Playing Dice

So many lives
Spin through imagination,
Possibilities of which I have but one to live,
In this I find inconsolable sadness-
But also hope.
For I’ll never know which of these many worlds
Will be my adventure,
So let’s play dice
With god,
Even if he knows all the answers-
I don’t
And that’s just the way it should be.


New Eyes

So big – the world of a child,
With horizons that never end.
So sad we adults know so much
And think the world their oyster;
No juice left to suck, smacking lips
With delight

Fear of what comes next

When the fear of what comes next is over,
The endless holiday of the present begins,
For what is a holiday-
If it is not a time and place free from caring
About the world and your place in it?
Your place is now,
The world is now,
You are now.
So let us take this next step together,
Just this small, tiny step
And let the rest emerge as it will,
Seagulls on a deck-
Can leave anytime,
Without being aware they are free,
So let’s all stop sailing for worrytown
Shall we?

The door between sleep and waking

Here is my monthly story, submitted for Sonia’s August Challenge.

A weight is falling; a world on my back. Under the bed I lie pinioned, face down as from the open door slides an alien presence, green as emerald. Servants of the Seleste, I guess; their masters dead as Moondust.

Yes…it is good that you fear us, comes a sibilant whisper. It is right you may not turn and look upon us, says the voice as I strain to see. For we are all you cannot permit to exist, all you cannot solve, all you cannot cow with intellect, but only grope at with sudden intuition and cold sweat. We make life unsafe. But rest with us now, lay with and accept us.

Unable to do anything else I acquiesce, but in the recesses and deep groves of stubborn thought I struggle and at last slip sideways, through the door between sleep and the blissful arms of waking.

The way of the pen

The way of the pen,
The mind of a Warrior,
Ink that flows like blood.


Injured in body,

Injured in mind,

The stream bubbles; blocked

By the suited men and their grey-stone dam.

It’s called working life and we’re all enslaved,

To their goddess of work.

But water will win out,

There, here, a crack!

And the water flows through;

New life; hidden, tunneling out caves

Of introspected meaning.

A whole new world,

For me to play in.

Thank you everyone that took part in the poetry rally,  I read some great inspirational stuff that will be sure to emerge from the melting pot of my mind in days and weeks to come. A special thanks for the perfect poet award.

My acceptance Haiku:

Many are the friends
I’ve never met, many streams
Leading to one sea

I’d like to nominate for further reading:



Memories brighter than the sun,

A drive-in movie we watch alone,

Of way back when we sucked on corn,

Before the flood washed it all away…

More days behind than I can count,

But up ahead…

The sea!

The Flood

The relentless pen of now,
Flows its never-ending ink on empty page,
Though its ink can never cease,
Neither does it endure any single form.
Wisdom spatters the page like bird shit,
So ever-changing and self-contradictory,
And so prolific,
The end of worth in words is clearly seen.
Beyond counting they are without currency,
Gifts of such number they cannot be valued,
Like gold rain they tire the roof of our endurance.
Only in empty sky can we find relief,
A peace from the pitter-patter of accumulating knowledge,
An end to the drone of teachers,
A sunscreen to block out their enlightenment.
This stomach growls over-full with food,
This tree is bursting forth fruit at such a rate,
That earth heaves with countless reinventions,
Upon its scarred surface,
New buildings rise and fall like tides,
An edifice built and forgotten in a single breath.
I shall hear your words:
No we shall not pierce a veil and live again;
No we shall not dip our trotter in acknowledgement of past sins;
No we shall not in our entirety haunt this earth in thwarted ghostly form;
No we shall not dwell within atoms until their end;
And then I shall forget such words,
All that remains this blessed empty sky,
Between and betwixt its bountiful harvest,
That falls upon those sickly, ill devised fields.
Forgive me, I cannot help it,
I shall uncorked pour forth this flood,
And two-by-two you must survive it,
Till mirrored eyes the clearest sky
Reflect no want for more again.

The Way of the Warrior

Label the world and you lose it,

Name beauty and you create ugliness,

Claim goodness and there also is evil,

But accept death and you embrace life…

This is the way of the warrior.

(C) Copyright Mark B Williams 2014 Registered & Protected