understanding that it’ll never quite be
A relief of future pains not dealt,
Yet mourning future pains not felt.

Must move on,
Mustn’t dwell!
But I shall,
A mere partial farewell.
This is no end,
A simple hurdle.
Necessary change
Or the inevitable curdle.

Changing styles for changing times,
Proof that nothing stays the same.
Even though this is my current chosen medium,
Metre, rhyme and verse, are lame.

The Precipice

He strolled along the precipice, gazing into the blackness that would one day consume him. He looks away back to the reality he abhors, back to looking at the ground, away from judging eyes. He never quite knew why he couldn’t look into their eyes, whether it was the fear of being judged or the fear of seeing their emotions, empathising with them, seeing all their pains and tragedies. He had enough of those, he didn’t need more. “Why don’t I just fall? Let it consume me. What is this force that keeps me going? It would be so much easier.” He wondered, taking comfort in his inevitable demise, his inevitable plummet into the depths of his own darkness. He walked home hoping a tragedy would befall him, every corner a new hopeful danger, removing him from his responsibilities, the responsibilities of being the harbinger of his own end. He arrives home safely, “Not today.”

Harbour Master’s Lament

My boats have set sail
Travelled to different lands and new harbours
She is empty again, I feel her pain
Do I maintain my harbour for new arrivals?
Cut the old mooring lines, the ties that bind
Let my battered, green, lichen covered harbour rest
Join her sunken memories in a shallow grave
Let her old stone sink
But what would I be without a harbour or boats to fill it?
A Harbourless Master, master no more.