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 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.

THE LOCH NESS MONSTER - IN AUDIO!!

The Loch Ness monster (Richard Pullen)

Here's an early preview of an in-progress project relating to my poetry - a forthcoming audio edition of Star Steeds and Other Dreams!!

The Loch Ness Monster meets Star Steeds! Check it out!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=00LPlCmHOYU&feature=youtu.be

My sincere thanks go to Silas Hawkins for his wonderful interpretation of my poem!

OBERON'S GARDEN

Hidden deep within the shadowed lands of Faerie is the garden of their king, Oberon – a setting of magical delight, where shy unicorns roam in freedom, bright flowers sing with dulcet voices, and Oberon’s entrancing queen, Mab, reposes in sunlit splendour. Let us step inside this enchanted place for a moment, and see what we shall see…

OBERON'S GARDEN

Sing, yellow linnet, of Oberon’s garden –
Mystical, wonderful, strange to behold,
Hidden away in the deep realms of Faerie,
Dappled in shadows of green and of gold.

Here singing flowers trill their soft lilting music,
Violets, red roses, and other fair blooms,
Borne from all seasons to serenade softly
Oberon, resting in gossamer rooms.

And through these gardens enchanted and lovely
Bright wingèd steeds flit from rainbows to streams.
Timid and shy, here the unicorns frolic,
Misty and distant as overnight dreams.

Pixies race swiftly on glittering beetles,
Harnessed with gossamer, saddled with leaves,
Past tinkling fountains and waterfalls tumbling,
Through groves and woodlands each chariot weaves.

Mab lies serenely in deep beds of sunshine,
Graceful and pale as the bright morning star,
Strange fairy beauty, enchanting and mystic,
Born in a land that lies hidden afar.

Now, as the evening draws o’er this strange setting,
Stars twinkle softly like lanterns of Night,
And when we look back at Oberon’s garden,
We shall find that it has vanished from sight.

It has slipped back to the kingdom it came from,
Back to the fairyland realms of the past,
For in our world nothing lives on forever –
Not even fairies forever may last.

THE ROBIN AND THE CROSSBILL

There are many traditional, quite often poignant religious folktales featuring animals, some of which are well known, others less so. In the following poem, I have combined two of these age-old stories, both of which are Easter-themed - the famous legend of how the robin gained its red breast, and the less familiar legend of how the crossbill acquired its twisted beak.

THE ROBIN AND THE CROSSBILL

A tall wooden Cross cast its pitiless shadow
Across a green hill ‘neath the grey, leaden sky.
For mankind had crucified Jesus, its Saviour,
And left Him there helpless to suffer and die.

But two tiny birds came to visit Lord Jesus,
Two small humble creatures with hearts full of love.
The little brown robin and bright crimson crossbill,
Each blessed by the Light of their Father Above.

When Jesus looked down and beheld the small robin,
He smiled at him softly, and down from His breast
His blood trickled slowly like deep scarlet teardrops,
And falling below stained the robin’s white chest.

The crossbill in vain used his bill to remove the
Cruel nails that impaled Jesus’ hands and His feet,
But prised with such force that his bill crossed and twisted
‘Ere, strength being spent, he conceded defeat.

And e’er since that day when they visited Jesus,
The bill of each crossbill is twisted and curled,
While Jesus’ red blood on each robin’s chest lingers,
Reminding us just how much God loves our world.

THE UNICORN

Unicorn (Johfra Bosschart)

My homage to the fairest, most magical beast never to have existed...

THE UNICORN

A shaft of bright golden sunbeams broke through the leafy canopy of the forest, illuminating a clearing deep within its verdant, secluded heart - and also illuminating a wondrous creature, standing sedately like a living statue hewn from shimmering starlight.

It resembled an elegant snowy-hued horse, but its noble brow bore a single, central horn - long and finely spiralled, upon which the sunbeams joyfully danced.

Here was the forest guardian, the very spirit of nature incarnate - for this was that most rare and fabulous of animals, the unicorn.

Suddenly, however, the distant sound of a hunting horn pierced the stillness of this magical scene.

Instantly alert, the unicorn raised its head, momentarily betraying flickers of alarm, and of sadness too, within its shining eyes.

Then, as softly as the echo of a single heartbeat, it was gone, lost to human sight and knowledge within its woodland sanctuary.

