the air dragon rippling its wings as it flew down to the ground.
The water dragon’s scales shone green and blue in the sunlight
as it slithered toward the earth dragon’s centre,
the dwelling place of fire dragons.
The elementals were intertwined
in snake-like love making,
as they have always been,
since the beginning of thought.
This was the waterfall
where dragon masters met
to discuss the future of mankind,
their spherical garden of Eden.
Their voices can still be heard
rattling through the trees nearby.
They may be the only ones to understand
the true meaning and power of such a place.
Offerings lay scattered
in honour of the dragon spirit:
prayers, wishes and desires
for sanctuary, wisdom and healing.
I left a prayer
for a loved one,
then droplets of wisdom
fell onto my page
from an unknown source,
leaving a dragon seed.
The fifth is a dragon of creation
and we are made of all five-
plus a sixth;
one fashioned by our own minds:
a dragon of power.
This poem literally dropped onto the page of my notebook somewhere in Cornwall I think (it was about 10 years ago and my brain is pretty hazy at the best of times).
It was a clearing in the middle of an ancient forest where a stream flowed through a hole in the rock to create the most amazing waterfall I'd ever seen.
I dream of the water dragon occasionally. He smiles with his watery eyes and sometimes allows me to eat one of his green and blue scales, which for some unknown reason taste like smoky bacon flavour crisps. After consuming it I usually feel empowered and awake feeling stronger and more confident.
The poem was drawn from sounds, images, feelings, legend and what I can only describe as automatic writing brought on by the incredible power emanating through the trees, wind, rocks and water. It needed very little redrafting in my opinion and I’ve retained the slightly chaotic rhythm to reflect the ambiance of the piece and the place.
...And a fresh new poem with no explanation...
Routine Procedures
Routine is like your threadbare sofa,
familiar, but will open up bed sore
style wounds on your arse
given too much time.
Routine was sold to you by your parents,
bought from teachers, exploited by slavers.
"Stand up straight, line up, get a job",
spend your wages on routine fashions.
Routine is four walls at home,
then work, then home, then work,
then bright lights and impulse buys of Asda,
then home, then work, then home.
Routine is angular like a bony elbow
or the corner of your room
in which you hide, watching
the four corners of your TV screen.
Routine is tapping and swiping,
tapping and swiping
your rectangular devices
like caressing your comfort blanket.
Routine is the serial killer,
carefully planned slow rotting
death like teasing your carotid artery
with knife, hoping for slow bleed.
You're not built for this routine monotony,
you're not a metronome.
You have natural rhythm beating
the skins below your surface,
a malleable universal melody.
Break the bony elbow of routine,
go off path into woods,
follow the dryads to places without walls,
where everything is curvy and waiting.
Get lost in a place you've never been,
fear not, you need to lose yourself,
to break routine
to feel again
the sexy twin thighs of contentment and freedom.
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