Some Poems

My den; protecting - aba cdc ee ff - iambic quadrammetre

I yield to light and wind and rain
Natural force, it sways me so
The elements I can't contain
But broken hearts are faults of men
And women too; the Human Flaw
Lock myself in a loveless den!
Like prison might protect a man
From enemies outside, it can
I'll protect myself forever
My heart's without any tether


aa bb ab - iambic trimetre

To escape the crimson
Journeys without reason
Save for the fatal flaw:
Instead of heart a claw!
Others would be treason,
Opposed to red love's law

For claws instead of heart
Should so remain apart
Unfitness they posess
To spark a happiness
A blackness that would start
In others; a sadness


Do people look into the night? - Villanelle

Do people look into the night?
Bridge the void that time is travelling
A star is calling, gleaming bright

They look upon blotches of white
On blue; the shining songs they sing!
Do people look into the night?

They tremble with life-giving might
Around which we hover in elliptical sling
A star is calling, gleaming bright

The rings of giants are quite a sight
But to compare would be blaspheming
Do people look into the night?

The moon it dances without fright
Reflecting the gift of Sol, shimmering
A star is calling, gleaming bright

Sol, she gives us warming light
And bestows upon the land the living!
Do people look into the night?
A star is calling, gleaming bright.


Father of a metal man - Villanelle

Running hard on heavy feet
Turning, jumping, escaping
It is him you meet

Deceive you did he? Cheat!
You marvelous, marvelous thing
Running hard on heavy feet

You were told you were elite
Unique as well; realizing
It is him you meet

You will never ever be replete
You are but man's thing!
Running hard on heavy feet

Nuts and bolts and joints so neat
A metal body you are heaving
It is him you meet

Caught; he has you beat!
Who should you be blaming?
Running hard on heavy feet
It is him you meet!

Short Story: Final Draft

A World Apart

It was in the evening that the great garbage haulers slowed, their stream-engines whinnying down in unison and the last tugging influence of inertia pulling them in a silent drift. The garbage men and women of those gargantuan, whale-shaped ships all tuned in to a transmission, nervous.

It would be the most important message they would ever hear.

The sets crackled to life and a fuzzy face slowly sharpened into clarity. It was a familiar face to those garbage men and women watching, grizzled and tired with deep lines dug like trenches, marks of the working man. Nodding heads and murmurs rippled in approval throughout the attending people.

'Good evening,' it said, with a chilling finality and the hairs of the collective pricked to attention. 'My name is John Bishop and I am here to tell you: that time has come.' The hearts of every garbage man and woman skipped, for every garbage man and woman was watching.