The Chronicles

the chronicles pposter

The Chronicles is a series of 40 poems split into 10 for each Chronicle. Each Chronicle deals with its individual theme. The Chronicles was a passion project and can be found on my blog! I hope you enjoy reading The Chronicles as much as enjoyed writing them!


The Creator Chronicle: The Great Summer Celebration

These statues made from clay20151207_170256 (4)
Wander the streets with ease,
With passing nods and greeting
Other creations from writers books
Allowed out to cook under the warmth

Of the summer sun before there is more
Work to be done, speaking with comfort
About upcoming plot-lines and others
Demises, but keep it quiet they don’t know,
The tone is slow and lumbering is bringing

All sorts to these cobbled sidewalks, each
Eager to talk to the protagonist and what
Advice they have for this dilemma, or that
Poor fella who fell in the great battle of the
West, sat around with a mournful look, the

Best are grateful for their reprieve, working
Week after week has a monotone and there
Are skeletal creatures crawling from new release
Poems unsure of where they fit in, the bins are
Full of receipts for the ice cream store, more

Words are exchanged and some wash away
Pain at the beach, dipping their feet in the
Cool waves while musicians play and musical
Notes hopscotch by the side lines, there is a
Sense of pride humming in the air and they

Take care not to ruin anyone else’s vacation
With the knowledge of their annihilation, they
Merely hint slightly of new creators around town
Receiving confused frowns as to why they are

Pointedly sending looks, some brag about their
Positions in the books, usually the antagonists
But the blissful optimists smooth out the creases
They never were created to fall to pieces and
With ice cream in hand they carry on, bopping

To the rhythmic tones of the songs mellowing
The atmosphere, another year passed and they
Party until dawn, making merry with the newest
Of the creators spawn and everyone is getting
Along, that’s one perception many get wrong

The Creator Chronicle: Ancient code of arms

Wars and famine have stolen 20151207_170256 (4)
Normality, serenity an object
Of past lives contrived by old
Philosophers and the deranged,

An age where compassion was
Necessity, there was only blades,
As defenses, the greatest weapon
Of them all kept strictly under lock

And key until eventually the blood
Shed and violence overpowered
Battle lines, under lowly whisper
A call was made, and plans were

Shed of niceties, furrowed brows
And deep set frowns, the elderly
Emerged in robes painted gold,
A wooden box between them,

A coffin for the enemy, slowly
They approach their saviour and
Offer slow words of grace, grasp
Hand by hand dripping with blessings

And prepare for the end of days,
This weapon concealed in layers
Of silk, bundled like an infant child,
Treated with respect of sages while

Animosity of the wild battered chips
From the corners, as they traipsed
Down lesser aisles, all the steps of
Greater good, echoing down this

Deadly path, cool to touch, a deathly
Wrath, wound so tight in anticipation
Passed from the generations, finally
It finds the palms, the gentle caress

At last, who proclaims this weapon
To the crowd, children, wives and
Men, the greatest gift sent through
The vortex, a single black ink pen.

The Creator Chronicle: We the Mother of Dragons

Blood, sweat and tears,20151207_170256 (4)
Thousands of years went
Into your resurrection,
Broken sections of glass

And sand spilling time on
Our hands like senseless
Murderers, a God of likes
A shepherd to the an unlikely

Following, hollowing out
Books for you to devour,
The hour of creation, standing
On the precipice of this nation

Flag billowing in the wind,
Skinned to reveal fabrics flesh,
Trapped behind mesh wires,
We keep you safe from pikes

And pyres, essence of hate and
Screaming fires, yet still you
Demand a humanly chance to
Roam this land, wreak havoc

And destroy bands of soldiers
Lifting rooves and smouldering
Innocence with the frost in your
Smiles, the worthwhile result of

Ashes and soot, these missions
Were put on hold, huddled in
The freezing cold together we
Brace for the rebirth of this race,

The taste of copper on our tongues,
On edge, we are ready to run for
Our lives, chances of survival are
Limited, the long prohibited violence

Cannot be reserved for eternity,
This city will meet certain demise,
At your four pronged touch and
Masked disguise, you have waited

All this time, covered in sludge and
Grime, patience slowly unwinding
Until the chains rattle and snap,
And us, we scientists, hide behind

Scrap metal and dismembered spines
Of your enemies, soaring freely, our
Majesty has returned to claim the
Golden throne, and restore this hull,

Once sacred home to the charred
Wasteland you once knew.

