Andalus' poetry

[Jubal]

Your work is really, really good as ever; it feels much more linked to reality than the stuff I write, which tends to be fairly jumbled and hypothetical by comparison.

[Andalus]

Forget Me Not

A stirring in the rafters of a memory long gone,
An infestation long forgotten, now returned.
The hatching of a scratching patter, needling at the mind,
Reminder of the way the winds have turned.
And ne'er before was it so loud, not even at the first,
In silence it has grown as it was spurned.
A neglected part of you, that you thought was weeded out
And yet now that you've moved on begins to burn.
A nettlesome regret as you seek to find your peace,
The overdue reprise you know you earned.
"I won't be left behind!" howls the memory maligned,
Reminder of a lesson never learned.

[Andalus]

The Colour of Sin

I look at you,
And I know behind the mask you're there,
With your flaxen, anglo-saxon, hair,
Your cold blue eyes and your cold white skin,
And the frozen stone of your heart within.

I feel your hate,
And I know your soul is speaking true,
Your hatred sure, fully pure, like you,
As you sweep forward in your livid gown,
Your features bleached like a circus clown.

I know your game,
And I know it's one I'm bound to lose,
That sportsman's rules will be refused,
Your sense of justice and fairness flawed,
My own faults too many to be ignored.

I see the tree,
And I know you've found my resting place,
The wooden bark just as dark as my tainted face,
Keep the bad with bad, and the white with white,
Yourself more deserving of the sun's bright light.

I hear the jeers,
And I know that sound is my funeral song,
As you swing me down and you sing along,
As I sway to your music like a silent bell's toll,
My dying face mirrored in your cruel black soul.

They'll see me dead,
And I know you'll revel in their screams and cries,
Knowing you are master of their blackened lives.
But they'll know that no matter the shade of their skin,
You will always be drenched in the colour of sin.

[Andalus]

Stationary

No resting place is more well loved,
Than a common bench beneath a roof.
Keep your feather beds and rocking chairs,
As you sit in comfort with your mind aloof.

I do not care to sit and sleep and dream,
Not for me a life that pays the street no heed.
No, give me a bench, in a crowded station,
While the weary travellers rush about their deeds.

I care not for their Odysseys or their destination.
Only their movement as they pass me by,
As I slowly browse the station bookshop,
In search of a gem to pass the time.

And I sit there beneath a high-flying roof,
And let myself drift to places unknown.
Further than may reach the iron horses around me.
Further than the birds in the courtyard have flown.

I read of mighty kings and empires in the east,
Of explorers battling icy winds at the poles.
Of the sun and the stars and the man in the moon,
And the man who walked past this spot long ago.

But I'm still here, and watching new stories stream past,
Flowing around me, with their suitcases worn.
I'm far from sleep, or my own journey's end,
But motion is the stable where true dreams are born.

[Andalus]

Just a bit of messing about with a rhyme:

See the site of this rite, in the sight of what is right.
See the might of the knight shall be a mite to us this night.
His steed of white, see him alight, see him but a wight in the light.
Is thy courage a bight as ye now take flight?
Or will he taste your bite as ye stand and fight?
How does thy soul ignite to face thy plight?
To thy sword or fright will thy heart hold tight?

[Andalus]

One Plus One

When two sit side by side, with naught to say, and naught to think;
When two cannot decide what to do but sit and blink
At the ceiling,
They shall sit there all day,
Unfeeling,
With nothing to say.

And when one sits dejected at home, with naught to do, and naught to speak;
When one feels all alone, and does naught but lie and sleep,
Always dreaming,
Afraid of making a move,
What meaning
Does he have to lose?

But when two sit side by side, with naught to do, and naught to say,
And one stands up and decides what to do is seize the day,
Then two will leave,
Draw some worth from their time,
If they believe
Their own lives they define.

[Andalus]

Stain

The mirror's waiting for you.
Take a glance, from the corner of your eye,
You fear your own reflection.
Take a look, stare in the glass there for a while,
And be surprised at what you see.
A face twisted with the corruption of jealousy and bile.

Wash the bile from your mouth,
And spit the hatred from your tongue, just take a look,
And see that you're no better.
See your dirty self in the mirror's polished light,
And wash yourself in what you see.
Lather in the knowledge you're a creature made of spite.

The mirror will remind you,
And stir thought from the recesses of your mind.
You're not so perfect as you think.
See your taunting finger aiming outwards in riposte,
Pointing, accusing what you see.
The mirror pouring all your hatred back into the host.

[Marcus]

I like it. Reminds me of the Velvet Underground song 'All Tomorrows Parties' in a way.

[Andalus]

Quilted Seduction

The world is silent, and sleep calls my name,
Begging me hence fall into her embrace.
Pull night's blanket over me, come take your claim.
Eyelids slipping to give darkness a taste.
She is my comfort but her love is perverse.
Her hold is gentle and yet binds me enchained.
To wake to feel better, to rise and feel worse,
To keep returning to bed once again.

[Andalus]

Hidden Worlds

Reeds sit at the far end of the pond, quietly alert,
Who knows what may be hiding there within?
Between the twisting alleys of the cracked and broken stalks,
Dark, wet cities where the water fowl is king.

