Ides of Morning

Last Wednesday, I attended the Creative & Cultural Skills Scotland conference and read some material I prepared on the day.

The first frost raps the window pain like
an untimely visitor, stained
with the stale breath of yesterday’s
tobacco blackened rain

A shaft, so gentle in its yearning crafts
a clouded memory, weary eyes
grasp for reason in its rise;
and answers in its wrath

Alas it seems again the ides of
morning stole the fruit
of thoughtful slumber’s tides
my prize, I know, under sleeping
eyelids lies

What darkness clogs the veins
and stems the flow of ink?
What ragged grip does cloy my brain
and render me extinct?

Maybe it’s a sickness
born from a constant need to ingest
sick of digesting the congestion
of words
& lies
& adverts
& songs
and god damn infomercials

There’s no time to rest
lest the shadows will drain what’s left
of these embers

these sparks

that have forgotten how to glow

to grow

but I won’t let them flow
onto cheek
or ink-stained sheet

Nor into the vacant hole
of stricken souls
who bore their heart
and paid the toll

My art never sleeps
for in dreams it is a beast
untamed and alone

My art never sleeps

Author's Note

This is somewhat of a mish-mash of ideas and rhymes born from the day, we were given a short while to prepare a piece rather than reciting our own work.

Reviews

[V. P. Trujillo]

This was excellent. I very much so enjoy your writing, it is a talent I say.

[A. Amos]

Compelling and enjoyable read. Well done