The message

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An ancient code
long wove through
souls.

 

Its falling tremor
a veiled melody.

 

At times
barely heard.

 

As if
breaking

on distant shores.

 

Or sought
in old minds

beset
with
dismal thoughts.

(Like dark soil
chafed
by some goading
plough.

As heckling crows
caw down
from
the pointed wood.)

 

 

Though
still

a message
may come.

Scorning our rules.

 

(While men pretend

to have
understood.)

 

 

 

So
legends
are made

breathe.

 

In their
ageless

certainty.

 

 

 

Then carved.

 

 

Upon

wrinkled

stone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

(The poem above is a revision of one written when aged 23.
I find myself too ill for creating new poetry, at present.)

 


 

 

Impostor syndrome?

 

This blog passed 1,000 followers last week.Β  πŸŽ‰
That appeared an unattainable total just a few months ago.

I am very grateful for all your support. πŸ€—

 

Yet depression (which currently grips me) has triggered a sort of impostor syndrome.

My inner-critic’s voice sneers:
“Ha! Get a book published before calling yourself a “poet”!
And putting old stuff online, means you aren’t even a proper blogger, either!”

(With a psyche like mine, who needs enemies?)

 

Yes: IΒ doΒ dream about being published, someday.
But have no idea how.
Or where to approach.

And when my symptoms are bad, I often end up feeling overwhelmed.
The energy required for self-promotion seems completely absent.

 

 

Does anybody else struggle against impostor syndrome?

Perhaps viewing themselves as a chronic amateur, among experienced bloggers?

Or imagining that others are “natural” writers, in ways one can’t match?

 

Comments are always VERY welcome!πŸ™

 

Thank you
for reading.πŸ™‚

 

(Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?)

 


(anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / drawing / life / mental health / poem /poems / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Forgotten happiness

scan 21-1

 

 

 

 

 

When I was a small boy
at the zoo

This world seemed
fresh.

And yet

If someone told me
then
how lonely
life would grow.

What could I have done
(or changed)
to stop that fate?

 

(Hence
not finish up
as melancholic.
Black-clad
faded soul.

Like a goth in spirit.

Minus
style.)

 

 

 

Perhaps long illness shows us
who our true friends are?

With mine revealing
I had none.

Except
a loving uncle.

Close
until the end.

 

His photographs were left for me.
Preserving childhood days.

Those early sunlit trips
escaped oblivion
again.

 

 

7

 
To my surprise
he claimed I’d been
a source of fun and joy.

 

(Depression
arrived later.

Once art waned
I lost my way.)

 

His favourite picture
caught me unaware
a swan approached
behind.

 

 

Konica12496

 

 

Recently
I found an unseen image
of what happened next.

 

He’d made it known
the bird drew near.

So I turned back
delightedly.

 

 

8

 

 

Thus
these few shots

which now
survive

though blurred
or aged

might still display

their faint remains

 

of such

(forgotten)

 

happiness.

 

 

 

 

 


 

(This is my third

Birthday blog post.

πŸŽ‚

After 30 years of spending them alone (and ill)
I often feel sadness, on the day.
It tends to emphasise continued isolation.

My uncle used to ring me.
But, since his death, the phone stays, mostly, silent.)

 

Hope everybody is well?

Do you like any of the photos?

 

Comments are always VERY welcome!

 

Thank you
for reading.

 


( art / blog / blogging / depression / goth / life / mental health / photography / poem / poems / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Pale mistress

Konica12523

 

Awake in velvet.

Blackness framed her nails.

 

Then I fought desire
but
(captured by those eyes)
lost force.

 

Resistance gone
she drew me down
toward both hungry lips
and sharp
white

teeth.

 

“Dear Lord, preserve my soul…”

I grasped at words
which fled away.

They drifted
through dead air
like falling snow.

 

Too late for escape

I noticed sounds

as if small
flapping wings
evaded sight.

Or strange
melodies were
(somehow)
produced

by tiny hands

on glinting stabs
across piano
keyboards.

 

While feeling
coldness
stretching
wide as night

over
distant trees.

 

(O life: where is thy warmth?)

 

 

 

Beside me, now
she lay
content.

Yet said

“Past victims haunt our rest.
Old wounds pollute
the psyche with
dread
mortality.”

 

 

I trembled:

Sensing

that voice

rise.

 

 

From a
void

 

 

which had

 

no

end.

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

(Above is a revised version of poem written at the age of 21.

As a lonely young man I secretly longed to meet a seductress.
Of course, I didn’t really want her to be undead or soulless.
(Though, many people I met in daily life showed little sign of having a soul, either.)

Anyway, I was always attracted by goth looking females.
So went a bit “full vampire” with this. πŸ§›πŸ»β€β™€οΈ)

 

My post-flu depression has eased, yet left me still unable to write poetry, at present.

 

Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it? πŸ™

 

Comments are always VERY welcome! πŸ™‚

 

Has anyone else spent more time on WordPress than usual, recently?

(I’ve found many interesting new artists, poets, writers, and photographers to follow.)

 

Thank you
for reading.

