a broken yew tree

 find me

below a blue wind
orange sky
bare branches:
green leaves and red berries –

picked at by the crows – scattered,
shaken to the ground. Eye-white
hourglass trunk has been
hollowed
out
a small cave
within a terrible giant.

Inside

breathless and beatless
hear the echo of life; charred
bark, rings of ash and room for two

stay awhile, only
a little walk
from the butterflies
and sundial

look above the painted petals
smeared about the hazel canvas
trace the thick wooden spines,
reach up, feel for the groove

touch: scored date,
initials

no
don’t get up
please

stay awhile

Climb

 
I drove through the day, drove until I was far away
saw the sunlight bleeding over head
crayon red scratched silver sky
left all teardrops in a fire, burning while I drove far away

last light slips behind groves, meadows, humankind
beneath a black sky haunting over head
charcoal carved out the silver sky
eyes open all night, dry, looking out for humankind

quick fast love affair, done by dawn without a care
snaking roads worm through lonely hills
spearhead peak held up the sky
I trudge through bog, car parked somewhere without a care

knee bent, thigh burn, stepping, climbing to the sun
tired so soon but just begun
glasses mist, breath short, high
walking boots grounded in dry roots to the sun

downs a dizzy doom to stiffen, slop steeped into cliff
I could turn around now
hand cups grey rock and elbow gets up
only upward scrambled on the cliff

up, up, farther still, lost a breath and I feel
exhausted and ready to give in
so high up people look like shrimp
I close my eyes, I take a breath, I feel

two wings on the air, below me, above their prey
resting slumbered between two rocks
nestled into a shallow grave
a sheep stepped from a cloud and I pray

show Yourself to me, don't be a hapless dream
wished up by a shepherd
strayed far from the flock
a dark cloud looms as a hapless nightmare

dry rocks and firm ground keep me level
headed in the right direction
the peak draws in closer still
distant lake sits between hills, water level

calm, the wind picks up
the cloud swirl
the sky grows dark
the wind picks up
the cloud swells
the sky grows dark
the wind picks up

the path down is dry for the time being
yet the peak is within my reach
my aches long retreat
but press on with every fibre of my being

a cold droplet runs down my cheek
spills from my chin into the soil
the thirsty earth readies, swallows
a fire chases down my cheek

up, once more, up and over the rock
stand to see a shelf of green
another spire begins to tower up
a pool of blue sits in the shadow of the rock

I'd thought I'd finished, but half way up
knee bent, thigh burn, mind empty, mind churn
as darken skies begin to weep
I trudge in soil deep, but up

but up, but up, but no way down
fistfuls of plants torn from scalp
slip, sliding, tumbling
one way down

dust self, check self, myself steady
hand shake, knee weak, I'm not ready

knee floor, hands floor, crawled through a moor
soaked, beaten, hadn't eaten

doubt self, lose self, myself careless
hands slam, knuckles burn, eyes cry

I cry, I feel. Wind claws a tear from my
cheek and tosses it over my shoulder.

I stand in the day, dark clouds blown away
feel a gentle sunlight on the air
a warmth blossoms
all the raindrops burn away

up, up, farther still, still lost, but now I feel
exhausted and ready to give up
so high up cars look like shrimp
I close my eyes, I take a breath, I feel

fast gale closes in, I roll up, over, over

saw sunlight bleeding through the mist
wrays blurred behind a pile of rocks
then stones atop, then pebbles peaking over

peaked.

'Mind and Matter', by Aron Woolnough

Mind and Matter

Grey hairs betray me, hitting the warm floor.

Shall I begin to shave away the rest,

would it not be until my roots are sore

and I am balding before we know best.

Tourniquet tied around my life too tight,

perhaps my veins will pop under the stress,

bleed this poison over my skin tonight

into the cracks and heal, but I digress,

my arm attacked by a single needle,

victory tubes connecting to blister

packs full of deadly venom by treadle.

A pound self-shaving station at Lister

asks if I will handle the blade myself,

and ceasefire against my terminal health.

'No Walking Stick', by Aron Woolnough

No Walking Stick

Green bag by black and white umbrella,

held by an old looking fella in his left hand,

moving with purpose, marching proudly

back and forth, patrolling the safe platforms.

Ladies laughing up in arms observing overtly

the old man in sights on stage for the freak show.

Middle finger flicks past a barrel to trigger

a chain reaction of bright flash to a startled mass.

-

Yellow Hi Vis eating pie with thumb and finger

between lunch and dinner he’s not getting any thinner,

but he is waiting, with a return ticket to the capital;

for labour under moonlight at the construction site.