I sit here on the other side; my arm is far too short,
To reach out into that world and to explore.
I kick ripples with my feet, spreading farther out to fade,
But still not enough to guide me to the shore.

Stones I cast, and smooth pebbles; my vanguard skim across,
Never conquering the distance to their goal.
My fleet of branches, sailing ships, float over waters dark,
But at the waves' command they turn aside and roll.

The sky grows dark and orange glow spreads over the pond,
Hiding the secrets of the reed bed from my eye.
I turn away and head for home, the mystery unsolved,
But tomorrow I'll return and have another try.

Perhaps I could have walked around to the distant side,
A simple route to see the nature of that land.
But if I saw what lay where imagination longs to roam,
What then happens to tomorrow's battle plans?

[Andalus]

Fireweaving

Come, brothers and sisters,
And sit with me, friends.
Come sit by my fireplace,
As day reaches its end.
My cup of words overflows;
Come now, each take a sip.
Pass the cup round the fire,
And all share the friendship.

Let me weave you a tapestry,
With these words and the fire.
Let me twist your heart's yarn,
With the strings of my lyre.
As the flames' tongue is the warp,
And my voice draws the weft,
Hear the colour in the verse,
And let the fire tell the rest.

Come, warm yourselves through,
From your hands to your heart.
I'll wrap tales around you,
Threads stitched with my art.
Come, listen to my words,
Do not waste time abed.
Let me weave you a song,
That like fire will spread.

[Andalus]

Rightness of Rule

On the streets, let it be decreed, that no prince was ever king,
That no minstrel seeks to play, except for one who could not sing,
That no man might speak his mind, except for he who had no voice,
That no man might be called to judge, but for he without a choice,
That none should lead his fellows, save for he who could not see,
That none should ever rule but for the slave on bended knee.

[Andalus]

King of the Sea

Perfidious sea, I command ye turn back!
Do not dare ye soak my sovereign feet!
I am thy king, cease thy futile attack,
Encroach not an inch more upon my beach!

Hear my royal proclamation, unruly tide!
Do not dare ye assault thy rightful lord!
Lest I sentence ye for would-be regicide,
And punish thy actions by fire and sword!

Presume not thyself to my justice immune,
Do not dare ye forget the scourge I may wreak!
My war-forged crown with thy memory attune!
To my battle-notched blade is thy surface weak!

As Caligula's legions made thy frail waves subdued,
Do not dare ye doubt that so too shall Canute!
Blood is thicker than water, if ye make it a feud,
Thy sheer liquid shall never royal veins dilute!

Turn back from my throne, I called ye not hither!
Do not dare ye trespass on my kingdom's land!
Get gone from my person, ye oversize river!
Come not without summons to my golden sand!

My advisors do claim that the waves I command,
And so their counsel I shall chance now to heed.
Let me prove that thy waters turn back at my hand,
Thy tide shall not rise where I have not decreed!

Behold my majesty! I am Canute the Great!
King of Danes, English, Norwegians and Swedes!
Northern sea, ye are but my own Danish lake!
Now from thy master's presence, humbly recede!

Perfidious sea, ye flee not? Accept thy defeat!
Dare ye disobey the north's greatest king?
Around my throne lap thy waves, sodden my feet,
Ye mock my royal order to my royal chagrin.

Or thus it would it be, if I dared to believe,
That man's power may compel the might of the sea.
No sycophant courtier shall my wisdom deceive,
A great king sits not well with proud vanity.

Thy waves are not mine - though I sail them at will,
It is thy grace that permits me to do so, not mine!
I am no messiah to command thy waters be still,
I am king only of soil, with no hold over brine.

All my deeds on earth may seem great to we men,
Yet a man too am I, my power far from unbound.
I cannot speak to ye, sea, with authority as then,
It was not over nature that this servant was crowned.

No matter what victories we may deem great things,
I as all men own scarce power or sway.
Let all know how empty and worthless is the power of kings,
None is worthy of the name but whom oceans obey!

[Andalus]

Grasping at Air

Resting on the horizon, beyond long roads and banks of hills,
Is where the towers dwell, giants like the Spaniard's mills.
The wind engirds and flies between the towers' tallest heights,
But rises higher through the clouds, beyond and out of sight.

See there like a needle rising, a church's pointed spire.
Beyond that a power station where smoke pours from the fire.
A line of trees, their branches bare like fingers reaching high.
A string of metal pylons daisy-chained across the sky.

There spin the spindly silhouettes of a hill-cresting wind farm.
Far higher than Quixote's foes, but lacking half their charm.
Dormant lampposts guard the roads, all ready for the night,
And in the fields, a little boy runs following his kite.

He needs no tall church to seek the heavens; his toy will take him there,
Electricity a needless force, as it flutters freely in the air.
Soaring high above the reach of trees as their thin twigs vainly grasp.
Unlike the pylons' bolted cables, the string flies where'er it's cast.

Allying with the sweeping wind, not capturing its swell,
Not imprisoning it in a windmill to make it something you can sell.
He'll stay here 'til the wind is gone, and never mind the light.
Never mind the reaching Babel towers; he climbs further with his kite.

[Jubal]

That's lovely.

We should produce an Exilian poetry anthology sometime...