When you're on my mind, life is poetry [Second draft]

Waking, I hear beats from a broke drummer,
pull the window shut, locked in woefully
to this dream, fighting to return to slumber.
When you're on my mind, life is poetry:
we slow dance aflame atop a candle,
a bottle to my lips is our first kiss,
the stretched plastic carrier bag handles
on my knuckles are your soft fingertips.
I am never kicking through grass alone
watching buds soar as we canter along
a blooming daisy patch, and, we fall prone.
When you're amid petals, life is a song:
my heart is a drum, but I wake screaming,
my heart is beatless to know I's dreaming.

Awake, but weary-eyed glancing over
to your photograph waiting on the side,
a floored shirt, grass-stained sleeve, becomes a blur,
empty bottles in a plastic bag; tied.
I sit up alone and thumb your image
pondering on how, if, to start this affair
but when I demand: these thoughts are finished;
my dreams without you turn into nightmares.
So, I rest my head and I close my eyes.
A tiny chain in my chest tugs me to
your gravity well, I'm falling to fly
for there to be a way to be with you.
This is the saddest joy I've ever known;
when you're on my mind, I am still alone.

with her on my mind, the world is poetry

with her on my mind, the world is poetry
a bottle brought to my lips is a kiss from her
kicking through the straws of grass together
the carrier bag on my knuckles are her fingertips
but what right have I to think of her
without her validation, is it cute or creepy?
this is the saddest joy I've ever known
the loneliest love I've never shared
when I'm with her, resting in her eyes,
on her words, feeling, really feeling
a tiny chain in my chest tugging me toward her
in a gravity spiral, I'm falling for her
but in complete ignorance if she has a chain for me

maybe it is best if she doesn't
I can match and chat and meet another,
wandering fruit stalls in the market reaching for apples
and waiting to clash fingertips with the one
but as I idly swipe and type and walk and breathe
slowly, slower
girls more beautiful, sexier, shining bright
with minds ablaze with creativity and wonder
intelligence unyielding and smiles just like hers,
but they're not her and that is all that matters
it feels. She isn't the prettiest girl in the world,
she isn't perfect beyond perfection in every detail
yet with her on my mind, the world is poetry

The Journey

I can climb a mountain on a spring morn,

touch clouds, look down on jets soaring under.

I have cracked jokes since the day I was born,

never mourned, or stomped by rolling thunder.

I’ve always been the calm before the storm

and fine idle, waiting for it to pass,

but looking in your eyes, all soft and warm

they stomp me and I transform into brass

from gold, see your lips and my brain is goo

I can’t even confess you’re beautiful,

how I long to lean in slow and kiss you

the words hot on my mind won’t form at all

and now, wordless, I walk toward your gaze

through the tempest’s bolts for a thousand, thousand days.

No Walking Stick - revised

No Walking Stick

There's a green bag by a black and white umbrella,

held by an old looking fella in his left hand,

he is moving with purpose, marching proudly

back and forth, patrolling the safe station platforms.

There are ladies laughing, up in arms, observing overtly

the old man in sight on stage for their X Factor-freak-show.

Then a middle finger flicks past a barrel to trigger

a chain reaction of a bright white camera flash to a startled mass.

-

Wearing a 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 the 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 flashlight.

-

The train is on time spitting gas one minute away,

their 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.

A 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 and no one takes it.

-

Rich white trash see a train coming about to crash.

Then the massive yellow body boldly steps forward

with wet sticky fingers that slide into the palm

of the fragile old man 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 he holds a distinction in the master class of decency.

-

Just six more months of marching after, but one medal down,

after saluting his five foot, seventeen stone saviour.

He looks him up and down through a bloodshot eye,

inspired by why his brothers chose to die.

A Novel Project [Part 4] Theme

An immediate thanks to all who read my draft opening and sent me feedback, it was both encouraging and insightful to hear your responses.

This week I worked a bunch, which got in the way. I wrote a poem, which was a nice cognitive break and I read an old poem publicly, with a few last minute alterations - which was nerve-quaking and uplifting.

It is after all this, that I return to the Novel Project with fresh thoughts and a new invigorated perspective. A break from your writing and a refreshed pair of eyes are priceless, I find. 

I have made two new decisions. Firstly, Roderick will no longer be the main character and will instead be the antagonist, his position will be replaced by a new knight to the order; Leomund, an idealistic new partner to Jason. Secondly, the theme is as important as the plot and without it, there is nothing to explore and all the tension, decisions and everything will be for nothing if an idea isn't explored and the main characters do not grow because of it.

The theme will be a spectrum of idealism vs pragmatism. Sir Jason, after his long years of service, has seen the worst of humanity, the Kingdom, rulers and the gods themselves - he is increasingly pragmatic, the world is broken down into material objective facts and numbers. His new partner, freshly sworn into the Lion Knights, is Leomund - an idealistic disciplined Knight, who has grown up on the stories of the heroic legend of the Lion Knights, their duty and romantic vision of the Kingdom, its people and those who govern it. Finally, Roderick, a man who put down his own father's rebellion serves through a worldview of ultimate pragmatism in the service for the greater good; when immaterial is stripped away, it becomes easy to justify any measure, any length, for the greater good. 

 
The exploration of the theme will be the central character's story arc, beginning in a state of pragmatism, moving towards this great extreme and contrasted by Leomund's ideology, it is not until Jason is faced with the radical Roderick that he finds value in belief, hope, immaterial and romanticism.

 
Writing targets:

• Plotting the story
• Second Draft: Chapters 1-3
• Backstories for three central characters

Side note; I have written a bunch of poems and I am considering putting together an anthology poetry by me. Perhaps, not sure, maybe, big maybe, probably won't - maybe will. And people say I'm indecisive.