From the darkness in a high vis harness,

a mighty meaty, awfully sweaty, hot and heavy,

figure uncertainly steps forward and into a

shining bright, focused tight flash light.

-

The train is on time spitting gas one minute away,

the freak is falling to the tracks. Piss leaking

all over the rock and roll soldier, of an era immersed

with engine grime, dry blood and cooking grease.

Sharp pebble in his eye, but the guy was half blind before

the cackles cease and the ladies look down at the freak

who tries to stand with his umbrella, but breaks it.

He holds up an empty hand, but no one takes it.

-

Rich white trash see a train coming about to crash.

The massive yellow body boldly steps forward

with wet sticky fingers that slide into the palm

of the fragile freak and burns the muscles in his arm.

Two Ds, three Es, an F and a pass

he’ll never be more than working class,

with second hand jeans showing his arse,

but distinction in the master class of decency.

-

Six more months of marching, one medal down,

Saluting his five foot, seventeen stone saviour.

Looks him up and down through a bloodshot eye,

inspired by why his brothers chose to die.

Standing Stones - Poem review by Stefan

Standing Stones by Aron Woolnough - poem review

"The poem 'Standing Stones' signifies a playful short story written with an inspiration for a lady captured in a magnificent nature and surroundings. It is written in a simple yet catchy style filled with metaphors. Descriptive enough to cover the nature of the thoughts and actions as well as the location in which they happen , it is a short romance story aimed on how love can play with our minds sometime towards a person in a perfect scenery.

The mood of expression as well as the style in which this romantic poem is written is close to the traditional British poetry scene that introduced us to the traditional emphasis of imagination and experience - yet it is modernized with rich vocabulary presenting the scenery impeccably well, so the reader feels the emotions and the idea behind in a positive and easy mood.

The desire for the lady which is the main object of this romantic poem is the emotion that keeps the reader lustful - describing her in a lively mood while contemplating with the writer's feelings towards the image of the lady.

The writer's preoccupation with the object of the story - the beautiful and mystical lady focuses on an indefatigable search for the increasing desire, whilst with a focus on the literary form perfectly resembles the female beauty in 3 short verses.

Vintage enough to represent the emotions with the scenery whilst personal and engaging in describing the emotions and thoughts in the writer's head, the motions are well structured within the verses creating a continuous structure of the story - describing a thought-provoked time lapse from the beginning to the end.

With optimism in the very end and lustful feelings, the story wraps up with hope for the future of the two people engaged in a platonic yet real love. This short poem resembles how romance doesn't need much to be expressed within its three verses - filled with rich emotions and thoughts inspired by a woman's beauty".

Thank you Stefan for this review. If any other readers would like to submit their reviews (good or bad), comments, their work or any literary reflections, please e-mail them to me at aron.woolnough@gmail.com or leave a comment below. 

Aron

'Standing Stones', by Aron Woolnough

Standing Stones

She whistles through thistles whilst under the bleeding sun,
and when I called her name, my fingertips went numb.
From the chalk plateau, her damning hail moans,
dragging a salty tempest over the alkaline grassland.

Amid standing stones, a birthstone-blue star
looks at me suspiciously, as I came to hold the hand

of a captor haunting me; she dances on top a barrow,
I fall down to my knees and sit solus in solace.

Last light leaves the monolith, the ground begins to chill,
her hushing susurrations will keep us hand in hand
and we will dance forever under the swollen sky,
until the stars are dying and the wind has said goodbye.

'Hushed Lyrics', by Aron Woolnough

'Hey, wait up - it was
nice to meet you', he said.
'I've been waiting so long
just to feel this again'.
He was a lonely soldier
out for a battle.
He was a lonely soldier
when the music died.

Oh, she danced in silence in the silver spotlight.
He met her moving and they moved all night.
She didn't seem to notice, didn't seem to mind;
and at first he was loving, at first he was kind.

She was speechless when she watched him leave,
but he left in a rush because he couldn't believe
in daydream dancing to his own heart beat.

He looked into the mirror with a wistful smile,
he closed his eyes and heard her breath. 

But he didn't hear reason, when he feared of her treason.

'Hey, wait up - it was
nice to meet you', he signed.
'I've been waiting so long
just to feel this again'.
He was a lonely soldier
without a battle.
He was a lonely soldier
when the music died.

'Every night I dream and then I wake', by Aron Woolnough

Every night I dream and then I wake.

I dreamt of spring last night.

The wet blue day had only just begun.

A busy buzzing bee dropped into our garden

when the blossom flew across the Sun.

