An Avian Apparition

I'm not really sure what I think of this. This is something that I can't really describe, this poem will probably never make any complete sense, and I will never fully understand what happened myself. This is a description, in some form or another of a dream I had last night. I didn't just want to forget it and I had a feeling it would remain in my mind for quite some time. I thought, it's time I wrote more about my dreams, and this one was particularly fanatical. I'm not sure if I like what I've written, because I really want to illustrate what happened properly. But this is a shot, at what was a very peculiar dream. Let me know what you think?

An Avian Apparition

Seven minutes to fall to lucid sleep
To lucid sleep I fell
And in my dreams I became a dancer
A dancer and I shall tell,
Tell of how I fell into the arms
The arms of one who seemed to be
To be something extra-ordinary

Demanding, he bent me backwards
Backwards I should bend
Should fall into his gripping grasp
His gripping grasp, I could not pretend
Pretend to ignore my inward beating
Beating inside and blooming for his presence,
And I could not deny
The desire I felt in this lucid sleep.

The peakers searched myself
Searched my inner self and he seemed to slip
To slip right through me, I couldn't seem to concentrate
To concentrate on his words
His words were blind, instead I was hypnotised
Hypnotised by his percievance
His percievance was distracting
Distracting enough for him to see
and so he layed his hands upon me
Upon me as I began to feel
That the dream was becoming real.
He plucked my fingers and the roaring pain
The roaring pain I felt aflame
Aflame my fingers he ate and thrived
But suddenly I felt alive
He munched and moaned in pleasure he groaned
He groaned and licked
the gore dripping, dripping down his lips
I observed my fetid fingertips
My fingertips which were no longer graceful.

'Be graceful' he uttered and he grabbed my ears
My ears with his avengeful claws
He smothered me with his powerful jaws
His powerful jaws which were also lips
His lips stained with my fingertips
My fingertips attached to my hands
My hands bloodied, in his hands grand
His hands grand which heled mine
Our bodies start to entertwine

Is this even man at all?
Is he swallowing me up, will he haul
Haul me into deepest alleys where only the ravens rest?
The ravens rest in sinister places.
Sinister, I question him,
He answers with lust
He answers with sin
With sin he grips me harder than before
Than before the dance and before the fall
Before the fall I was free
Has this man, this raven, captured me?

Suddenly the face starts to change
To change and starts to re-arrange
To re-arrange into something new
A girl, who stuns me,
Who stuns me too.

Her russet dress flows and wraps around her
Around her I see bells and sounds of laughter
Her eyes, her eyes are pure and white
White, she is full of mystical light
Mystical light which I want to touch
To touch her but it seems too much
She strokes my hair and whispers
Whispers that 'my fingers were delicious'
Delicious fingers, I can see
This girl is neither he or she
He or she, confused as I am
Is a fiend, and so
I ran.


~misshapenskies

The Seventh Spring

I wrote this when I was on my Creative Writing Course in London (http://www.debatechamber.com/) and my tutor, Megan - told me to write about a tree in Spring in the form of a (poorly crafted :P sorry) SONNET.

SONNETS ARE HARD. I'm not even kidding, I'm not too keen on anything structured, it reminds me too much of Maths (which, consequently got a C in for my GCSE *cheers*)

However, I have successfully (I think?) written a sonnet about "A tree in springtime"
Yes, Megan told me to write about a tree, and for someone who writes about any old rubbish I took this up and then found myself strangely uninspired. I mean come on, a tree! But then I thought about this tree that used to be outside my primary school (so for anyone abroad thats ages 4-10 .. I think) and at this time I was about 6 or 7. Now I was a dilly-daydreamer as a child. I can't sit still for more than five minutes (honest) I used to fiddle with my hair, and I even remember once fiddling with the hair of a girl IN FRONT OF ME, and told her I wanted it, because I thought she had 'princess' hair. *facepalm* ANYWAY, in this classroom there was a really nice view of a cherry blossom tree outside, and each season you could see the changes on the tree you always knew it was springtime when the pink blossom appeared :)

So I began thinking and remembering my silly primary school days, and I created this.. Enjoy!