 


( art / beauty / blog /depression / drawing / fiction / goth / love / mental health / poem / poems / poetry /Β  romance / writing )

Monster!

Konica10237

 

 

“Hello, my dear,” the monster said.

“Who’s this?” she cried.

“Come to me, little one.”

“Hey, that’s creepy!”

“You can be a princess
in the underworld.”

“Ugh! Let go!”

“Love’s more pure beyond the grave.”

(Those hands touch
round her throat.)

 

 

Now
here I was
with a pocketknife.

Large plastic torch.

(And holy water
too.)

Sat
fearful.

Waiting
in the crypt.

 

Outside
thick fog

conceals
faint murmured
groans.

 

Some
thing moves
closer

all
the time.

 

 

 

 

 

Get ready!

 

 

It’s
nearly
midnight.

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

(Above is a piece from when I had just turned 21.
Partly inspired by old horror movies.)

 


 

Hope you are well?

My flu-type illness has improved a lot.
Though the post-viral depression lingers.

At present, I feel unable to write poetry.

 

Is anyone else spending more time online than usual?

I found the greatest benefit of that, was discovering many interesting new bloggers
(artists, poets, photographers, and writers) in recent weeks.

Some have even visited my site.

It’s so nice to connect with other creative people.

(And, perhaps I am slightly immature, but an unexpected like still gets me excited.)

 

Comments are always VERY welcome.

 

Thank you
for reading.Β Β  πŸ™‚

 

 

(Art on the blog is mine.)

 


(anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / drawing / life / mental health / poem / poems / poetry / reading / writing )

Under closed eyes

1_Page_07-1

 

 

 

“The self is not enough.
But that’s all we’ve got.”

Said a voice
across
my dream.

 

Yet I sensed a
small bright
glow

emerge
within.

 

As if some light
had already
opened

the tick
of a tiny
flower.

 

Split from
its negative

through darkness.

 

 

Under

these

still-closed

eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

(Above is a poem from when I was aged 20.
Inspired by things glimpsed during semi-conscious states.)

 

Creating verse seems beyond me, at present.

The flu, with its fevers and headaches, has eased.
But post-viral depression lingers on.

Viewing the current lockdown, from the perspective of someone
isolated by chronic illness (mainly housebound and alone) for over 30 years:
it feels rather strange to see so many people now
struggling to cope with a slightly similar situation.

If symptoms improved, restless urges for social life would also trouble me.

As fate turned-out, the chances for love, friends, or normality, faded long ago.

Of course, current restrictions could, shortly, be lifted.
While my own health problems remain incurable.

 

I thought of writing a post about dealing with solitude.

Though I worry this blog’s reach is too small, and my circumstances too unusual,
for helping others.

 

Comments are always VERY welcome! πŸ™

 

Hope everybody is well?

Have you spent more time online?

(I’ve found lots of interesting new blogs in the last few weeks.)

 

 

Thanks for reading!Β πŸ™‚

 

 

(Art on this site is mine.)


( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / poem / poems / poetry / reading / writing )

Kiss your chains

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Commotion through my heart.

I moved into her room.

Taking a straight line
though sideways seemed best.

(Sometimes you have to make do.)

 

She was ready.

 

And, afterwards, said:

“Kiss your chains!
Before you go back home.

Kiss them, honey!

 

OK.

Stand up, now.”

 

 

By then
I really
wanted
a cuddle.

 

 

But sometimes

 

you have

to make do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

(The above piece dates from when I was 20 years old.)

 

I’m too ill for writing poetry, lately.
My brain affected by a virus.
Into the fourth weekend, and it’s still continuing.

Luckily the fever and headache abated.
Though depression increased.

I resisted a break from blogging, which might have been sensible.
These Sunday posts form a chance to connect with readers, that I don’t want to lose.
With a small following, I fear being forgotten altogether, during any absence.

My anxiety about running out of food eased.
Finding empty shelves now partially refilled, in local shops.
(I could not buy preferred choices, but there were, at least, alternatives.)

 

TheΒ best thing about the last fortnight was spending more time on WordPress.

I discovered many interesting blogs.
Plus enjoyed interacting with various writers, poets, photographers, and artists.

 

Hope everybody is well?

 

HaveΒ you been online for longer than usual?

 

Comments are always VERY welcome!

 

Thank you
for reading.

 

 

 

(Art on the blog is mine.)

 


 

( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / poem / poems / poetry / reading / relationships / writing )

Secrets are for spies

9

 

 

 

Explore a face.

 

 

Mine reveals little.

 

This tired old mug:

fit only
to be endured.

 

Though
sometimes
my mouth
bears fruit.

 

 

Yet secrets remain.

 

I can’t help you with them.

 

 

 

Secrets
are for spies.

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

The poem above was the last piece of writing from my teens.

Your comments are always welcome! 😊

Hope everybody is well? πŸ™

 

Thank you
for reading.

 

(Any art or image on the blog is mine.)


 

 

Update:

Apologies if this post is less coherent than normal.
Disorientation prevents proper concentration and editing.

I’m really struggling, presently.
The virus, mentioned before, has flared up for a third weekend running.
(Assume it’s flu, but don’t understand why symptoms keep recurring, intead of easing?)