The blossom landed in your tucked-back hair

and the bee landed on my pale freckled arm.

It nestled between us and tickled me with it’s stinger.

You watched the sun rise and I watched you.

We never stopped smiling, but the bee buzzed off –

and then I wake with the cold bitter air by my side

and see I slept on solid dirt during the dusk. The low winter Sun drops.

I dreamt of summer last night.

The shinning white day had only just begun.

We drove to the Zoo and we gasped,

a lioness dozed under the high Sun.

She was fierce, could cut a man in half.

The ground was marked by thick claws.

The beast soundly slept as we studied it,

but we found no meaning for a lioness

and we left it for the honey bees –

and then I wake to trace the hard naked hills

and see them shaping the bloody horizon. The low winter Sun drops.

I dreamt of autumn last night.

The cool brown day had only just begun.

Dead leaves had dried to a crisp and we crunched

them under our footsteps, following the Sun

through the tree tops towards no where.

Weaving through the trunks without a path,

but everywhere we reached, there you were,

standing by my side. You kicked through the leaves

and I laughed until you left –

and then I wake as a siholuette standing against a bright white moon. The day had only just begun.

I dream of winter tonight.

The cold black day has only just begun.  

Shivered plants fade away and leave a hunger.

I am freezing without the low hanged Sun.

Lost in the darkness, searching for a light.

Hoping to find you for the rest of my life,

but only finding fright and sleepless nights.

I walk about a void under directionless stars,

the white moon slips into darkness –

and then I wake, the sun has risen and the day is hot, but my skin is still so pale.

'The Wordsmith' by Aron Woolnough

Don't believe I wrote this?
Want me to drop in some names or go hiss-tiss,
tuff-puff, oogle-boogle,
don't take my word for it,
hit feeling lucky on google.

I'm a crafter of the croak, a revolution of the word,
these rhymes will feed my ego even if they're absurd.
Does it make your brain boggle or your mind mangle,
that you can't believe, that I'm not playing an angle?

I don't want to smother you in words so I'll give you a chord
it starts with dang dong and it's played on keyboard;
if you hit A minor, then the dang-dong -
wait, don't twist my words into abusing kid King Kong -
hit a C major and you're back in the song.

I'd be strong at singing hymns if they weren't all wrong,
this is right now and no one's playing around,
my words'll make my money just by being a sound,
I don't care for cash, but its hard to say no
when you've got this much talent, they'll keep on feeding you dough!

I'm not quite there yet, so I'll take this slow,
I'll call this bit the bridge and then pitch'll get low,
if you haven't done it yet, you should drop the tempo,
start to sound real gloomy for this part of the show,
build suspense cos everyone is waiting to blow,
the star that I am is starting to glow.

I was gonna try to hide it, but you already know
that I could write a kick-ass poem,
about my parents and show it to 'em.
Show that I'm the poet, that wrote it and sow my seed;
be an artist I insist, not led by greed -
kill some stanzas in pyjamas as I hit the hay.

I'm the wordsmith of the future, so you'll do what I say,
I'm expecting to be nominated for penguin awards any day,
no one's sure if it's fair on the runners-up anyway,
as I'm the wordsmith of the future, hammering not stammering,
no mutter, stutter or utterance unintended.
I'm a linguist, an artist and kick-ass too,
as I'm preaching to my canvas in my kick-ass room.

'Hero-to-be three!' by Aron Woolnough

You ran at me with a yelp
got on your knees for my help
eyes locked on a crying whelp
and your tears stained my cape.

My empathy grants a wish
a hand to help up the miss
my foe appeared with a hiss
and his intentions rape!

his eye was twitching, pumped arms
he was gripping, a cold bar, that he's swinging
time to get this fight on, shall we?

"Hey! I will save you"
I heard beside me
some guy in leather...
... a hero-to-be?

He dashed to the right
with the lady
while I just stood there,
not heroic of me.

Pow! Hit the cold bar
I fell by a tree
but from the branches
a guy covers me!

And with his fancy toys
tries to save me
some guy in leather...
... a hero-to-be?

He threw the foe at the wall
following in to the fool
victory and stood tall
and won his Juliet

I gasp and blinking, I kneel
is this dream or this real?
I don't know how to feel
so I pirouette

My eyes were blinking, heart sunk, reality slipping,
replaced? Powers draining,
I run over to address thee:

"Hey! You just saved her
you aren't a wannabe.
You know what that means?
We have a trilogy!

Hey! You just kicked ass
and you saved me;
some guy in leather:
Hero-to-be three!"