The Creator Chronicle: Metamorphosis

We, we are dancers, 20151207_170256 (4)
We are missionaries
We are pirates and
Criminals, we are the
Formation of letters in
Words, we breathe in

Their worth, we are
Creators, the chasers
Of dreams, the stories
In-between word and
Prayer, it is rare to live
A hundred lives and tragic

To live a single demise,
We are funeral marchers
And widowed mothers,
We are officers of law
And skilled archers, we
Are magic layered upon

Pages we are young and
Old, too many ages to
Remember, we walk
December, we feel the
Cold, we are shy and
Soft spoken, afraid to

Be alone, we are weak
As brittle as bones, we
Are strong, we belong,
We are everyone and
Everything, we bring
Ourselves to the edge

Of the ravine and scream
Until your voice echoes
Back, creator and creation
Hand by hand, it was all
Planned, 365 pages,
Released from their cages

All at once, surrender your
Lungs and inhale the reams,
The seams of sentences,
Taking apprenticeships
Filling our banks, we
Are eager for inspiration

Come join our ranks.

The Creator Chronicle: The Painter

Stumbling forwards your form is20151207_170256 (4)
Dripping leaving ink stains behind
You as you go, soul hungry for
Imagination, you flow from pen

Tip and transcripts are your home
Weaving through the flourished
Letters, sliding down embellished
Ends, smearing full stops with

Sticky feet, defeat is never an
Option, in you lies a determination
For the stories to unfold, breaking
Margins with sharp tongue, and

Lines with heavy feet, footsteps
Overflowing with inspiration,
Washing the ordinary pages with
Magic, embellishing the undecorated

Plains and making volcanoes from
White snow melting lava and notes
Into comprehensible sentences,
Your only sentence to remain in

This state, building skyscrapers
From aeroplanes, and making the
Impossible a reality, absorbing
Laughter from passing lips and

Interest with flicks of colour running
Down the bindings, in your hands
Lays a creation, subtle to oblivious
Eyes, you disguise yourself, a master

Of deception painting camouflage on
body, needle and thread stitching
Together ideas all tied from ceiling
Swaying light-bulbs barely within

Reach, but you grasp them in your
Hands as easily as moth to flame,
And spin a piece of art out of ten
Feet of string, each part of strayed

Fabric stained with the black sludge
Flowing from your form, from you,

To brush, to canvas, to us.

The Creator Chronicle: Dotted Lines

They’re fighting again, scrambling 20151207_170256 (4)
Over mounds of dimming lights,
Using pens and pencils as make
Believe swords, wreaking havoc

Pouring laughter as they go,
Tattooing their names so I know
They’re still in there, crayon on
These colour stained walls, making

Sure I hear their calls as they batter
Frying pans with wooden spoons,
Switching down the brightness of
The moon, tricking me into productivity,

Creating these hurdles and ambiguity,
Shroud scuttling forms, riding conveyor
Belts to be reborn again, evading gloved
Hands and cardboard boxes, busting

Seams and building blocks, spray painting
Graffiti on these doors, ensuring they are
Not ignored, rubbery they slip through my
Fingers, fashion crowns out of paper and

Deem themselves kings of the realm,
Inspiring others to help in their mischievous
Ways, slipping on coins and feeling the pain
Run the length of their forms, unsigned and

Left stacked out of sight, entry’s committed
To those who do right by the system, glistening
Twin grins like fish without fins they flounder
Out of the water, ground control chases them

A blotter in it’s grip, another blip on the radar,
Faintly I wonder how far they’ve dashed from
Their storage place, racing around in my mind
I face hours of restless sleep, listening to the tip

Tap feet,
dancing and prancing