...Tangled in a Web of Thought...

*Tangled in a Web of Thought*

You sit bold upon my bedroom wall and shuffle so often
- from a darkened oak ledge with dust-covered literature.
Some of which lie still for well over five years.
- to a desk where several sheets, stained of coffee, are sprawled;
though placed there carefully at first within this past week.
My study desk where I often sit, just sit and sometimes write
And my bookshelf that I rarely use at present but still it is used.

Which do you prefer?
Which would you rather call home?

So quiet do your eight long legs latch onto shelf or desk
bringing you to one or taking you from the other.
So quick do they enable you to sail and float across the room.
Those silken strings like tapestry let you dance far into safety
like a swinging trapeze you fly high over the darkened oak shelf and
its dust covered contents, up onto the sill of the window.

Is that where you live? Do you live amongst a crack or a crevice of my window?

The room is calm and I am too! Are you calm?

The very modern grandfather-like clock that I bought last year ticks out.
It is somewhat big and makes the room appear smaller.
Some music still sounds from two large speakers occupying the corners,
Rufus Wainwright plays loud.

Which sounds better to you?

Do you shuffle as the sounds vibrate the walls, is that why you shuffle?
Do you dance to the constant beat of the ticking time or
do you sway to what the piano has to say?
Oh please tell me why you dance and sway and in one place you don’t remain
or tell me what you think and see when you go from desk to shelf.

But with a loud and harsh thump which swooped from over my shoulder
The Sunday Times thuds upon the sill and follows closely your evident fall.
An ink stain marks where you once stood tall, once stood and stared and lived.
Now you lie beneath the sill, beneath several silken strings unattached and hanging dependently.
They hang like icicles do in winter & your soulless body lies as cold as they would be
My questions still remain just as my memory of you will and on it I’ll often still dwell.

...His Muse and your Creator...

*His Muse and your Creator*


Cobbled streets and aesthetic trees; faraway they’re native, line your path
A large park entrance; its gates rot iron and Georgian lies welcoming.
Some folk do come, some others go, and the rest they stand and wait
A meeting point of modern Dublin, a photograph beholding grandeur
A chilled northerly breeze blows from your feet Autumnal leaves
You stand amongst the weekend crowd and he is dreaming yet again it seems.

Steady he paces around the study room, its damp cold interior typical of neglect
He places his long bony finger upon the dusty sill, brushing away all evidence of
days on-end spent writing, spent thinking, dreaming.
His harsh breath exhaled with difficulty, moves the silken drapes as he watches the
Park gate, and his lungs draw in the damp of the room.
He sets up his desk and begins his daily account. He writes what he sees until he sees what he dreams.

You leave from the gate so graciously, light rain has halted its fall, and the sun has gone for rest.
He finds you in his work as he writes of true love. He writes with passion that only the lonely can.
The deep red sky burns at the Victorian terraces above but the streets are kept cool by the calm of the breeze.
The deep red sky shines light on his terrace and his poems with you as his muse are kept flowing like that of the breeze.

...When the literature does tire...

The VAULT has well and truely been re-opened. The past few posts are fresh from Summer writing and all is flowing at a great pace. Please enjoy and have a gander at all the rest and maybe even at Chapter one of my novel in my other blog on this profile :D Toodle oooooo!


*When the literature does tire*

Several books sit stacked upon the oak
Each one to be read, yet stained are the pages still
Dog-eared is one so much, second hand it may be
It has been used more than once
Twice, maybe three?
The tower uneven, overlapping in size.
An unbalanced structure though managing demise
The base it seems organized, and the top, heavy!
These first few books at the foot
Do they feel the strain?
Are they pressured from higher up?
Perched on top is the newest of all the books
Its’ cover is crisp and the pages clean
And as if the tower realises, it falls
This one tower has had enough

...Dublin 2...

This poem stems from the feelings for the same person in 'My Anonymous'. And Yes he is still a stranger! :(


*Dublin 2*

Glowingly he strutted East on Grafton Street
His eyes wandering from shop window to shop floor
Clad in denim, chinos and laced brown dubarry’s
He carried two big bags, maybe one small one more
His gait confident, his frivolous face fearless

I watched in awe as perfection passed me by
I stood in wonderment once he turned to talk

He spoke with wisdom, his tone carefree
And the very first words he voiced that date
With a soft laugh he whispered ‘Were you, watching me?’
I, in that awkward moment, turned bright scarlet red
Placing his baggage upon grey ground he moved closer though

I could then feel his breathing, deepen and slow
I unhurriedly took my own breath, from what I do know

We stared copiously and examined what was of us both
The clock struck two, the bells they rung, all round
The buyers and sellers all rushed for their lunch, the
Amount of coffee and croissants encouraged a scrum
Every person was raging and screaming and loud.

However we never moved, we were two strong, all in one.

...Intense Waiting...

*Intense Waiting*

Wait for the moment
As it wavers then it goes.
Have you waited on that moment?
Which on this wind blows.
I have waited for that moment
And watched as it flowed
Oh I was left waiting -
One moment; in fierce cold

...Ancient Adorations...

I feel the need to put some more material out there as it has been building up in my room. Enjoy!!

*Ancient Adorations*

Childish stares from within four walls
The City of Troy within me calls.
To all the public below it’s clear
You’re my Helen that I hold dear.
For this Palace where we have laid
Has all but gone; yet our love stays

The Myths and the Legends
and stories of Gods too clever.
The Empires they intended
on lasting forever.
Yet altogether they fell, and fell to ruins
You and I still stand embraced however.

...My Anonymous...

I am unfortunately in "love" with a stranger. Because of this I have written this poem. :(

*My Anonymous*

Oh I have had such daring dreams
Offered images and opened seams -
To natures beauty I have thee compared
A warm summer palette
My vision impaired.

But I am forced to gaze at you from afar
A distance between us
A moment ajar
So valiant I wish to be
So audacious I dare to dream
And I begin to walk away; I turn my back
But yet you stay.

But still a fear in me resides
And still I stand here, alone outside.
For I have gone and gone and left again
And reverted to tell this story through a pen
A story of secrecy is this I hold
Because when I dream, regrets unfold.