An Unwelcomed Sun

Dilapitated in my eyes

The vulgar retch of the skies

Warmth of wit within the coal

Unsuitable standing utop a pole

Keeper of night with rejoicing bride

That has let in a sun as oncoming tide

Drowning in sight that unerves sense

It is only the duty of common law

That time uncovers the hidden sore

Same love of care divides our heart

In seeing the bodies and pulling the cart

A taste of death that comes with sight

That has the unease of knowing plight

Still the sickness dwells and resides

Kingdom of crystal changes and dies

Damn such knowledge uncommon

That jostles the reasonable worm

Into facing it's own turn

Glimpse of facade and petty floors

Untied of burdern and cause

Rope rises from the rock

Pulls the neck, takes stock.

Now it's audience participation time! If you enjoyed this blog and my previous work than you can help support me in a few ways: - by being my patron on Patreon.com -give a one off donation with Buy Me a Coffee -Buy one of my literary books -Share this blog on your social media -Leave a comment, you can even recommend me book -Follow me I can't stress enough how much all this helps me and how in the long run it will help you, so if you can and you want to please support my free content so I can keep on producing my beloved blog. Live long and prosper.

A Cross

The cross was broken.  This made the man upset.  It wasn't broken before and now somehow mysteriously it was.  But how could this be?  Thought the man: I always keep my things looked after.  He would have to get it fixed but for now he was transfixed by the broken parts.  It was a wooden cross, a very simple design.  It meant a lot to the man- it was given to him when he was baptised.  The baptism was his life given back to  him.  He was blessed by it, by those healing waters, a re-birth of some certain fire.
  By this he himself felt broken.  Looking in the mirror didn't help.  All he could see were those still hurting cuts that came from last week.  The unhealed scars made him feel dejected.  He put the bits of the broken cross into a bag and cycled across town into the green and brown woods.  As he was cycling he thought how fortunate he has been and how that fortune wasn't that inexhaustible resource he could always rely on.
  Seasons come and go just as luck, so it seemed.
  He wanted to bury the pieces of the cross as another symbolic act to end a symbol.  He was hoping that a great tree may grow from it a great cross tree to overshadow all other trees with it's big plate leaves and strong bark.
  His brother gave him the cross and the man imagined him being a little sad at this burial.
  The man dug up a hole with his hands and placed the cross inside.  Then he cried.
  The man went home lost and sad inside, he wondered out loud as to the purpose of his loss, his direction.
"No-more, no-more..."
  Collapsed into bed.
  That night he dreamt that he was dancing an infinite dance cascading through rooms long and endless.  Flames were at his heels but smoke didn't clog up his nose and throat.
  He woke up at a loss to his dream.  He couldn't make it out and promptly forgot about it.  The sun was rearing it's head and the man put on his clothes- all fingers and thumbs.  As he made his way outside he noticed something that should not be there- a package on the wall.  He couldn't explain it- it was a thing that should not be a thing, not on that ordinary wall it shouldn't have.
  He picked it up and to even further unreason he opened it.  His heaviness lifted when he opened it- it was a cross.
  He was baptised all again.

Jo Nash

Marbled microscopic
Worlds are placed here
The splats of paint
The burn of black
It is growing
In its dynamic
Flow while being
As static as a statue.

Jenny Nicholson

Religious fantasy
Lucid visions of
An earth and strange
World that echoes
The old paintings
It is the colourful
Grasp of the bizarre.

Emma Sedgwick

These are the beginning
Of universes
In another version
Of reality
Dark encrusted light
A worm of illumination
In the soil of space.

Thomas Moore

Illustrations
For an unwritten book
Extolling human freedom
Beethoven stands
Amidst the chaos
Jonah is alone
In his living cage
Who will write this book?

Featured on the 'Start Somewhere' blog today, a website about emerging artists and beginning creatives.  It's chock full of good advice from a whole range of artists from writers like myself to chefs cooking food.  An excellent place to help you get started and to help you keep going.

https://startsomewhereweb.wordpress.com/2016/10/06/i-wouldnt-understand-not-writing

Johnny Hogland

Cracked in glass
An eternal yawn
That speaks of pain
Coldly frozen
In the prism of art.

Megan Rose

Nature's emotion
Bleeds
On this canvas
Seeing the essence
Of the form
Being born.

The Story

He began the story without knowing how it was going to end.  That was not his main problem.  No, not at all, in fact his main problem probably would not reach an ending;  he was having trouble with the bridge between the beginning and the end.
  The beginning was easy, syrup in the mouth, all that was needed was a few opening words.  Words to greet the reader into the comfy climaxes of the story, to lower down the reader's mind onto a page.  That was all it took.  A few gentle words to coo the reader in.  After that came the increasingly difficult follow up, to take a reader's hand and to walk them through a journey of delight and amazement.
  This could have been achieved in several different ways.  First, he could introduced a hero, the main character of the story whom the reader could follow the misadventures of the plucky fellow.
  Second, he could have introduced a minor character who ends up as a significant symbol of human goodness.  In some sense the writer has already put into practice the first suggestion as the hero of this story is none other than the writer himself.  His particular adventure is, at the moment, to finish this story as it is delaying his drinking time down at the Calf & Hooves.  So far it isn't much of a story but the writer is optimistic that this story shall turn out well, and not ill, as in his previous attempts.
  The writer would like to clarify that this is not a tortuous procedure for him, but a stimulating one.  It is a task that he very much takes a lot of pride in, just as any craftsman takes pride in his work.  His pleasure comes from carefully selecting words that does service in sentence, both in sound and meaning.  

Deceived Wisdom

We all could be wise

If we prised into the

Knowledge that books hold

Or the experience

We've made mistakes form

Cultivating wisdom

Is an art that's

Never done

Never knowing

What's accomplished

I see dead sparrows

To the way of work

I learn nothing

That is not evident

No piercing mystic

Insights

To form a framework

Of my life

Just the days

Lined up like drinks

To be drunk

With a fondness

For bees

Who stand for

Good metaphor

Storing sweet honey

For better days.