Year 2 // Cocoon by Josh Ferguson

Hey guys! This is my post for this week's workshop. Sorry that it's a bit late. Hope you enjoy!

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All that is left:
butterfly,
butterfly.

It sings and cries
for the dark,
for the moon,

while painting white
the walls of
a cocoon.

Now nothing's left
but a fly,
but a fly.

Year 2 - God Song by James Lancaster

We were raised on the plains, and we rest in the mountains

Ranging from the ice wastes to the desert fountains

My pack lives in the cold lands in the shadow of peaks

Criss-crossed by caves, and sheltered by titanic trees

The scars of our lives are written on our faces

Jaws broken through combat, fly-bitten in forgotten places

Legend tells that the thing you see before your demise

Are sharp teeth, crests, feathers and orange eyes.

To the animals, sky and earth we were known

But the evidence of our rule lay in the stone

Our legend was unwritten, until you came

A tremor in history that would never be the same

Without the strength to claim territory

Your kind wandered migratory

Over time they followed us and one fateful trek

We saw they wore our faces around their necks

Painted on their backs, as a sign of respect

To a king this meant nothing, but to a believer

A God's gaze brought strength to the receiver

On mountainsides and forests you drew power

From the sight of my pack and carvings on stone towers

But time brought a problem with greatness

Is its never forgotten, domination makes aimless

Even the mightiest monsters in creation
And the weakness of an empire is the strength of a Nation

Bringing down prey and leaving bones with no meat

Bring home broken viscera, leaving scars from three-toed feet

I become legend by dragging bodies into trees

Built by cave paintings that make children believe

They worship gods that chase them from their kills

They carry my totem, to protect their tribe from ill

But as they walked past, we paid them no attention.

We practiced what was laid down before their ascension

But as seasons passed and winters blow, i see your number

It grows, and it grows, and when we awake from slumber

Each day a missing beast on the plains isn't seen or learned

Until the hunger sets in from the missing herds

But as we travel through abandoned caves and crevices

The image of beasts real and fantastic, scream reddish

On rocks that last summer were brown and pale

Deep in the chamber embers flicker and animals wail

We ignore and press on, even we feature on this scarred gallery

And the youngest look in awe at their future immortality

But the old teach lessons the young soon forget

Yet as they hurried us home, our future was set

As we outlasted a rugged winter we saw

Plants and trees shake off of the snowy draw

As the spring turned dead soil multiflorous

For the hungry teeth of hadrosaurs and Titanosaurus

After weeks surviving on bones and morsels

We waited to sever their tendons and dorsals

But our prey was big enough for the Gods to feel small

You can't teach courage at the sound of their call

We set out with the young who hoped to learn

And knew that death was the price of what they couldn't earn

And for years we held the secret to bring their end

But something came from which we couldn't defend

Cultivating strong chi from years of hunger

We crept upon them while they lumbered

As they littered the ground with wasted branches

We cut them off at every pass to better our chances

The die was cast and and we called our brothers

the survival of all was dependent on the others

And as we stepped up to flash our fangs

The call of an almighty prey sang

When you can't out fight you outrun

We weaved between legs massing ten tons

As the bushes and shrubs were torn and smashed

Claws and teeth flowed poetically and slashed

The Titan stood full of thunder and torn asunder

Its limbs crushed the chest of the bravest hunter

As our bellows echoed from a dozen sources

It refused to die without dropping some corpses

The sun passed the horizons once or twice

And when all of us had paid our price

As we all bled together into the creeks

We knew soon we'd be fed for weeks

The greatest of all to walk the land still held breath

And we readied ourselves to bring death

We knew we were secure and that its fate was clear

When the neck of the titan was split by a succesion of tiny spears

The blood flow carved a river like we'd never seen

This instrument of death must've belonged to a mighty being

How do you think we felt, dealing with this fallout

From the trees it was your kind who walked out

The same necklaces and tattoos still decorated their frames

Headdresses and torches bearing flickering flames

The same eyes that once beheld us, held us in shame

Though they carried the same sticks that once seemed so meagre

for after many years of work they'd made them pierce deeper

As both tribes sat in awe we both learned a lesson we never forgot

Men had powers that their Gods did not.

The Flaming Emissary - Michael Laniyan Yr 1

Conceived to a pale hand, in a furnace womb.
By myself, l am harmless.
Through the ages, in countless duels am l deployed.
Many kings, my emotionless duty seek.

In my silence, one trembles.
In my utterance silence is shattered, another stumbles.
In my duty some dreams are realised, others broken.
In thoughtful hands am lame, in bitter minds bloodthirsty.

With a raging soul, l bear a piercing spirit.
Deployed, relentlessly l return not unfulfilled.
With shameless spirit, l pierce at will in rage.
At my egress-ion, l leave behind despair.

