Back-row Blues

Here I am,
aisle-seat in the very last row,
just before the toilets.
Headphones tight to my skull,
I observe.

Empty-seat to my left
then middle-aged stock trader,
buying
selling
imaginary money.
He has closed the window-cover.
Bastard.
No white, rolling cloud-scapes for me.

I peer right.
Two women, both asleep.
Blond aisle-girl with
disregarded book in lap.
Window-girl gently snores,
mouth open.
Coffee goes cold, banana brown,
before her.

“Here is your Coke, sir.”
White teeth and fake cheer,
break my reverie.
“Ah, thank you,”
I say,
pretend smile versus pretend smile.
“About damn time,”
I think,
but keep inside.

Service is slow enough already in the
aisle-seat in the very last row,
just before the toilets.

Beware the Darklings

My father, he said unto me:
Beware the Darklings, take heed.
They are things of flesh and fire
touched and burnt with cold desire.

Your mother told you one last time:
Beware the Darklings, daughter mine,
darkness to fill an earthly hole.
They will tear your heart and rend your soul.

There is nothing so naive,
as the fools that they surely be.
Though 'tis plain before their eyes,
'tis not the truth they see, 'tis lies.

You and I, we are the same.
Human by manner, face and name.
But in the dark, where no-one sees,
Darkling twins, our nature free.

One of moon, one of earth.
Joined eternal by darkest birth.
Beware the Darklings, all of ye.
We will find you, where'er you be.

Moonshine girl

A dark-eyed moonshine girl,
of faerieblood and folklore,
unsure of her role in fate.
Her mood changes with the tide.
She only needs starlight and lunar glow
to keep her afloat.

Playing with water / On the early

There is something in me
that stirs only
for the glass-golden surface,
moved not by wind or ripple,
but still.
It is almost sacrilege
to disturb it
with the feather-touch of my blades.

But the reward,
of smooth-running silence,
of early-morning glide,
outweighs the danger.

I will play with water again.

The Sculler

Sunrise shards on a mirrorshine surface.
The snap-squeeze of his legs
Drives a wake through sun shimmer.
Unseen,
A wind-ripple moves in opposition.
A sudden too-deep bow catch
Wind-grip, wind-lift on stroke.
Heartpound angled suspension.
Imprisoned,
A god's plaything.
A memory calls:
"Don't let go of your blades!"
He sits the shell steady once more,
With backbend and legpush
He moves again.
Three.
Hard.
Pulls.
A mine-dump windshadow
Saves him.
The scull leaps forward.
The Sculler is free.

Oh yes!

Well we're up and running! Look forward to me posting my poetry and shorter pieces of fiction on here as well as details on how to purchase the longer pieces (assuming I get published of course) as well as whatever my craziest/latest (yes, they mean the same thing) theory. Enjoy folks!