THE MIDNIGHT BIKER

 As an enthusiastic longstanding biker and an equally enthusiastic digital artist newbie, I've recently combined these two interests of mine by launching my first pictorial blog – RebelBikerDude's AI Biker Art (click here to view it), in which I present a very diverse range and ever-increasing number of galleries containing my biker/motorcycling-themed digital artwork – the creation of which, incidentally, has proved not only very enjoyable but also extremely therapeutic while I've been dealing with the stress of ongoing medical issues. Moreover, it has also inspired me to write the following brand-new biker-themed poem earlier tonight – at midnight, appropriately enough – which I shall in turn be illustrating accordingly via a gallery of images in my RebelBikerDude art blog very soon (one of which appears above), so be sure to look out for it there [29 May update: I've now completed my Midnight Biker gallery of images - so click here to view it]. As for the Midnight Biker: my concept of him is as a sinister, supernatural biker who seeks to steal and ride away with our vital life-force, our very soul, while we lie asleep at night. But can he be quelled? Read this poem and find out!

THE MIDNIGHT BIKER

What if Midnight were a biker,
Cruising the back streets and alleys
Of our subconscious as we sleep,
A dangerous, dominant darkness,
Lustful and louche in leather,
Slouching dissolutely against a streetlamp-lit wall,
Or sitting astride a twin-wheeled monster of menace,
A dread shadow hag-riding our prone somnolent slumber
Beneath the silent setting of the sun,
Confrontational and confident, powerful and purposeful,
As he gazes down disdainfully upon our weak, submissive mortality,
Pitilessly upon our drowsing dream-led ramblings
Through the cryptic hinterlands of our hidden soul?

But even as he steps forth from the subtle shades of evening,
Ever-changing yet ageless, embodying our primeval fears
Of darkness, of dwindling, diminishing, and ultimately of death,
And now about to claim and to conquer,
To overpower and overcome,
With chilling, all-consuming certainty,
Another soul to steal and ride away with
On his steeled, wheeled steed of steel,
The first flush of Dawn appears upon the horizon,
A new day inexorably approaching,
To banish all nocturnal soporific phantoms from our mind –
And the Midnight Biker is gone,
For now…

 

THE LUMINOUS OWL

The alleged existence of anomalous luminous birds, particularly owls, that glow brightly in the dark has been discussed and documented for centuries, yet remains unconfirmed scientifically. While writing a review of this fascinating subject for my sister blog ShukerNature recently, I sat for a while, imagining what an extraordinary sight such a bird must be, and the following lines came into my mind. So I wrote them down, yielding my very own verbal picture of a luminous owl.

THE LUMINOUS OWL

A marvellous fowl is the luminous owl.
It glitters and glisters and gleams.
It lights up the night in its shimmering flight,
A vision of wonder and dreams

THE PEACOCK CAT

(© Worth1000.com)

I have always been fascinated by the flamboyant beauty of a peacock's train, each feather proffering a veritable eye gazing down upon an adoring, venerating audience – an audience that equally would worship and has indeed worshipped in awe the aloof but ever-seductive entity of mystery and midnight that peruses the world through the golden eyes of a cat.

So when I encountered online this spectacular photo-manipulated composite of the pavonine and the feline reproduced here, what else could I do but compose a paean of praise in poetry to its esoteric extravagance?

THE PEACOCK CAT

The peacock cat purrs softly amid the fire of the firmament,

Its burnished plumes glowing and gleaming in blazing beauty

As its glorious train sweeps downward to trace across the face of the world.

Each eye, every ocellus, gazing forth from the splendour of its emerald feathers,

Peers with timeless stillness and silence upon the lands beneath,

All-knowing, all-seeing, all-dreaming, all-being.

The lands receive its hues, its light, its shades, and its shadows –

Multicoloured, varicoloured, parti-coloured, many-coloured.

A kaleidoscope of ever-shifting, ever-shaping patterns embellishing our world.