Solemnly widows say a prayer, in wake of my visit.
Agonisingly, loved ones gather in silence by an open ground.
Bitterly vengeance is conceived in a grieved heart, tomorrows task beckons.
Yielding l serve coldly, untamed by reason.

Peaceful cemeteries, bear witness to my passionate service.
The ages l defy, in fervent fatal pursuits.
Demons trail behind me closely, in hope of gain.
Angels in disbelief, wonder why men in metal their faiths bestow.

Soul nor spirit, none do l possess.
Yet master am l, to many souls demise.
Sheol is mine to expand, till my labour is abhorred.
Thence my steely vigour, in a bone yard is condemned.
 

Untitled - Adam Archer - Year 1

Now, days in which I felt less worn are gone,
‘Neath black swan’s wing, I bed my forlorn thought.
I have no grasp upon myself or mine.
The truth of tomorrow grants me my absence,
And I am of a mind to thank its stance.
I fear thee, morrow of which I remain
Absent and without a hope to give
Without first permission; the truth of today.
I denounce the stars. Their light brings me
No reflection of my glimmered dermis.
Such rays do not penetrate my sullen,
crimsoned waters, for their light serves only
in forming scabrous, clotted purpose.
I run and babble and cut, through the virgin
earth that is my sense. Wearing. Never resting.
I am a passenger upon a path
I do not recall etching of my own
volition, or deceitful intention,
this infertile land in which I course.
In time gone by, I felt not this disease.
I reflect and perpetuate this plague.
I felt a warmth that did not cause decay,
My body did not steam and hiss in day,
And of the night, my surface shone in rays.
Though not with tide, I felt the moon’s embrace
And all would see, for I held all but mine,
For beauty gleamed, as was my purposed truth.
Light hath no tongue; but is all eye.

Year 2 - 'Spring' By Claire Fraser

I thought I'd give you my Spring poem from my seasonal poetry since we're stumbling into spring now.

As I frolic through the lavender field
I stumble upon a sight, concealed.
Amongst the flowers, they did wield
the means to create their golden yield.

Workers dive in and out busily
as they land upon their source softly,
then return to their mother, freely.

And so, the beautiful bumbling bees
quietly buzz in the open breeze,
sailing around the flourishing trees,
like fishermen in vast open seas.

Dainty feet and delicate petal touch,
like stroking frail skin of one you love so much,
cocooning themselves in your safe clutch.

Their fuzzy bodies float around my head,
comfortable with my presence, without dread
they flaunt their stripes, and to their home I was led.
To the ether, I shamelessly said:

If I got the chance to encounter someone of such beauty as this,
I would take them by the hand, and thenceforth life would truly be bliss.

Don't- Katy Garnham Yr 1

I do write happy poems too, I swear. -Katy

Don't

Leave me. Please-
It's not working for either of us.
Even though I know I can change,
I just keep dragging you down,
I know you can't be there for me
Twenty four seven, Three six Five,
I'm always there for you.

I can only try so much
to help you understand, to know
how I love you
never falters, it's never affected
my mental health
it's just not the same anymore.
When you smile it's hard, forced
I feel like I don't make you happy.

I think I drain you
when you're well
but I'm used to feeling numb
You used to be a shock to my system
Inside me happiness swells
You're my everything.

Thank you;
with everything you did
You quiet the storm going on
Up north
I struggled so long feeling loved.

It felt like you loved me.

Map of a Place Called Home - Kevin Kissane - Year 2

 Columbia

Before these fields were filled with white-porch houses, there was nothing here but corn, tall, waving stalks you could lose yourself in, surrounding me on three sides. Every Spring the manure was laid, the pungent smell of dung signaling how near or far I was to home. // Out back, on the wood and nail porch, is where the rocking horse once sat. In Summer its creaking iron springs hummed with the swaying of my body, until a nest of hornets took up residence within, and a black spur was lodged in my palm. The chair was relocated over by the shed where it sat for many years, rusting into nothing but a painful memory. // The back garden, a field of open green, is my playground. When it grows thirsty, we uncoil the green, serpent hose, and shower it. The Jack Russel, the runt, snaps at the water stream, the nub of her trimmed tail bouncing like a piston. // There is a time we think we have lost her, but the dull yip of her bark leads us to the neighbor’s barn, where below ground, in a little burrow, she corners an opossum, both too afraid to move, both acting like they have something to prove. // A forest stretches acres behind the home, a sea of skunkweed creeping along its floor.  A single misstep will break the foil foliage, staining the air with stink, but deep enough, a forgotten path leads to a clearing, where a monstrous gaggle of wild turkeys roam, scattering like a retreating army at our approach. We didn’t mean to scare them. // When night falls on the town, and moonlight shines, the coyotes howl, their wild eyes flashing in the dark scribble of the tree line.

