Tag: writing
Free For All – 10th December 2025
Here, my life in words
writ upon musty pages:
the human condition catalogued
on a day-to-day basis.
All the devilled details
each stanza engages;
these eternal tales retold,
elevated among the sages.
When to tragedy
I will surely fall,
my words will live on,
free for all.
Written for Melissa’s FFFC #350 picture prompt
The Useless Tree – 9th December 2025
Inspired by the parable of the Useless Tree and shared with Poetic Bloomings #571 – Nothing But Trees:
Carpenter Shi was travelling through the countryside with his young apprentice when they came upon a village shrine built around an enormous oak tree. The tree was ancient beyond measure, its trunk so vast that a thousand men holding hands couldn’t encircle it. Its branches spread like a green cathedral, offering shade to the entire village square.
The apprentice stood transfixed. “Master!” he called excitedly. “In all my travels, I’ve never seen timber so magnificent! Why won’t you even look at it?”
Carpenter Shi barely glanced up from his path. “Worthless wood,” he muttered dismissively. “Make boats from it and they’ll sink. Make coffins and they’ll rot before the bodies do. Make tools and they’ll break in your hands. Make houses and they’ll be eaten by worms. It’s completely useless—that’s the only reason it’s lived so long.”
The carpenter continued on his way, but that night the great tree appeared to him in a dream.
“What are you comparing me to?” asked the tree. “Fine trees like cherry and pear? Those trees that bear fruit are attacked the moment they ripen. Their branches are broken, their bark is stripped. Their very usefulness makes their lives miserable, cutting short their natural span. This happens to all things.
“I’ve been working for ages to become perfectly useless. I nearly died several times in the attempt, but I’ve finally succeeded. My uselessness is now my greatest usefulness. If I had been useful, do you think I could have grown this large?
“Besides, you and I are both just things in this world. How can one thing judge another? You’re a dying man who understands nothing—what could you know about a useless tree?”
When Carpenter Shi awoke, he told his apprentice about the dream. The young man was confused: “If the tree wants to be useless, why does it serve as a shrine?”
The master smiled. “Quiet! It’s simply taking shelter there. Those who don’t understand it might harm it otherwise. If it weren’t a shrine tree, wouldn’t it be in danger of being cut down? Its way of preserving itself is different from ordinary trees, so using conventional standards to judge it will lead us far astray.”
On the surface, this story seems to be about different definitions of value—the carpenter sees lumber, the tree sees survival. But dig deeper and you discover something revolutionary: the tree has found freedom through strategic uselessness.
What if our quirks, our imperfections, our refusal to fit standard molds aren’t bugs in our programming but features? What if the very things that make us “unemployable” in one context make us invaluable in another?
Standing as a shrine,
the carpenter carves his maths
into my bark,
deciding I’m worthless
of even a spark.
As a boat, you’d drown,
a coffin would soon rot;
a tool soon broken;
in use, it’s better not.
As they dressed for compliments
all my friends became stripped bare;
miserable lives soon utilised
and no longer standing there.
If I were useful
I’d no longer stand.
We are just things.
What could you know
about me?
I’m a shrine,
just as I planned.
Delete And Unsubscribe – 4th December 2025
Life is being too good,
it’s busy and in knots,
impetus all around
but missing all the shots;
Denied time to create,
art is buried under
a blanket so banal
and lacking in thunder;
Inspiration slides by
never hitting the pen;
will it ever return
for me to write again?
Clear out all the clutter,
delete and unsubscribe,
waiting for the ideas
to, once again, arrive.
Three Colours Trilogy – 20th September 2025
“Now try coughing,” he repeated.
An unfinished symphony.
The blue of the car’s metal,
twisted and still.
The blue of the swimming pool,
a cold, empty tile.
The blue of the television,
buzzing in a dark room.
This is the blue of a cage
with the door swung wide.
A terrible, hollow liberty.
She wraps herself in a blue crystal necklace,
a weight from the past.
She sleeps in a bare,
empty blue room.
She wants the blue of silence,
the colour of no pain,
Nothings important.
“Tongues shall be stilled
and knowledge shall come to an end.”
You belong to all of us.
And the world leaks in.
This blue is not quiet.
It is an insistent hum.
The blue of his eyes,
asking for a truth she won’t give.