THE VAMPIRE

Kiefer Sutherland in the cult vampire-biker movie 'The Lost Boys'

Just for a change, the following composition of mine does not feature in my book Star Steeds and Other Dreams. As you may know, highly-acclaimed graphic artist Andy Paciorek and I are planning various collaborations. One of these may result in a future book on supernatural entities of the night. Consequently, I'm currently preparing some samples of text for it, retelling these entities' legends and lore in lyrical prose. So here, in an exclusive preview, is one of them. I hope you enjoy it!


                                         THE VAMPIRE

Alone with the ghosts of days long departed, stretching back in silent homage, I dream that I am gazing into a looking glass and fancy that I see there, staring back out at me, a tall grim shadow, a wraith in human form that haunts my very being, chills my innermost essence with its dread pallid countenance, mesmerising and yet also captivating me with its icy doom. I have so many questions to ask this creature of darkness and night, I scarcely know where to begin.

Why do you and your kind exist?

“We exist to remind humanity that sometimes not even death can bring release from the evil that is nurtured in life. We exist to feed upon the fear that such realisation generates, to feed and grow stronger and wait.”

But why feed upon blood too?

“Blood is life, blood symbolises all that has dried up and long since disappeared from our shrivelled, exsanguinated existence. When we imbibe it, we are temporarily regenerated, rejuvenated, and reborn. For a short span of time, we are fully alive, even if only during the veiled hours of night. We may never feel the warmth of the sun, but we are sustained by the coolness of the moon and by the fire of the stars, nourishing and restoring us, empowering our living death with deathless life.”

I stand before this mirrored being of nightmare, and imagine with trembling electric horror its long slender fangs pressing so softly, imperceptibly, against my exposed neck, seeking the throbbing jugular beneath before sliding within, to freeze forever my existence with a single scarlet-trickling kiss of eternity.

Why?

“Life is fleeting, death is immortal. Those who become one of us shall persist forever.”

But what kind of existence will it be? Nothing but an undead, half-living, surely, surrounded by death but unable to find release.

“True enough, but that is the punishment for having lived an evil life. Only a stake or the burning caress of sunlight can end our torment, and then shall we decay and crumble, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, our long-postponed mortality finally upon us. Until then, we must linger, and hunger, and wonder…”

Only a dream, and a foolish, impossible dream at that. True, now that I am awake again I could indeed stand before the looking glass. Yet I know only too well that to do so would be futile, it would serve no purpose. How could I hope to elicit answers from my own reflection? After all, being a vampire I would have no reflection...

'Kiss' - Sue Woodlace(?), 1994

I'd very much like to include this wonderful artwork in a future publication of mine, so I've been trying to trace its artist for a very long time, ever since I purchased my numbered print of it, in fact, one Sunday afternoon in 1994 at the Sunday market formerly held regularly at the Holiday Wharf in Birmingham, England. I can't quite read her signature on the picture - her surname may be Woodlace, Woodlane, Woodlore, or even something else entirely! - but if anyone reading this blog has any information regarding her identity and/or current contact details, I'd love to hear from you! 

FLYING HORSE FANTASIA

'Flying Horses' (Ezra Tucker)

One of the most exquisite examples of cinematic animation that I have ever seen is contained within the ‘Pastoral’ segment of Walt Disney’s animated masterpiece ‘Fantasia’, and features a phalanx of flying horses spiralling downwards from the sky to settle gracefully upon the surface of a sparkling blue lake. This poem is my word-picture homage to that breathtakingly beautiful scene.

FLYING HORSE FANTASIA

From the heavens’ rainbowed archways
To the clear blue lake below
Soars a flock of flying horses,
Down and down, where rivers flow
Round the willows and the fountains,
Past the sparkling waterfalls,
To the mountains and the valleys,
Where lone Echo softly calls.

Down and down they swoop in glory,
Flowing manes and silver tails,
Through the lilac clouds of Summer,
Over meadowlands and vales.
Round they circle, wheeling swiftly
In a graceful sweeping flight,
As the sky pours forth its tribute
In a shower of golden light.

Down they glide towards the water
As their wondrous wings surge round.
Then alighting on the surface,
They fold back without a sound,
As these equine swans of Summer
Drift across the azure lake,
Heads held high in noble splendour,
Pinions trailing in their wake.

Blossom swirls upon the waters
Like a host of golden charms,
While the air is filled with singing,
And the sound of murmured psalms.
Then the wingèd colts neigh loudly
As their graceful parents glide
Far across the lustrous waters
To the lake’s far-distant side.

