#sketchythiings

[sketchythiings]

In a way we all retain a little of the soul of sweet Gawain: our voices rise to claim the tests we later leave in shame.   Honour is a concept we are no longer comfortable thinking of; there's too much stress and misery in the meaning of a cast-off glove.   So we keep our words as best we're able - leaving the rest to the time of fables.

“chivalry is dead, they said” (5/120)

today’s poem was inspired by Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (14th C.), Anonymous

[sketchythiings]

Some secret room inside my brain must hold the sleeping nature of my soul.   Whilst worn grey matter moves the mouth and puppeteers the habits learned by rote   inside this cradled space I dream of poetry, and stars, and falling leaves.   A hidden garden such as this could grow beyond its aging shell - unless   I fail to feed it, or neglect the gentle care an artist's soul knows best.

a muted month 29/31

[sketchythiings]

Autumn turns me philosophical - nostalgic for a thought I've never had. In passing faces I see the rain-streaked lives that sprawl across this city. Behind each set of grey eyes lies a story I want to tell.

a muted month 11/31

[sketchythiings]

I sent you a poem on a postcard and look where it got me. Cloistered inside the confessional booth, trapped and tortured, now I must atone for my sins. This note is necessary to exorcise the memory of finding a postcard crumpled, barely showing through the wreckage the words I had wrought from my heart's deep forge.

a muted month 30/31

[sketchythiings]

The moon mocks me with memories of you. A pale pock-marked face, unhindered and wry, floating effortlessly through the sky - untouchable. Uncatchable. Unclaimable.

the poetry machine 21/30

[sketchythiings]

A soft October sky fills my rising eyes as on a cloud I soar to heights only dreamed of before.   This dawn is drawn in a new language, for the morning light fills the floor to the foot of the bed, where it finds two halves of one body - mine, finally reunited with yours.

a muted month 20/31

[sketchythiings]

"I am trying to push you," is what I told them, though in their minds they added "...off the edge of a cliff..."   It's not like that. It's just that I see minds like mine but blessed with more time, and more chances to use them.   Coupled with a growing fear of how quickly it all goes, the heart lurches for a hand to pull, at first, and then push   beyond yourself.

a muted month 17/31

[sketchythiings]

Sometimes they come like filings to a magnet, like air to a vacuum. Sometimes they happen like they were fated.   On off days I stare at blank pages like by observing them I could change their state. But this   was never a science. This was always a fall, a failed experiment, a strange transmutation.

the poetry machine 24/30