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 )

Fame!

1_Page_05

 

 

Fame

when now imagined
strays
from certain wilder dreams

to tamer ones.

In any case
persists.

Just

out
of reach.

 

Though chances
ebb
my heart still
lacks

self-love
enough
to
stop

that search.

 

This quiet

craving.

 

For
some
sense of

full
esteem.

 

 

Which never

grew

 

within.

 

 

 


 

 

Fame!

 

At last. 🀩

“Beyond my wildest dreams!!”Β  πŸ™Œ πŸŽ‰

 

(Well, er, maybe not that far, but…)

 

Bristol 24/7Β  SW England’s biggest independent magazine
published a piece about me, this month:

“Blogging against oblivion

I promised them to put the link here.
And ask if you lovely people could be kind enough to click it, for a moment?πŸ™

 

That article is the only recognition I have ever had, outside of WordPress.

(Given my obscurity, age, and poor health: it might remain singular.)

The feature contains biographical information, plus artwork and photography.

 

I don’t enjoy self-promotion. Yet, perhaps, you will forgive me, on such an occasion?

So, please, take a look, if you can.

 

Did you like any of the images?

I hope you found it of some interest?

Comments are always VERY welcome!πŸ€žπŸ»πŸ™‚

 

Thank you
for reading.

 

 

(PS: Any art, or photography, on the blog is mine.)


( art / blog / blogging / depression / drawing /Β  fame / life / mental health / photography / 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 )

Elusive

Konica1248

 

 

Phrases arrive.

Discrete.
Homespun.

Through various fathomless
apertures
of sense.

Like empty sprites
word-bubbles
flash.

 

Then these visitors
(vanishing)
shrink to a speck.

Cross reeling
complexities.

 

Weaving down
past deeper veils.

Where older shades
lay mingled
in their graves.

With an
enigmatic
trace.

 

And thus
(I found)
remained.

Only certain
broken

images.

 

 

Half-

purified.

 

 

By
dream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

(Above is a revised poem, from when I was 23.)

I’m still unable to write fresh poetry, since a recent illness.
Post-viral depression eased, yet the creative spark’s gone missing.

 

 

 


 

 

 

I’ve spent more time than usual on WordPress in the last few months.
Enjoyed discovering loads of new writers, poets, artists, and photographers.

As a result the number of blogs I follow has reached about 240.
This is making it difficult to keep up!
(So far, I try to readΒ everyΒ post from blogs I follow.)

Seeing my audience grow is exciting.
(I’m truly grateful to each one of you.)

Though I also feel quite guilty, for not following back allΒ 
of those who are kind enough to follow me.
But the number (700+) seems rather large to make that practical?

 

I’d love to hear how many blogs other readers follow?

Do you think 240 is a lot?
Or am I being a WordPress wimp?πŸ™‚

Do you ever feel bad for not following people back?
Do you follow blogs you don’t actually read?

(I worry that over 300 may become hard to focus on?)

 

To be honest, I notice myself hesitate about following long-form, writers, lately.
Especially if they post more than once per day.

I’m much happier to follow those posting weekly, or infrequently.
Plus, art and photography blogs (which are often less text-heavy).

 

Comments are always VERY welcome!πŸ™

 

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

 

Thank you
for reading.

 


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

Internet magic!

 

Konica1254-1

 

What a magical place the internet seemed.

Once I signed up for e-mail, transformations began.

Charming ladies, were keen to date.
(Identifying as “hot local milfs.”)

These sounded a pleasant change
from those ice maidens
who blanked me
on lonely shopping trips.

 

Next, appeared financial offers
by the very rich.

People warned against responding.
Revealing cynical negativity.

“Your worldview must be sad, indeed,” I thought,
“Not trusting Nigerian royalty
with basic bank details.”

 

Sharp insight of strangers, also impressed.
Intuiting hidden desires.
For male enhancement products.
And female company.

How could they possibly know me, so well?
It felt a little spooky.

 

Though other messages made no sense.
As if tormented minds shared
deranged states.

Some spam undermined itself
using blatant brand names
in a web address.

 

But certain complimentary mail
one wished were genuine.

 

“You’ve done a formidable job on the blog!”
Said Google.com
“Our community’s grateful to you.”

Had tech giants noticed Me?
Then why did stats stay low?

 

A special comment lit new sparks
amid my loneliness:

“I’m extremely pleased, finding your great site!”
Wrote Ukraine high-class escort.

“I truly savoured every part of it.
And have you saved in favourite.”

 

Might this be my muse, at last?
Wistfully, I sighed.
Imagining melancholy beauty.
A passionate Slavic soul.

I yearned to hear her exotic accent.
Or speak my only Russian words.
(Perhaps provoke a smile?)

Alas!
Grown too old to meet her, now.

(Could I even afford to?)

 

Yet
a poor man still has dreams.

(Shameful
I confess.)

 

 

That internet magic
just
persists.

 

And keeps me

in

 

its spell.

 

 

 

 


 

(Should this piece have a British irony alert, at the top?
Can my sense of humour work without emojis?)

 

I took a blogging break, this month; for the first time in three years.
Had fun, discovering new sites, and interacting.

Meant to post last Sunday, but messed up.
A poem refused to go right.
Anxiety set in.
(“Maybe I can’t write poetry any more?”)

Then late night, brain-fog, and exhaustion, wore me down.
So another week was lost.

 

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

Do you ever enjoy spam?

Comments are always VERY welcome!πŸ™

Thank you
for reading.

 


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

The summons

Konica12524

 

 

Hear our call!

Come journey
into dark.

 

Where those dead
seem closer.

And the live
more lost.

 

Sense furious spirits

Curse chasms
of extinction.

 

Feel your flesh
watched

by some inhuman
eyes.

 

Let us stalk
ruthless

and empty.

 

Through echoing
passions

 

grown stronger

 

than
minds.

 

 

 

 


 

(I created this piece on the same evening as Pale mistress.

Conceiving both as “Vampire poems.”

A similar mood recurred, decades later, when City night arrived in my head.

Yet the muse has deserted me, again, since it was written.)

 

Behind such works, lay youthful dreams of romantic adventure.
A painful time: when I adored women, with no idea how to attract them.

I remember a Bauhaus gig in 1979. Then wishing for a goth girlfriend.
(While feeling they had zero interest in me.)

One photograph from around those days is on the (May 2019) post A reject.

 

Due to illness, I’m even paler and thinner, now.
Though a bit old for studs or leather!

At least I can still wear black.

πŸ–€Β  πŸ™‚

 

 


 

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

Were you ever part of a musical subculture?
Or drawn to a style connected with one?

Comments are always VERY welcome! πŸ™

 

Thank you
for reading.

 


( art / beauty / blog / drawing / goth / mental health / music / photography / poem / poems / poetry / reading / vampire / 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

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“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 )