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!
These statues made from clay
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
Wars and famine have stolen
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.
Blood, sweat and tears,
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.
We, we are dancers,
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.
Stumbling forwards your form is
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.
They’re fighting again, scrambling
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
-creativity
We sit, full circle, with secrets curled
At our feet, no one speaks and sunken
Eyes study wooden panels on the floor
The subject is sore and there are so
Many broken pencils in the pile between
Us, emblems of broken trust, an eerie
Calm to a once bustling place, a wonderful
Race of colour and creation, now empty of
Ideas and the deflation of pop up bubbles
Lie like a massacre on our laps, foot taps
And silence dances in the interval, the
Cleaners mill about before taking cue and
Some loiter still, few wondering about the
Carnage we have made, the gargling of
Creatures begins to fade and the stabbing
Guilt lessens, this was not the kind of
Impression I had wanted to leave, and
Now awkwardly I roll down my sleeves
Covering tattoos which fuel inspiration,
And wait with patience for someone to
Admit the failures of the day, for another
To remind us failure is ok but ultimately
We each dug so many graves and staring
At the headstones and scrawled out names
Assigns us with an indescribable pain of
Blame, which is ironic, given the nature
Of our souls, there are always stories
To be told, waiting at tongue tip like
A diving board but somehow we created
A hoard of beasts, half alive, a strange
Feat, something certainly to take no
Pride in, sweeping brushes guide them
To bins and we collectively cringe at the
Deafening thud, wishing there was something
That could be done but the erasers are stubs
And our arms are sore, so one by one we file
To the door, shrouded in the quiet of a funeral
March, and the last to leave goes to turn off
The light, but the light-bulb is burst, a frightening
Sight and we lock up the room before taking
Our leave, and go separate ways to find some
Relief in the horrors of draft and errors,
At home I cover all the mirrors, afraid to
See their reflection as mine, this rift we
Tore, I knew, would take time to heal,
And for now we’d keep that room sealed
And deal with the contents at a later
Date when we were ready to confront
Our fate.
Power and Fear mirror each other
Standing either side of the hourglass
Light converged in skewed reflections
High heads and heavy limbs made light
Under even glows, center stage the dance
Begins, sure footed lions pad though their
Realm, stalking in circles drawing strength
From their pride, taunt puppet strings
snap and the wilderness comes to life,
screeching tones and deafening roars,
they collide in a ballet shaping earthquakes
and sea storms, bursting energy creating
quartz stones, weighed in their stomachs,
wisps of essence intermingling, colours and
hues baring their teeth, trapped in the ebb
and flow of resistance and might, hands
clasp and claws sink deep into palms, cutting
life lines in half, scales rocking under the
force of the struggle, synchronized in the sway,
leaping and creating stories with their limbs
letters made of arms and legs, images formed
from thought alone, prancing across blackened
stage, slipping in the chips of dominance, awe
and concern raining down on their forms, soaking
their skin with dust and ashes, the remanence of
memories come back to haunt, ghostly fingers on
an ivory piano, the music morphs the encounter,
and calmness settles restless steps, Fear stumbles
into a cradle of arms, swept easily from wooden
floor and held tightly protected from the fall, the
ultimate Power allowing this dance to continue
weaving endlessly through the sands of time.
My soul is made up of words
And letters and I don’t think I
Can describe these vibes of
Inspiration, imagination is the
Foreground of my platform,
The train station for creators,
Each with briefcase in hand, a
Collection of works and defined
Brands, acknowledgement is
Passed as we wait anxiously for
The carriage of opportunity, ways
We can spread ourselves thin and
Mean everything, we say, not for
Fame and recognition but to know
We did it, left the blustery waiting
Aisle and leapt with smiles, bright
As the light-bulbs over our heads,
Swinging unpredictably, waking us
From rest, friendly visitors when
The body shuts down and forces
The progress in enthusiastic shouts
For joy, and we wonder why our
Joints ache and muscles crunch,
What a bunch of hunchbacks we
Are, crooked spines from gazing at
The stars, ideas flow in the rivers of
Our minds, some that flourish and
Grow in time, we share the lines and
Weighed words, as engine pumps and
Steel wheels’ whirl, this moving cabin is
Taking us places, excitement and fear
Blot the spaces of the pages we leave
Unclear, stories and wisdoms are shared
Here, support and comfort cushion my
Every need as penmanship is seen passed
Around on a golden clipboard of reasons
Why we qualify for such an adventure,
Chattering dentures of oracles as ticket
Stumps are torn, the perfect storm of
Noise and clatter keep me in a bubble
Of home, soft and gentle tones dive from
Tongue tip, I will never forget it, the
Night-time train, for all of us to wander,
Exploring these lanes and all
The while feeling wonderfully sane.
leannepoetry 