Life surges, satiated, inebriated, by polychromatic potions and elixirs

Cascading in torrents of tinctures from the prismatic palette of its exquisite soul,

As its train lies settled awhile, an ever-watchful extension of its feline being.

And then the peacock cat moves on, withdrawing its divine train of turquoise and topaz,

Of sapphire and sardonyx, carmine and cochineal, agate and amber,

Ultramarine, aquamarine, cobalt and emerald, drawn out and away from our world.

And what is left? No colour, no light, no subtle hues or vivid vibrancy.

Look around at all that is gone, all that is lifeless, listless, and lost,

Our grandiose achievements strewn in Ozymandian folly, unseen and unseeing.

The vast void of eternity encompasses us in its sable spider-webs of dreadful darkness,

Nothing but nothing remains, where, formerly, yet all too briefly, there was colour, and life.

The peacock cat is gone, and now, and forever, so too has what had once been our world.

THE DREAM-CATCHER

When I saw the above image online, it immediately suggested to me the concept of an otherworld dream-catcher, a silent preternatural being standing unseen beside us as we sleep, ready to capture the dreams that we shall dream that night. So that is what I wrote.

THE DREAM-CATCHER

The dream-catcher stands unseen, still, beside our beds,

Powdered skin as pale as bleached bone upon a beach,

A tippet of swan feathers around his shoulders,

A dense ruff of white owl plumes encircling his neck.

His long fingers snatch at the dreams that flutter by,

Like ghostly moths in the miasma of midnight.

Then he blows them softly inside our sleeping minds,

Keeping watch over them, and us, through the dark hours.

And when dawn comes, when the bright sun wakes in splendour,

He is gone, leaving no dream nor any trace here,

Gone away to ensnare new dreams for new sleepers,

Until our dream lives are over, our dream lives done.

THE GREEN ELEPHANT

On a number of occasions down through the years, I have been inspired to write poems and verses after seeing beautiful, bewitching works of art online. And today was another such occasion, in which I penned the following poem after encountering the spectacular illustration presented above.

THE GREEN ELEPHANT

I dreamed one night that I had seen

An elephant, but it was green.

It stood amid a leafy glade

With light and shadow overlaid.

A patch of sunshine on its brow

That glowed like gold, I know not how.

Its opalescent tusks glowed too,

A pale, pellucid, pearly hue.

It gazed at me with stately calm,

A scene suffused with leafy balm,

A green cathedral, still and bright,

A place of wonder, dreams, and light.

Serene and silent, arched and tall,

So too its guardian of all.

Majestic in the mellow mist,

Where dreams can linger, hope exist.

Its trunk rose up in slow salute,

Its sunlight-sprinkled message mute,

Yet eloquent inside my mind

Before I left its realm behind

And woke once more within my room,

No green or gold amid its gloom.

Just fading memories remain,

Until one day I'm home again.

THE FRACTURED GOD

Here is another short poem that I wrote after encountering a remarkable example of artwork online, in this instance the fascinating illustration presented here.

THE FRACTURED GOD

Behold the fractured god in fragmented florescence,

His turquoise-tortured visage tormented by its trace.

His eyes by shade are shielded, lost in lidded languor,

His mad mind dreams our fancy, our fear, our form, our face.

WHO KNOWS...?

(c) Anne Wipf

The following verse wrote itself inside my head while I was gazing online at this wonderful fantasy artwork produced by Anne Wipf - so here it is:

WHO KNOWS...?

Who knows what wonders
And miracles be
When no-one's watching?
Not you, and not me...?

THE GREEN MAN

While browsing information online concerning the ancient European symbol of fertility and rebirth known as the Green Man for a future article that I am planning to write on this subject, I came upon these extraordinary, surreal images, above and below, which inspired me to pen the following poem.

THE GREEN MAN

Cometh the Green Man,

Stepping forth from the meadows of our ancient mind,

Shedding leaves of withered verdigris

As rebirth restores him anew,

To replenish, regenerate, reactivate, revive,

Reproduce and reassemble, recreate and resurrect.

