The Weekly Tide – Poetry from Geelong Cereal's Poets' Palace
My Dragon, The Tetralogy: Part 1 – My Dragon
by Ivor Steven
Original Post
A monstrous Dragon, breathing fire
Did arise from the gurgling mire
Dark gangrenous green, from head to tail
Claws blackened, sharp as nails
Purple secretions, from his scaly chest
A spear harpooned, a grizzly mess
Nostrils ablaze, bloodied red
Eyes seeping yellow maggot heads
My Dragon’s crying, and nearly dead
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Forecast
And so again
I wake to that season
which knows not of Summer's sun,
nor the budding colours of Spring.
It knows not of Winter's chilled kiss,
nor Autumn's leaves at play.
It's a season of and within myself,
where my eyes might gleam
should I find small joys,
but the gleam is set amidst frost.
It's a season of and within myself,
where any good faith in my worth
hides behind clouds laced
with linings of silver that whisper
of wealth beyond reach.
It's a season of and within myself,
where any smile I'd wear
feels like a tattered rag at my skull.
It's a season of and within myself,
where tides swell heavy
deep in my chest,
and should they erode
my sandy heart,
there are shells that sound not of oceans,
but rather of baited breath,
laboured in its waiting
for seasons beyond and outside myself...
When I again know of Summer's sun,
and the budding colours of Spring.
When I again know of Winter's chilled kiss,
and Autumn's leaves at play...
When I again find my place in the world,
away from that season of me.
Digitally Altered Illustration by Brett J Cole - Based on Public Domain image from "The Illustrated London News", 1856
C'est La Vie
And so they all
said c'est la vie,
as we sailed upon
the restless sea,
but not a word
was said by me,
as I hung my head
in shame.
The drowning
drifted endlessly,
and I watched them
almost enviously...
For I could sadly
and plainly see,
that though afloat,
we were the same.
At the bow the dying
desperately clambered.
Softly a woman
nearby stammered,
'Can't they see
we all are damned?'
But, still, the damned
ever came.
'We move too slow!'
roared one young man,
'We’re crowded and
at weight’s demand!'
And thus, he took
another’s hand,
and cast them to sea
with disdain.
'The man is right!'
some people cried,
while others claimed
the young man lied.
The meek feigned that
they couldn't decide,
but knew their fate
all the same.
The sea seemed calm
compared to that storm,
as the deck was awash
with vile scorn,
and tears and blood
were heavily worn,
when at end
only few remained.
'See?' cried the man
who'd started the notion,
'I now see land’s
horizon approaching.'
Then looking surprised
he was cast to the ocean…
fallen foul of his
very own game.
Depression Dawns Again
I often feel I was born with a shadow,
one that already found its way to me,
long before the light hit my skin,
or the air first found my lungs.
A shadow that is as much of me
as I am something of it,
beginning as I may end,
but not ending the beginnings I have.
Not yet.
Because we did begin,
and we do begin,
and we will begin,
each day that we're here.
Together.
I can't even call it a bad thing,
we're too familiar with one another.
It just... is.
As ever present as I am
as we dance through our days,
stepping on each other's toes.
Without it, I am not me.
Without me, it is not.
We're both simply here...
Together.
Sometimes in silence.
Sometimes in words.
Sometimes in weary rage.
Sometimes in weary acceptance.
But we are here.
Together.
Even when light hits my skin,
and a grateful sigh finds my lungs.
A sundial ever in darkness,
trying to cast my own light,
despite the shadow I carry.