She tries to give it all away,
but the blue follows.
It is the colour of the thread
that keeps pulling her back.
The blue of the sheet music,
a song she thought she’d buried.
Music so beautiful it can’t be destroyed.
The liberty is not in the emptiness.
It is in the choosing.
You’ve always gotta hold onto something
“Tongues shall be stilled
and knowledge shall come to an end.”
You belong to all of us.
The white of a wedding dress,
left in a trunk.
The white of a pigeon’s wing,
taking what it’s given.
The white of his own breath,
ghostly in the Paris cold.
This is a blank space, an erased life,
impotent and powerless.
The white of a passport page,
stamped with a refusal.
The white of a 2 franc coin,
the last one in his pocket,
that will not let go.
He is nothing, a white zero.
A man made empty.
But a white suitcase carries him home.
The white snow of Warsaw
covers the same old streets.
This white is a clean page,
where everything is possible.
The white thread missing.
The white of a lie, perfectly told.
A white, calculated revenge,
by burying a white Russian in Powązki.
Equality is not in the winning or the losing.
It is in the white of two figures,
perfectly matched in the distance.
The white of a promise,
finally understood.
A red sweater hung on a grey chair.
A red light on a wet street at night.
This is the red of a closed door.
The red of a stopped heart.
Across the street,
a red lamp in a window.
An old man listens to the secrets in the air.
He knows the red of betrayal,
the flush of shame.
Now, wanting nothing.
This is the red of a thread,
thin and unseen.
It connects a falling book
to a worried hand.
A red judicial robe fading in a dark closet.
People have a right to their secrets.
A red neon sign buzzes over an empty café.
Another story that you don’t know.
A flare sent up
from one lonely island to another.
The red of a ferry’s light,
cutting through the fog.
No longer a stop,
but a start.
The red of a common pulse,
beating in the chest.
The red of a door,
finally opening.
Who are you
and what else do you know?
This fraternity is final.
Shared with dVerse MTB – colour and I was immediately reminded of the Three Colours Trilogy. It’s been a long time since I watched these movies and this poem did make use of AI to remind me of the details of the stories, from which I started pulling out and reworking various phrases and ideas. I’m not completely sold on my own formatting above and thought the French flag idea would be fun but this particular image is a little garish. I’ll try and come back to this a little later.
14th Oct 2025 – I have since watched all three movies again and revised this poem and flag image. I recommend these movies very highly. They’ve also got me back into watching the longer form, which is good because I have hundreds of unwatched movies at home!
24th Oct 2025 – Shared with dVerse OLN since this poem has been rewritten.
Before I Write A Poem – 17th August 2025
Before I write a poem
the world must be on fire.
Before the words flow
I must inhale its smoky snakes.
Before the sword is even poised
I must cough up a bloody lung
into my open palms.
Before the altar, kneeling
I listen and wait
until a message bursts forth,
blooding my ear.
Born into a little life,
a sweet story
or broken bones.
The congregation’s eyes narrow
as I scratch out a sermon,
an epiphany.
…
Really?
That’s it?
All of this?
Inspired and the format recycled from Before The Poem by Lisa Jensen
Storytellers – 20th June 2025
a little line of dancing taps
the keys make words
and the words are key
neuron-fired inspirers
transferred to fingers
– stories without end
getting to the heart of it
grand secrets bleed out
beating the resistance
the rambling essence
authenticity
cracked and revealed
An up and down cherita inspired by a section of writing at Spinning Visions blog
The Underdogs – 15th June 2025
Captured above to maintain format.
It’s been several days now
since I sat staring at this empty page;
waiting for the bombs to drop
to erase this void space.
Thinking of those hot days and nights in Rhodes;
thinking how I wasn’t scared of the future then,
wondering why I can’t get back there again;
Thinking how I got to here
and how impossible it feels to leave;
Thinking about the word collectors,
those saviours,
thinking about nouns;
~ How to make good to be better ~
How I would bake bread
in my safe European home;
Thinking why those memories cling
more than the achievements and disappointments since;
I never flew Hurricanes in Greece;
The only huns I fought were toy soldiers
and I always sided with the underdogs and losers;
Coincidence is telling me that it’s time
to start reading Proust;
Hoping for a revelation that will put me straight
and clear the fog…
as the bombs keep dropping all around others,
the blood spills across this empty page;
The word collector erased
throwing his life into the fire.