Fertility, fecundity, his horns imbue their essence,

Erect and branching outward to embrace, enthral, encompass.

He strides from shade and shadow,

Confronting noontide sunlight

With viridescent swagger

And cuprous confrontation:

"I return, and return,

Every day I relive,

The world is mine for as long as I so choose it to be,

For as long as I nurture its nature,

For as long as I seed it, sustain it,

For as long as my beating heart revitalises its existence."

And then, he is gone –

Lost among the sunbeams and solitude

Of a bright, beautiful, golden afternoon,

Heading onward to the green twilight of tomorrow,

Where the cycle of rejuvenation, reinvigoration,

Will begin all over again.

So be it now,

And let it be so forever more.

LILAC LAKE FANTASIA

Sadly, for reasons of space, the following word-picture poem of mine could not be included in the original edition of Star Steeds and Other Dreams. So I am delighted to present it here instead, as a Star Steeds blog exclusive, its lilac and lavender hues of blissful tranquility offering a welcome respite from the furious frenzy of hectic everyday life.

LILAC LAKE FANTASIA

Morning's first sky-filtered sun-rays

Trace ellipses green and gold

On a lilac lake's clear waters –

Violet-tinged in rippling folds,

Each caressing amber fishes

Darting long in rapid flight

Through its purple undulations

'Neath the heavens' soft blue light.

And the fleecy clouds drift onwards,

Each reflected in its gaze

Of translucent violescence                                                       

O'er a spool of silver haze.                                                       

Shining shots of sapphire swallows                                        

Skim and rocket out of sight

As their sun-deflecting shadows
Stream in speeding, soaring flight. 
And the sun's auroral presence

Glows from deep within the lake,                                                   

As its silhouette of saffron

Shakes in fleeting golden flakes.

                                                                                                   

Now the deep blue vales of shadow                                      

Prom the willows bowed in grief

Dapple racing, circling ripples,

As a green uncurling leaf

Sailing round in swift gyrations

From the centre's spiralled sphere

Holds a single flashing dewdrop –

Or a willow's mournful tear?

And above each mauve reflection

Drift the souls of lakeside flowers –

Rosy, golden-wingèd cherubs -

Borne through fountains, groves, and bowers,

While the nymph of lilac waters

Moves unseen in dappled shade.

She, the naiad of the lakeside;

She, the spirit of the glade;

Gliding swiftly through the waters,

Cool and lucent as the dawn,

As this lavender enchantress

Through the countryside is borne

On the zephyr's ruffling shoulders

Through the heavens' violet shade,

As her countenance of beauty,

Past all mortals, is displayed

In the lilac lake's reflection,

Shining softly 'neath the skies,

Where the cerulean bluebird

Through the morning's shadow flies.

WINTER WOLF

 I saw this beautiful illustration online today, and felt its winter wolf inspire me, impel me, to compose the following lines in its honour.

WINTER WOLF

White wolf of winter, of starlight and icicle,

Padding softly through the silver trees in blue frozen haze,

Its chilling breath swirling, curling, a smoke of sudden snowflakes,

Its frosted fur sparking and shimmering in pale, pellucid scintillation,

Its azure eyes imparting a glacial gleam of cool frigid fire.

It turns and gazes at me as I stand before its mesmerising presence,

Resistance is futile, is fickle, submission is solace, is all.

I never suspected that death would be so subtle, so silent.

But then the bright sun filters down from the treetops,

Down through the branches to where we both stand.

And the winter wolf vanishes -

A spectre swept past-ward,

A dream dreamed and done with,

A shadow extinguished,

A vision discounted.

The snow keeps on falling as I retrace homeward,

The winter wolf's footprints my lone steadfast guide,

I still hear its howling, its heartbeat, all round me,

I still feel its cool chilling breath on my face,

And know that one day it will come, it will find me.

And I shall be there, shall be waiting anew.

THE STAG OF HEAVEN

I saw the above picture earlier tonight while browsing online, and its strange, melancholic beauty drew from me the following lines, which echo the solitude of my own existence.