      The Fairgrounds (Hebron, Woodstock, Brooklyn)

      At the county fairs, you name it, they deep dry it; Fried dough, fried oreos, snickers, twinkies, cheesecake, pickles, or ice cream. This is the true American dream. // We enter the fairgrounds by the south gate where farmers showcase their vintage equipment. Steam powered machines sputter hot oil as we pass, the chugging combustion of the industrial age, the beginning of the future, or of the end. // In the animal yards, oxen compete in a contest of strength. Sweat drips from their furled brows, the bulk of their bodies pressing forward through the yolks around their necks. Sunburnt men place bets on which will budge the cinderblocks the furthest. // In the next pasture, a stuttering track of trumpets plays over a horse show, the disc jumping when the beast gallops too close, and standing astride her back, a dancing woman waits for applause that will never come. // In the “Better Living Barn” we coo over a scaled down version of the World Fair. I am smitten by a machine that claims to know your personality by the psychology of your print. I slap my autograph on a post card and feed it through, knees buckling as cogs spin, and whistles tweet, until my result spits out the tail end, a crisp, warm, printed ticket. I greedily absorb each word of my personality profile and stand aghast, wondering how it could ever get me so unbelievably wrong.

      Amston Lake

Locals swear by this legend, that years ago when the land was first flooded to form this man-made lake, a farmhouse was left untouched, swallowed by the water. One diver is said to have explored the depths, found the house, and there within its walls, a lone armchair, still upright, waiting for its owner to come home. // At the dock’s end we scatter breadcrumbs, watch the fish slap the surface of the water with their lips. We dip our hands in, tempting them with our little fingers, daring each other to let them have a taste. // Swaying in the hammock, we guzzle down the local brew, soda, sourced from the river, purified. Black cherry, birch beer, tangerine, this is what Summer tastes like. // We take the kayaks out on the water, chart a course, a clean line across the middle of the lake to the jumping rocks. The rougher kids are already there, pushing each other higher. They taunt us, rub their recklessness in our faces, daring us to challenge them. Some of us jump, but I do not. I wade in the shallows, tracking the movement of a disturbed snapping turtle, wishing that turtle would bite those mean boys, bite them right where it hurts. // Here at the lake’s heart, my diabetic friend and I sit, our paddleboat slowly sinking, and I baling the water with cupped hands as she slips into shock. The others soon arrive with a carton of orange juice and a tether to cart us back home, but for a moment, I was our only hope of ever seeing the shore again. // At night, we strip, we wear nothing but moonlight. The water is warm, and we dive in, but the boys stand ankle deep, arms crossed, for fear the fish might bite their nipples or nibble on their most precious parts.

      The Shoreline (Mystic, Westbrook, Old Saybrook, Hammonasett Beach)

Mystic is best for salt water taffy. We leave the shop with a brown bag full of it, chomping and chewing down to the sand. The brine of brackish water mixes with the salt on our tongues and we taste the ocean. // Looking into the harbor, all sense of time is lost. Clipper ships sit anchored at dock, white linen sails perfectly manicured, and the musk of gunpowder clouding the air. // Over the edge of the pier lives an aquatic metropolis, barnacles suction pressed to the wooden beams, jellyfish bouncing like bubbles from a motorboat, and anemone pulsing in time with the tide. // The aquarium is famous for its beluga, the dome headed whales. They are prone to mischief, mocking tourists when their backs are turned, and blowing bubbles at children who dirty the glass with sticky fingers. // The shores of Hammonasett are so crowded, we can’t step without kicking sand into someone’s face. On the edge of the water we test our balance on the rocky crag, hopscotching our way out to where the fishermen cast their lines, resting the rods in the cracks of the broken bluff, hooks baited, ready to catch. // At low tide, we hunt crabs on the sandbar, squealing as they scuttle over our bare feet. We begin to burry ourselves in sand, until the boozers come and crowd us out. // At sunset, we break out the sparklers and write our names in light. Fireworks pop on the horizon, and in the glow, we swear we can just see the shadow of Rhode Island.

