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.

Sonnet

Earth! You Have Not Been Forgotten

T'was the light that split the night a crackling
As the pitter-patter rain drops did soak
And the boom that sent the hounds a cowering
The rivers; currents flowed into a choke

And man upon his pedestal did stand
To build his empire further skyward still
His weathered stilts dug deep in bedrock sand
Man made roots clasped to mankind's iron will

As though the stars shine and beckon closer
He still retires when the winds do howl
For mother nature could yet be harsher
And so in the storm he does don his cowl

Though the stars are his true destination
She that birthed him has not be forgotten

Short Story: Full Draft

It was in the evening that the great garbage haulers slowed, their stream-engines whinnying down in unison. The last tugging influence of inertia pulled them in a silent, slow 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.

Another Poem

no rhyming scheme; iambic quadrametre

Skipped, she once did, from star to star
Discovering worlds near and far.
She and her crew were once but one;
Interlocked, intertwined; in love.

Robbed of her were her beloved!
Stripped of them she was naked, bare!

Incomplete, she cried her yearning
It trembled stars, planets alike
A universe weeping with her.
She searches still, a glimmer: hope!
The candle in her night, guiding.

And those who took from her suffer
Enveloped in a sadness.

A Poem

sestet; iambic trimetre

Mountains, they will not move
Or yield to human might.
Its face, a weathered groove
Is not for human sight.
Its rivers, streams and trees...
Humans, we exploit these!

The seas, so full of life
Have ended up beneath
A human, hand-held knife,
One which we'll never sheath!
With reckless abandon
We fish the seas barren.

(some cheating going on in those last two lines)

Short Story: Draft #1, Part #1 (885 words)

It was in the evening that the great garbage haulers slowed, their stream-engines whinnying down in unison to come to a crawl before entering the slight drift of silence, the last tugging influence of inertia. The garbage men and women of those gargantuan, whale-shaped ships all tuned in to a transmission with nervous anticipation and tentative fear.

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, all on their respective garbage ships, watching the transmission as garbage men and women, listening to the leader of the Garbage People's Union.

'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.' He stared deep into the hearts and minds of every garbage man and woman, for every garbage man and woman was watching, their children at their sides. Husbands and wives clasped hands. Parents and children shared touch. Friends and loved ones exchanged comforting glances.