The ice in my heart
causes tears to start.
Sometimes the lark doth sing
bringing thoughts of spring.
Flashes of light
In the darkeness of night.
The candle flickers
As Lucifer snickers.
The fire is piled high with coal
But can not unfreeze my soul.
She watches the mountain.
Granite spurts as a fountain
out of control
encompassing the whole.
Lava fills her garden.
The rock it will harden
once more.
Another eruption is in store.
This made me smile. There is no doubt a grain of truth in this poem
The bottles sprawl unheeded
The discarded valiant dead
Their sacrifice accepted
Sobriety has fled
The truth it surfaced briefly
But shrugged and went to bed.
Will you walk again beside me?
Will you tread the path I tread?
The wine it made me wordy
The truth when poured was red
I didn’t mean to speak them
But I meant the words I said.
Many thanks to Olivia Emily of Bibliomad for the below guest post. Do please visit Olivia’s blog which can be found here (https://bibliomad.wordpress.com/).
—
Little, fair-haired Olivia flicked through the pages of Narnia, wishing ever-so deeply that she could escape through the back of her wardrobe, just like Lucy did.
But, she couldn’t do that.
Narnia is a fantasy novel, after all, and though it exists in a truthful era, the essence of fantastical concepts is entriely fictitious, much to little Olivia’s dismay. However, instead of climbing through a wardrobe, little Olivia immersed herself in books, wriggling through the flimsy pages, laying herself snuggly between the sentences, and winding the words around her adolescent bones.
This metaphor I use in the most truthful manner possible. Fiction isn’t in my blood, nor is it in my bones, but wrapped tightly around them thanks to little Olivia many moons ago. I wasn’t born to be a writer; I fell in love with fiction so deeply, that it seems as though writing is a natural becomming of that. And I couldn’t be more thankful.
Reading is an escape mechanism for many, and – in the earlier moments of my childhood – that value included me. However, despite my love developing from lonliness, literature makes me feel anything but. Firstly, the characters I witness feel like old friends. Secondly, the characters I write about feel like little parts of myself, sprinkled over the page. Thirdly, the doors both my reading and writing have opened are the doors to every little thing I have ever wanted, and ever could want.
And that brings me to the true purpose of this guest post – my blog.
I started BiblioMad just over 3 months ago, and since then, I have (somehow) accumulated 187 followers, who all seem to care about what I have to say. That is a great feeling.
Primarily, I post book reviews, which is a beautiful way to combine my love of reading with my love of writing, and – frankly – it is my favourite thing to do.
Although BiblioMad could also be percieved as an escape mechanism, I argue only with this: I write not to hide, not to escape from my life, and not to gain praise, but to throw myself into the spotlight and express what I have to say. Whether that’s personal opinions, works of fiction, or breif messages from my whirlwind of a mind, I write not to dissapear, but to exist in my simplist form; the writer.
The poet on the hill
Sits still
And ponders why
Man must die.
The weather is fine
nature or the divine
causes the sun to shine.
Every living thing
Will have it’s spring.
The newly opened flower
time will devour.
The blossom’s heady scent,
is quickly spent.
Men soon disperse
We are lent this earth.
All must enter the dark wood
The bad along with the good.
The poet continues to ponder
While yonder
The light begins to fade.
Man’s destiny is the grave.
A glamorous bra
To show who you are.
Sharp pointy heels
to seal your deals.
A short red dress
your legs impress.
Your shapely bust
ingenders lust.
While your long blonde hair
Does men ensnare.
“Girl do you possess the art
To reveal your heart?”
Pandora’s box is deep.
Her mother would weep
Where she to spy
The secrets that within it lie.
Curiosity killed the cat:
His hat
that room.
The moon
still shonne
And the night continued on
You wow them in the saloon bar
Surely my friend you will go far.
You link
with those who drink
and refuse to think.
The pub goers applaud.
There can be no discord,
We must be protected from the unwashed horde.
A few wise old owls dissent
It’s a big tent
There must be room for dissent.
But the customers hear what they want to hear.
The regulars cheer
Never fear
Your friends are here.
The trailer for my recently released collection of poetry, “The Girl Who Wasn’t There And Other Poems”. My thanks to Chris The Story Reading Ape for designing the trailer. Kevin