The Seventh Spring
You, the growing child are starting to bloom
Sweet kisses of Spring and wrapped in the breeze
Twigs twirling up with the joy of the moon
Oozing with sap, gently rising with ease

So softly you brush and groom your splendour
Blossom brushing the awakening eyes
Then the warm times all creatures remember
The winter and the places where it lies

I sit by your regal trunk for a while
Admiring the flesh on this rich setting,
Place my palm on you and begin to smile
Beside this small foilage your are king

Its time to wake up from this dozy dream
Spring is awake and alive is the stream


Yes I know it's not brilliant and it is working progress, but give me a comment and let me know what you think?

Much love,

~misshapenskies

Untitled poem

This is awful, but I thought I should post it anyway, as I haven't posted in a long time. Sorry :( just very ill at the moment and currently feeling very uninspired :( sorry

*

There’s nothing I can do
No, nothing quite at all
To make you understand
The reason for my fall
Lets take a drop of whispers
Of weathered melodies
And slice them up together
With distant memories

Lets take a finger and scratch it
Scratch the fear away
After all it doesn’t matter
It’s gone by yesterday
I have something to tell you
There’s something on my mind
Yet your sitting here, my witness
With the problems I can’t find

Why is that I struggle?
To find the words to gasp
Whilst all the time I’m hiding
Behind the harshest masks
I have something to tell you
But you’ll never offer ears
So instead I’ll guess I’ll drown you
In hiccups and in tears

Why is it that I whimper
When there’s nothing wrong at all?
Or maybe that’s the reason
A reason for the fall
There’s a something deep inside of throat
A croaking
Yet it’s quite remote
You had a time when nothing seemed
Pleasant, spectacular
You departed in dreams

Why is it that I see in you what I used to see in me?
The way you simply turn away
When your eyes decline to see
There’s someone trapped inside of you
Please let me set them free

I know this isn’t poetry
This isn’t even work
This is simply just a expression
Of how much I am hurt
Sometimes I feel I’ve glass shards
In the corners of my eyes
And that every time I nearly succeed
I’m losing due to lies

Why is that there’s others
I wish that I could hold
Why is it that I’m losing (them)
My story seems foretold
Great things I wished to happen
Back when I was too young
Yet now I feel so different
I’ve been bitter, I’ve been stung

Why is it that I’m petty?
This writing isn’t mine
In fact I’d never write this script
These words don’t intertwine
It’s not the thoughts I like to think
It’s not the words I use
I’ve lost my portrait,
I need inspiration, I need a muse

Why is there nothing left for me to bring me back to I
I guess you’re getting tiresome now
(Let’s call this verse Goodbye.)
I’ve released something into words I wouldn’t normally speak
Just listen close
Just open, please.
I’m drowning, and I’m weak.

~ misshapenskies

(1) What comes to mind..

I thought I'd share with you something I wrote just now, whilst just thinking. Sometimes, just 5 minutes of quiet reflection can really help your writing.

This is currently untitled :)

Redcanna by Georgia O'Keefe

A hallucinogenic palette,
this scene of the warbled sun
intertwined with ribbons.
 
A brush of femininity
warbled creases
Seem to overlap
Creating a stifling wasteland 

~misshapenskies

Cloud Nine

This poem is one I wrote a while ago, I'm not sure what brought it on...
Anyway, critical comments are appreciated and I would love to hear what people think!
So without further ado, here is Cloud Nine

Cloud Nine

Haze

 stroke withdrawn cheeks

I wish to feel your depth,

suppleness of your nonentity in my

Clammed, sticky palms

Oh and how you look tonight

You knew it was an occasion to be remembered

To be hallowed

Heads will roll, to undergo

that essence of baptism

Once upon the hours of owls

 Held out a dove

And gave me a slice of

Cloud nine,

Which is what was, and now is mine.

Nightfall has a frayed black halo,

these echoes shall ring through horns

With remembrance, bound upon spite

In Twilight - I shall mourn.