Writing exercise - Poetry - based on life or a dream...
We will all be nomads
We will all be nomads when change has its way
Packing up our tents, though we really want to stay.
A juggernaut is speeding upon its glowing tracks
a ball of fire is rolling towards our wooden shacks.
We are but the pieces in a game of chess
Who had corn a-plenty but soon will have less.
Another master’s waiting, who we never chose
a ray of light is flaring across his bulbous nose.
We will all be scattered on a different plain
My friends will you not find me? Will you hear my name?
He’ll pay his dues in silver, in his silken gown
And we’ll sing his praises before the sun goes down.
We are all now nomads, he holds every hour.
Where he goes we scurry, in his path of power.
Yes we are his minions, we drink out of his bowl
And he’ll always own us but he’ll never own our soul.
Moving this over from my e-mail...
When the Black Dog drags you into its pit, your clothes smeared with soil from the earth. A tightness in your chest. Then breathe.
Breathe when you see stars, let your hands tingle, the ground shake beneath your feet. Then speak.
Speak and succumb to tears as soft words catch you off guard. Then listen.
Listen to your heart, be kind to yourself. Then climb.
Climb and reach out. You will slip, you may fall. Don’t give up, one step at a time. There you go. Then fight.
Fight the doubts, second by second. The Black Dog howls, sharp teeth drag you down again. Then learn.
Lovely. The hellish beginning grabs the reader instantly. Especially love 'breathe when you see the see the stars', then the last bit: '...greet the new day...' Very powerful and timely.
This was entered into the competition recently, about my home town.
I realise the last bit sounds a bit biased! Every city's people are mighty and proud but here goes:
This city’s a goddess in a newspaper gown,
with eyes of gold and a worker bee crown.
It’s song is the thrum of the Metrolink tram
and the roar of the engine and wheel of a pram.
It’s power is it’s people, forming the crowds
that walk beneath tumbling, turbulent clouds.
It’s might made the chimneys of industry smoke
and belch out smog like an acrid cloak.
Progress has steeped it in offices vast
but it’s poverty’s not a thing of the past.
Rich and poor stream through the streets
they flow fast like a river of dancing feet.
It’s lyrics are cobbles, canal barges, bars
the lives of the ordinary and of the stars.
It’s hair is the colour of glowing red brick.
It’s voice is workers that make the clock tick,
and the party goers in the teeming pubs
and dancers and DJ’s in thriving clubs.
It’s tears are ours when tragedy comes
but it takes the stage and beats the drums.
This city has teeth, it fronts up and fights,
the darkness of life, the longest of nights.
This city’s a goddess who walks on a cloud.
Her people are mighty. Her people are proud.