Midnight Oils – a poem

Smoking the midnight oils

& to recall those lines of opening:

‘I’m your friend,

I’m not like the others.’

A fickle lie told in far Asia,

‘nary askance her eye neither,

arms open and inviting,

a sari of saffron summers.

The bazaar beat jabbering on,

haze in smell overwhelming,

sights seeing nothing in the whole

but the open lure of the charras promising…

Are You Ready…For Life? – a musing

The answer to the above question is a resounding ‘No’.

(hope you’re all hale and healthy, by the way)

I’ve been on and off posting on WordPress without any real regularity for close to a year now. Going from unemployed to working in the finance sector has made a big dent in my management of this blog. I make no promises, no final statements, because, as Isaac Asimov put it, ‘finished products are for decadent minds’.

I’m definitely at least a little bit decadent. :p

All my resolutions to get back to posting every other day, or every week, have fallen by the wayside. In general, life has caught up with me and hence the lack of regular, timely posts. This is not to say that I have not been writing, however. I’ll get to that in a moment. First I wish to lay down what all I’ve been doing.

Work… Work is long. The finance industry is not forgiving of mistakes, and there is very little leeway. Things must be done ‘just so’ or someone else with more attention to detail will do it instead. Thank the heavens that is one of my defining qualities in the work environment.

In the past three months a bank of three desks that can seat 36 has gone down to 25, a handful of those staff being new and so requiring training. It’s a job that you need to ask a lot of questions during your acclimatisation period, and that appears (in my experience) to take around 3 months. It did for me, anyway.

We have a lot of overtime going, and so I’ve been rocking that the past two months. Been putting in roughly 20 extra hours a month, and recently starting the work day at 0730 to get a head start. I’ve needed it. Took on extra duties, such as training new staff (which has been a joy and a detriment both) and organising a systems upgrade.

I get home, brain fried from looking at invoices and badly written letters, wanting to just chill out and- well, most of you know now the story of how one feels after a working day! Nevertheless I have been writing, and plenty. Apart from those days when I worked 0730 to 2000, with an hour lunch. In the toilet at work, in my head on the bus, on the weekend, on my phone whenever I get a chance. It’s just the posting of them which hasn’t taken place.

Nevertheless, it’s tardy of me and I can only apologise. To myself and anyone who reads this blog. Also, I can tell me to pull my socks up and generally fix up. There are literally tens of random poems on my phone, on pieces of paper scattered around my room, in torn up notebooks in my bag, and so on.

Yet writing has been happening. My Leo Ninsei series continues in good stead. No editing or release of the second poetry collection as of yet, however. Still, two new Leo Ninsei novels (full ones, maybe about 350 pages long, approximately 100 chapters) have been completed in the past 7 months. The first, The Wild Diamond of the West, and the 2nd, completed on 20_05_15, called Made of Grade.

I managed to book this entire week off and the time has gone by so quickly. Have averaged about 5000 words a day, which is, in my opinion, a solid writing effort.

I am now 26 and there are grown up things to do and think about.

Pension schemes and shares, health care, overtime, family holidays, what new pens I want to buy…

Etc, etc.

Am I ready for life?

No, but I’m damn well trying.

Peace, y’all.

Asian Mist.


The Priest… – a poem

He has learned the right spells,

The priest of now and before,

future seer and past holder.

The correct words he knows

To allow us to grasp

And scrabble for all the magic

Left in the world.

We see through his eyes,

We hear through his prayers,

And we follow in blind faith

The teachings of aeons gone

So that we might clutch

At magic otherwise lost.

Arcane words elsewise

Without meaning, the

Symbols long forgotten

And import strange

For us to learn of

For it fits nothing we know

Any more.

But we follow,

For the priest

He has learned the right terms,

Knows the hand movements,

Wills us to follow him,

And in blind faith

We trip straight after

For our health

And our souls.

Troubled Talks – a poem

Troubled, the talk grows
In circles flat, removed
From the loop and cooped
Up in sick beds disinfected.

What sick rose grew
In the dead afternoons,
Those ash passionate hours?

The surprise in sordid outcomes,
It shocks and dismays,
But the disc revolves on,
And the black rose grows,
Thorns in the gut,
Dangerously alone.

Kubla’s Musings – a poem

Opium dreams whisper colours
In shades listless but sharp,
Gem cold facets glimmering
With pill dull lab dust.

What shadows grow over
The mountains slumbering?
Vials tell stories of frost
And ice vines eat lust.

Space foreign rhymes
Set to formal pentameter
Ring out over the trails,
A Khan’s song on a rail.

Under the world and far below,
The Khan of Kubla sings,
Of dreams and toothache juice,
The poet’s uneasy truce.

Ice snakes slither with crunches,
Crackles of a cold world living,
Metastasized wildlife unfeeling
Lives on, and the poet, for forgetfulness,
Goes on weeping.

In the Mountain Hall – a poem

Caverns aeons long unoccupied
In mountain crevasses crenellated
Echo epic with a dropping drip,
Series in unheard ice formations
Cracking as only ice can.

Stillness in rime
The end of light and time,
Pools stored and never released,
Echoes in caverns unheard,
The unfriendly ice tales told
In caverns never upon looked…