THE STAG OF HEAVEN

Gently, calmly, in stately silence,
The hart of Heaven, the celestial stag,
Steps forward through the graveyard of my life.

Its leafy coat, grass-green amid the moonlight,
Flows like forest waves upon the lake,
And glows like living foxfire in my eyes.

Its antlers bear the promised buds of future years,
The dreams that may be mine in other days,
And I can only wait and hope and pray.

It passes from my sight, the land is dark,
No phosphorescent glimmer, the waters still and cold,
And I? Alone once more, as ever it shall be.

   

BLUE TIGER

Remarkable as it may seem, blue-furred tigers have been reliably reported on several occasions from certain regions of China and Korea, and strands of their fur have even been found on trails utilised by these evanescent, dream-like beasts. How magical it must have been to have seen such a creature...


BLUE TIGER

Once,
In a dream it might have been,
I saw a blue tiger.

As cerulean as the sky,
Ethereal yet awesome,
Eclipsing even the scarlet rays of dawn,
Its strange, unearthly hue
Filled the heavens with its wonder,
Gleamed in the gaudy plumes of jungle birds,
Glimmered in the plush, powdered wings of butterflies,
Glittered in the cool depths of a forest pool.

It lowered its proud, regal head,
Shaking it in the pool's limpid waters,
And ripples gyrated madly across the dark surface,
Skimming and shivering,
No longer calm, no longer tranquil,
A liquid mirror in startled disruption.

Refreshed, the tiger raised its head,
Majestic, aloof, magnificent,
Quelling the ripples, the mirror restored.

And the tiger's azure reflection
Took shape,
Took form,
Took substance,
Took life.

Then,
The tiger opened its eyes -

And I was awake.

THE FIRE LION

One day, I was gazing idly at the flames in the fire when I saw a lion there, stirring amid the very heart of the blaze...

THE FIRE LION

Out of the flames the fire lion steps,
Padding slowly, insouciantly,
His mane ablaze, his eyes aglow,
Amber and scarlet, crimson and gold.
A coruscating kingdom is his to rule,
To reign amid the fiery splendour,
The burnished resplendence,
Emblazoned, eternal,
Incarnate, infernal,
A feline conflagration,
Flickering in the dark,
And casting forth sparks,
As he burns through the evening
Like a candle through shadows,
Torching my dreams and my hopes
Till they shrivel in cinders
Of unfulfilled promise.
And only their embers remain,
Now that the fire lion has triumphed,
Now that the fire lion is gone.

   

IT'S HALLOWE'EN TIME WITH THE OWL AND THE PUSSYCAT!

Here is my darkly delicious (in every sense!) Hallowe'en twist to Edward Lear's much-loved tale of the Owl and the Pussycat!

IT'S HALLOWE'EN TIME WITH THE OWL AND THE PUSSYCAT!

The Witch-owl and Wizard-cat set out that night
On a broomstick that flew through the sky.
Then drove a black hearse packed with many a curse,
And laughed as the miles soon sped by.

The cat gazed long at his feathered friend,
And purred with a smile that was wide.
"Oh big fat Owlie," he thought to himself,
How tasty you would be inside, inside, inside,
How tasty you would be inside!"

To the Owl then said Pussy: "You elegant hussy,
How sweet is your form, and how wide!
We two must be married, too long have we tarried,
I yearn for you, Owl, as my bride!"

And so, to honour their precious love,
They entered a café to dine,
And here, all evening, they ate and they drank
Its finest cuisine and sweet wine, sweet wine, sweet wine,
Its finest cuisine and sweet wine.

"Just one dish remains," said the cat with a grin,
"'Tis a rare and an elegant fowl.
Can you guess, my true love, just what I'm thinking of?
Well done - you're correct! Yes, it's Owl!!!"

Alone he now dined, the Wizard-cat,
With only a runcible spoon,
Then, wiping Owl plumes from whiskers of white,
He danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon,
He danced by the light of the moon.