Feeling feverish, exhausted, and in great pain.
Very difficult sitting at my computer, or focussing on words.

Though I refuse to abandon blogging.

Starting to get anxious about the current situation.

Was too poorly for much shopping, during recent weeks.
Using limited reserves.

Venturing out midweek(after five days) I found supermarkets almost stripped of food.
Never seen anything like it.
Now I can’t restock.

I’ve largely been socially isolated for almost 30 years, due to chronic health problems. Going to the shops is the only place I regularly get near others.
Yet still catch colds and flu.
Buses are full of coughing people, all year round, in England.

 


( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / photography / poem / poems / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Dream triad

Konica12520

 

 

 

 

1)Β Β Β  Entrance.

 

Grotesque impressions

flashed before her mind.

Forms which moved
through shadows.

“I feel faint,” she thought
“but can’t give in.”

Intuiting
cold vastness
beyond her frightened face.

From where an updraught blew.

Its source:
that entrance
like a grave.

Steps slanted down.

What passageway was this?

She found a door
yet froze.

As if held back
by clinging vines.

Or some malign narcotic
slowly weakening
her will.

 

 

 

2)Β Β  The click.

 

With sounds of falling
dim light blinked.

Then motion
overhead
came closer.

Unknown shapes.

She braced herself.

 

And heard

the click.

 

 

 

 

3)Β Β  Ivy.

 

The door had shut.

Trapped there
groping round in darkness
hands brushed ivy.

Massed leaves
meeting fingertips.

She tore a large
old spider’s web.

While fear
suffused
her heart.

 

 

It seemed
now

such
a long
time

 

 

since

 

she had been

kissed.

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

Hello everyone!

This poem dates from when I was 19.

For me, it marks a period of using poetry and music (learning guitar) against depression.
Which had marred my previous year.

 

(Art on the blog is mine. I hope you like the painting?)

Comments are always VERY welcome! πŸ™

 

Thank you
for reading.

 

 


 

(PS:

The virus mentioned last week has flared up again.
Brain fog, exhaustion, and pain are making writing difficult.

But life would feel even lonelier without blogging.

Best wishes to you all. )


 

( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / fiction / life / mental health / painting / poem / poems / poetry / reading / writing )

Toward the Moon

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Life.

This intermission
of eternity.

 

Soul’s fragile wings
attempting flight.

 

Wrenched matter shapes us.

Under stars breath.

 

With black
for a colour
I cover some wounds.

When speech sounds hollow
from these lips.

And dreams dissolve
in gentle nuance
like farewell.

 

One tries to brush
such moods aside.

 

As prayer ascends
toward the Moon.

 

An ageless
murmur’s

 

Scant

sad

 

call.

 

 

 

 

 


 


 

The piece above is my first teenage poem, written at age 16.
No others survive from that year.

(Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?)

Comments are always VERY welcome!

Thank you for reading.

 

 


 

(PS: Am currently going down with an unknown virus.

Feeling feverish. Aching so much, even writing is painful.

Thought to keep blogging as a way of not giving in.

Being already unwell and isolated, my anxiety levels increase when new illness attacks.

I have enough food for a few days, but no support available, if things get bad.)

 

 


( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / poem / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

At an end?

scan 16

 

(Third blogiversary post.)

 

 

From a summit
the only way leads down.

 

Starting this site, three years ago, it felt like I had a mountain to climb.

Chronically ill. Isolated.
The last of our family line.

Worried a lifetime’s creative output might be lost, once I died.

Eager to preserve some work, I blogged.

Through pain, exhaustion, vertigo, brain-fog, depression, infections, migraines,
technical ignorance, self-doubt, and bereavement.

 

Told regularity was important, I stuck to Sunday posting.
Never missed a week.

 

Yet, now I’ve reached a kind of end.

Until this point the path’s been clear:
edit, then upload, past work.

But, after 224 posts, seeing poetry and prose all published,
the future looms uncertain.

Anxiety has risen.

I fret over not being a proper blogger.
Thinking my existence too dull to write about.

 

Should I just stop?

What to do next?

 

 

Here are three basic options:

 

1) Take a break?

(Which risks resumed oblivion.
Would anybody even notice I’d gone?)

 

2) Recommence Daily Notes?

(Presently terminated at 2012.)

(My concern is, these notes turn increasingly political, from 2013.
Since politics are notoriously divisive, I fear alienating valued followers.)

 

3) Recycle forgotten items?

(During the first eight months my blog remained text only; and under-tagged.
Views were very low.)

I could update selected early pieces.
Thus keeping things active: while leaving more mental energy,
for new writing.

 

(There’s also a novel, left unfinished.)

 

 

In seven days
a choice must be made!

 

 


 

 

I am sincerely grateful for your support.

And hope you continue visiting my site.Β  πŸ™

 

Comments are always VERY welcome.

 

Thanks for reading!

 

πŸ™‚

 

 

 

(Art on the blog is mine.)

 


( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / drawing / life / mental health / poetry / politics /Β  prose / reading / thoughts / writing )