It’s been several days now.
The poem above was written for the first part of the W3 prompt #163. I was also inspired by Reena’s Xploration Challenge #385 using the phrase ‘word collector’.
The line ‘How I would bake bread in my safe European home’ is a reference to a time when I was about 12 and, with the help of my mother, I started baking bread. As I was obsessed with the Clash at the time I baked some bread rolls that spelled out the letters C-L-A-S-H, ‘Safe European Home’ being a song from their second album.
The line ‘I never flew Hurricanes in Greece’ is a reference to Roald Dahl and his book ‘Going Solo’ about his time as a fighter pilot in WWII. I just finished reading his book today. The mention of Proust is because I will start reading ‘In Search of Lost Time’ soon.
This poem is about not knowing what to write, knowing what to write, knowing what is important and the futility in sharing a few words with a few people.
The second part involves running it through the N+7 machine, where I have taken the following extracts to recompose, revise and make this new poem:
Captured above to maintain format.
The Underclass
It’s been several daylights now
since I sat staring at this empty pain;
waiting for the butchers of duty
to erase this void spoken.
Thought of those hot daylights and nightmares in Rhodes;
I thought how I wasn’t scared of the game then,
wondering why I can’t get basis there again;
Time – how I got to here
and how important it feels to leave;
Thunder about the word collectors
those saviours
threaten about nouns
~ How to make goodbye to be better ~
How I would bake breath
in my safe European honesty;
Thought why those menaces cling
more than the acquaintance of discipline since;
I never flew hysterical in grief;
The only huns I fought were trial sorrows
and I always sided with the underclass and loyal
Combination is telling me that it’s tone
to state reality, Proust!;
Hoping for a riot, that witch put me straight
and cleared the form…
as the books keep dropping all around outlines,
the body spills across this empty pain;
The word collector erased
throwing his lifetime into the fireplace
(throwing his lip into the flesh).
It’s been several delights now.
A Flavoured Lexicon – 13th May 2025
Tangy, the aftertaste of unsent ink,
words left like fishhooks in my throat.
Of your preposition that held up my sky,
love became my silent film, soon unreeled.
Not to be unzipped, unbuttoned in the dark,
man’s executioner lurks within his whisper;
Best laid plans are left unsaid at the confessional.
Friends echo fallacious words
tonight, the coin was tossed into the sea.
Tongue tastes, a blind snake in a maze;
twisted sheets after bad dreams
and on the bridge that’s always burning,
tied a noose to the rail.
Tangling telephone wires hum my hymns
over the moon-whispered tides;
Our empty cups, save our salt,
simple as a slip, a dark entry,
joyful as the fire laughs at the forest;
Words become the silence.
Tied (again) but now with notes;
Tongue (again) a rusted hinge
knotting the clocks, doing time.
Over (returns) like a skipped stone’s fate,
poems sank to the lake bed;
Often returning to the teacher’s words
spoken into jars and never sealed.
Tangled in a comb’s teeth;
Tongues – final act – stilled by dawn.
Live and maintain pretence, to write
poems on ghost paper.
With the last match in the box,
friends (again) echo their silhouettes.
All the sand left in the glass;
Tongue (last stand) now a relic,
tangled for a final time in this museum.
Word one, we’ll never say again,
@ – a noose around the moon;
The most dangerous definite article on the
wharf where lost verbs go to drown.
Legendary, the stains became
night, the inkwell we dip our days in;
Of (last breath) the last breath;
Tangy – full circle – a foretaste of new
words for scented letters.
A type of mesostic or maybe a skeleton key poem, I’m not sure exactly what this form is called. The first word of each line is taken from the complete poem ‘word tangle’ by Rog Leach. The last two lines reflect back on the first two.
The words are 95% mine, with some original assistance from AI for the base. I kept the line ‘@ – a noose around the moon’ though, as it appealed to me.
Statute Of Limitations – 11th May 2025
Shared with Reena’s Xploration Challenge #380 for the prompt ‘Who will read my diary?” I read through other people’s writing for the prompt and considered all the further questions raised from this initial one. It led to a more stream-of-consciousness write this time, perhaps because my own thoughts are not so clear yet. Who will even read this explanation?
1994ever 