Looking forward: I suppose I need a firm decision (ha) on my end goal here. Is it to submit this novel to publishers, to self-publish or just a proof of concept? Vanity publishing is a big no-no. For the time being, I will keep my options open and focus on writing a great story.

Idealistic Song of the Blog

Adelaide

A tree laid
broken and splintered,
as an idol paid
so little so
idle aid
saw little
Adelaide
alone in the dark.
Carving,
as he made
bucket
and a spade
for sand castles,
then he wades
through waves
he was afraid
of the dark surf
had he faded
in black wash
a country unmade
castle swallowed.
No knights
to save little
Adelaide.
A boy to raid
in cotton,
a time to invade
bravely
weaponry homemade:
bucket
and a spade.
He marched,
a downgrade
fairy tale,
fled his trade
miles to his
solo crusade
so far from
selling lemonade.
In shadow
nightshade
black, cold
unafraid
purple eyes
he dare evade
firey nostrils
forbade
farther motion.
Dragon
hell fire
burning.
Perhaps betrayed
or a charade
as the cascade
of flame
displaced about him.
He reached out
plucked light
from the beast
before him.
The young man's
one-man parade
dragged
a bleeding jade
star dancing
expelling shade
for
lime laid
upon the darkness.
The flame flickered
as he made
his way to
Adelaide;
for a moment
they saw each other.
The flame was
washed away
by the black,
so there stood
little Adelaide
in the dark
not alone.

A Novel Project [Part 3] Opening

You train your whole life for a single moment, ready and alert, then you realise, mid-ponder as birds were fluttering overhead, that it just happened and you missed it. The moments that followed, I can never forget. The memories of before, I have recalled a hundred times and forged into steel. That moment, though, I missed it - that moment all was lost in an instant, and I, Sir Jason Thane, did nothing.The city centre was alive. A huge crowd, all the citizens of Brassdon and lords, knights and anyone who is anyone from across Angdom, had come. It was their day in the sun, my day to roast in steel plate armour. I was stood behind the king, to his right, as we approached the stage. I, and three others who drew short straws, wore the ceremonial Lion-helmets - living legends. Sons sat on fathers' shoulders, mouths ajar, ice cream dripping to the floor, watching us pass by.
Today, my job is to guard the king, but truly I was part of his jewellery. He had just been coronated in the cathedral by the High Mother. As a Lion Knight, your tasks vary and I usually work alone, but on this day, all ten Lion Knights were out on display, summoned to keep the peace and be the story. This new king, Fredric Forten, understood the importance of an idea. When you stand in this hot armour, you are more than a guard - you are the embodiment of an idea. An idea that found the very country these people call home, that keep us united together, that helps us feel safe at night from the dangers out there.
So they cheer, chant, chatter; all this noise blended together into a thunderous racket, so they can sleep soundly tonight. All this noise, dressed up as joy, really just shows how desperate they want to believe, to hide how terrified they would be without it. Loud and mighty; it drowned out the trumpets, drowned out your thoughts.
The image when King Fredric took to the stage was designed. Fredric, tall and bold, wore royal blue, like the darker shades used on the Trident crest, a symbol of his father's lands. His straight, black hair nestled back, combed under the majestic, golden Crown of Ang. At the foot of the stage, the palace guard, supported with three Lion Knights; the most famous, no helmets, smiles wide. Fredric takes the centre stage, in the four corners, three Lion Knights and I stand - thick, purple capes; heavy Lion helmets; vision obstructed, not practical at all, an awakened clay oven would better stand sentinel. Another three Lion Knights backstage, doing a real job. The setup was a compromise between style and substance. The city guard patrolled the crowds, best they could, but I wished and had argued to be out there among them - maybe if I had insisted, things would be different.
When I was a child, my father brought me to attend King Edwin's coronation here in the capital. He wore Angdom's colours, he stood on that stage alone, while his Lion Knights mingled with the crowd - a heavy sense of respect and duty was installed in the people, chins and chests raised high. King Edwin did not induldge in long speeches, he was a man of action, but on that day, he spoke awhile. He made promises and he prayed for this kingdom.
It was there, in the crowd, that I saw Lord Arthur Fairfox for the first time, though just a knight then, he trained under the Lions and the public saw him as an unofficial eleventh member. Now, under those thick grey eyebrows of his, he stares out into the crowd as our leader, at the foot of the stage. Not only is Lord Arthur famed across the land, he is loved. He and King Edwin were a mighty duo, who led this country into a golden era. In that moment, I hoped that King Fredric could do the same, but I was uncertain. 
Left side of Lord Arthur, King Fredric composed Lady Vixen standing tall, feet apart, red hair tied back and both pale hands clutching her two-handed greatsword, pierced down into the ground. To the right, Sir Roderick, an inch shorter than Lady Vixen, rooted his palms either side of his belt, at the stem of a dagger and the handle of his longsword; both blades resting in their scabbards.
Vixen is the first woman of our order and one of the strongest, fierce fighters I have ever met blades with. Roderick, well, everyone already knows his story. He is still a boy at heart, but formidable. I sometimes question what I would have done in his situation.
Lord Arthur Fairfox is wise and kind, Sir Roderick Westrun famed as swift and ruthless, Lady Vixen Southstone standing graceful and an ambitious eye on Arthur's command stripes.
Sir Roderick's eyes scanned across the faces in the crowd. I spotted a hooded man, with a large moustache, shifting back and forth and moving his hands in and out of his cloak. Sir Roderick did not seem to notice.