Willimantic

This is, as the Chippewa called it, the land of the swift running water, otherwise referred to as Thread City, but most recently and lovingly dubbed Heroine Town. // Researchers believe it is the strategic placement of the town’s airport which helped make it the smack capitol of the state. A police task force has heightened patrol in recent years, but if you ask the man who overdosed in the gas station toilet, I’m not sure if he would thank them. // On the south side of town is one of several abandoned textile mills, the water wheel still lightly licking the river. Inside the cameras are rolling, zooming in on our rotten flesh. For whatever reason, acting like the living dead comes naturally to us. // We take the footbridge home from school, stopping midway to spit over the edge and listen to hear whose hits the water first.  The next leg of the journey brings us past the florist. The coolers are filled with corsages. It is prom season, and you buy baby’s breath, roses, and queen anne’s lace. Next stop, what the kids call Pot Park. No one is selling today, the place is empty, its only attractions, an orange rusted slide and a rickety pair of swings. We each choose a side and float until the storms in our stomachs send us running home for dinner. // One day we walk the train tracks, past the busted box cars where the river meets the rails. We shed down to our underwear and try our feet on the cold slabs of stone, slipping into the current, becoming weightless. This part of town is called Tent City, and this river is where its denizens bathe. Emerging from the water we stand back to back, naked for a moment as we change into something dry. Notice now the empty fire pits, the folded lawn chairs, the make shift fishing poles. I wonder, do the homeless still call this place home?

Betwixt the Branches of Fjord - Adam Archer - Year 1

Betwixt the branches of fjord, he relayed,
‘Neath sky black cloak swept; “Boreas’ burning”,
He fell to whale’s way, as wave-swine decayed,
Clinging to headland of swords, mind’s worth: none.

Hler’s land swept on, as battle-light sank low
Linked chain gripping the most monstrous swell,
He tore away armour; death’s light did grow,
He gave up his fight as flame bid farewell.

Yet death’s light did fade as hope of home turned,
His breaker of rings would shout merry once more,
For his girl of the houses his mind did now yearn,
He strode through Hler’s land, mind’s worth, his to hoard.

Egir’s daughters swept, his mind on spear-din,
His sweeping strokes cut, of home he did sing. 

The Betrayal by Shelley Abbey

The thumping  rain wasn't loud enough, to block the troubled thoughts of the man. 

“ How long did it happen”? The man asked hesitantly. 

A stillness engulfed the room.

“I- my heart has always been with you Michael” 

“ Just. Tell me the truth. Tell me when you decided our marriage vows meant to nothing.

Tell me when you decided to go against the promise you made to God and myself, Rosie” Michael shouted.

The summer heat only made her predicament more stressful. It was as if she was on the road to her own personal hell, with no alternative destination available.

 Rosie assessed the current situation. She felt as if she was in an impossible position. If she lied, she’d have dug an even bigger hole that would be almost impossible to climb out of. But if she was honest, it could potentially be the beginning of not only her marriage; but also her relationship with their son.

“You were away for so long. I-it didn't happen until after you had gone to war. Robert was th-

“Robert? The cripple? You were with him!” Michael shouted angrily.

“Nothing that happened was planned. You were away, and London was under attack. I couldn't face it on my own. Rosie replied.

“How many times were the two of you…intimate”?

A silence bewitched the room. The ferocious roar of the thunder heightened the already evident tension within the living room.  

‘Erm I-I think only three or four times, I'm not sure; Ive tried to forget those mistakes. 

Rosie’s knees ached as she knelt in front of her husband. 

Nothing was said for what felt like forever.  

“ He isn't my son”. Michael declared

Flustered by that statement , Rosie pleaded “ No he is, he is ”!

“ The hospital said I'm not a match. The look the nurse gave me when I said I was his father…”

“ The past eleven years have been a lie. Everything. The birthdays. Christmas. Everything”.

“ Stop making these outrageous claims!  Alfie is YOUR son. YOU are the one who’s been there when it mattered, Not Robert”!

“Yes because he left, and therefore avoided any future responsibility”!

Michael slicked back hair in frustration, unsure of what to do or say next. 

Cherry Blossom - Harry G Clark - Year 1

As you can see, this piece is comprised of two individual poems that are linked. I look forward to seeing what could be improved and what worked. Many thanks!

1)     Transient Beauty

How can a tree be so captivating?

Calming pinks,

Cloud-like abundance,

the cherry blossom is nature’s brief gift.

As I stand,

in this mock garden

of a culture to which I do not belong,

the concrete jungle outside

seems distant

while I’m under this exotic tree.

Why am I fixated on this

one, specific thing?

Perhaps it’s the rarity?

The colour? The symbolism

of innocence and delicate youth

This Japanese flower deserves my attention.

I take as many shots as I can,

mementos of my time spent well.

I fear I’ll never capture it’s beauty in a still

and lifeless photo.

Are petals so delicate

meant to last?

2)     Sakura’s Musing 

Petals so frail

do not last.

My admirer,

you are in the prime of

your life,

I am at the end

of mine.

Oh young one,

does my short life

make me special?

You will live for nearly a century!

I.... I live for a couple of decades.

Watcher mine,

my delicacy is sacred to you,

the apple of your eye.

My fragile being

is my achilles heel.

My passing visitor,

thank you for your brief company,

it may as well have been years.

The innocence of my flower

is fleeting.

A Cherry Blossom’s transient beauty.