'Hero-to-be II' by Aron Woolnough

Time to record this happen-stance
of pain, heroics and jail-romance.
The world has settled after
jaws of death and it's crafter.
Some said it's daft to go on,
no match greater than I'd won,
and I suppose I will retire
when another will aspire
to take on new retro-attire.

Keeping an eye on newbie-potentials,
looking, waiting for key essential
elements to bring honour and safety
to the 9 to 5 citizens drinking tea,
as soon they'll need a Hero-to-be
and unfortunately I can't find,
the right body and able mind.

Finally, two big-hitters met
mid-homerun in half-pirouette,
crashing causing choas quickly
kick to the balls, feeling sickly
and on to his back without slack
the attacker's lanky limbs wack-wack.
--BOOM--
Tubby's naked and lanky's flying for
the unforgiving thunder god Thor,
and the bare sick round man was sore.

Though soon he was chasing fast!
As lanky landed shouting "Bast-"
he was met with a face of dirt,
rolling over to see a world of hurt!
A chair slammed down on a thin bone,
the round man will certainly atone
for the axe in the air hurtling down,
chopping the midrift of a lanky-gown
half a body was left to frown...

Damn... Left with a convict, no hero
who left me a cripple, who was too slow.
The title of Hero I will have to own
soon I'll need an heir to the throne
for now I am alone and watching trash
as they cannot handle a foe to thrash.
New power-seekers see me as the challenge
or old rivals train new blood for revenge
though no Hero-to-be, no one to protect me...

Oh, old rivals training new blood for revenge,
why, oh, why does Doctor Invento need to avenge?
That young fool used the cripple like a tool,
built him robitic legs, with jets 'n' all!
Meanwhile, the convict shudders in a trance
over-hearing two villians plotting romance,
screaming and pleading for help, from me!
Not knowing I knew of his actions you see,
but I'm a Hero, not a pant-wearing wannabe.

Another heard the call, the cripple, lanky, tool;
who ignorantly raced me to jail,
then innocently flew over the wall and stalled.
I arrived a moment later to see why Tubby called,
two thugs pounded his bare backside,
though one was taken out by Lanky's slide
and the other recieved a tap from the Hero.
My magic poisoned his hair roots below,
as they Gingered he ended his life - the foe.

Convict tubby axe-weilder thanks me,
I fly off pretending not to see
the lanky, robo-not-a-cripple-wannabe.
And not hearing tubby's blasphemy
as he looks up to see robo-lanky!
Will I finally find the Hero-to-be?

Double K.O. and I leave on a low,
finishing my tale of toil and woe,
hopefully I'll find a newbie soon,
to take this torch in lights of moon
and then I'll be willing to let;
fate take me to my sunset...

'Hero-to-be' by Aron Woolnough

I've heard a message from the grave,
that I need to step up and save
'cos danger will rave tonight.
So linger at the light switch,
like a bride-to-be before her hitch,
and don't trust the unknown dark.

Stop and wait around for me,
the pant-wearing Hero-to-be,
mutter me and you will see
a Ginger superhero wannabe
you'll think that I'm a slut or,
crazy utter super-nutter,
for showing off my underwear,
but you don't have to stop and stare,
just point me to the danger – don't even glare

At first I may mess up a little,
be patient as confidence is brittle,
so think before nasty things you say
'cos chances are you'll need me one day
and you can rely on me, whether it is a:

cat stuck up a tree,
gang attacking thee,
or someone bothering me,
time to reveal the Hero-to-be!

Like I said before about the gravy-wavy message plea
something is coming and it will want to mess with me
now cats, gangs and annoyances I can handle,
but I've never been burning both ends of the candle,
So I am starting to worry!

The danger has no mercy you see,
won't accept an apology from me,
after interrupting it's chaotic glee,
from defeating all those minions
I'm not favoured by evil opinions
and torturing the human resources;
so I listen to my well-trusted sources,
that I need to turn and fight.

Now the critter-crushing, shadow-casting
foe I face is wielding an almighty mace,
swinging-crushing my shadows as I dash,
my smile wasn't lasting as he was fasting
and I began to sweat.

Bet my heart skipped a beat
his mace landed by my feet
I really don't want to meet,
my maker tonight...

Evil grabbed this battle by the balls,
pulled 'em, crushed 'em in it's palm
luckily mine weren't at any harm,
so it swung it's mace and swoosh!
The whoosh rocketed inches from me,
I stood my ground and soon evil with see,
that I'm no longer a Hero-to-be!

A jump from the ground,
pirouette to a pound,
it's body fell without a sound
made quite the victory mound,
for now when you mutter,
you won't get an utter nutter,
you'll see, a Hero – that's me!