Both as regal as the sunset,
One as snowy as a dove,
And the other, black as Midnight,
Each with eyes so full of love,
As they call in dulcet voices
To their boisterous colts behind,
Shining blue, and pink, and lemon,
Flowing manes all intertwined.

And as Morning’s sunlight shimmers
On the waters’ mirror bright,
It reflects five flying horses
Soaring slowly out of sight,
Past the golden drifts of sunbeams,
And the shadows of the morn,
To idyllic lands beyond them
In a pastel-shaded dawn.

A DIFFERENT KIND OF DRAGON

Dragon (Dr Karl Shuker)

What would happen, I wonder, if, tired of being slain by knights errant, the ancient dragons of evil decided to adopt new guises in order to survive and continue spreading their malign influence within the modern world of mankind?

A DIFFERENT KIND OF DRAGON

Are you there, o monstrous dragon,
Coal-black scales like pools of Night?
Are your hellfire eyes still burning,
Flaming orbs of scarlet light?

Do your spiralled horns still glitter
On your brow like evil towers?
And your heart of bitter longing,
Does it bloom like fiery flowers?

Old you are, yet ever-changing,
No more gusts of toxic breath,
Spurts of fire through roaring nostrils,
Beating wings, or gaze of death.

Smitten by St George’s valour,
Risen now to strike anew,
Born again in new disguises,
More deceptive now, as through

All the lands you steal unnoticed,
No more talons, scales, or flame.
Now you dress in human garments,
Yet your soul remains the same –

Tempting human minds to vanquish
All the love they know is true,
In the guise of friends or kinsfolk,
Those that they feel closest to.

So beware of all such dragons,
Different though they may have grown.
They alone Death dare not call on,
Lest they turn e’en him to stone.

THE LOCH NESS MONSTER

Loch Ness monster (Richard Svenssen)

This wouldn’t be a book of mine if cryptozoology didn’t rear its head in it somewhere! So here, for mystery beast lovers everywhere, is a little snippet of crypto-history – the very first piece of writing that I ever penned (over 30 years ago!) in relation to the most famous cryptid of all. Nessie, this one’s for you!

THE LOCH NESS MONSTER

Through swirling mists of early morn,
Across the loch’s dull light,
A dark shape moves with hidden power,
Then disappears from sight
Beneath Loch Ness’s mirky cloak
Of water black and cold.
What lives in this vast underworld,
In Ness’s misty fold?

What creature thrives below the waves,
Beneath the surface grim?
What beast appears in photographs –
Obscure, opaque, and dim?
What creature gave the myths and tales
From bygone days new fame?
Of water horses, fierce, malign,
Which from the waters came,
To strike the hearts of every man
With terror of their forms.
The kelpies – dark, malignant ghosts,
And harbingers of storms.

So what gave all these legends life –
A creature huge in size,
With tiny horns and rhomboid limbs,
And glowing, deathless eyes?
A relic from the ancient past,
Disturbed by modern worlds?
It will be long, indeed, before
This secret is unfurled.

ELVINA

Painting by Lei Cheng

Many moons ago, I came upon the name Elvina, which entranced and captivated me, refusing to relinquish my mind from its sweet melancholic enchantment until eventually I penned the following verses, granting it a story and a reality, and in so doing releasing me at last from its haunting charm.

ELVINA

When through the violet pool I look,
To see what Fate may show,
Your smiling face still haunts my thoughts
Of worlds from long ago,

When you and I stood here, amidst
Each dappled glade and grove,
And in your hair a flower shone
Through hazy mists of mauve.

And all around your slender form
The trees in silence stood,
And murmured long your elvish name,
A name so pure and good –

A name as old as Time itself,
Yet bright as sparkling streams.
And in your eyes I saw a world
I visit still in dreams –

A noble world of elvish grace,
Where you no longer are.
And only night birds see my tears
Beneath each silent star,

Like dewdrops on the ruffled grass,
Like pearls upon the flowers,
As I among the woodlands sit
Through many starlit hours,

‘Ere morning calls me back once more
To mortal lands and time.
And then I leave this other world
Of memories sublime.

But still I see your smiling face
Within the lucent pool,
And so I stroke its surface bright,
And feel its ripples cool

Embrace my slender fingers ‘ere
Your image fades and dies,
To leave me gazing through the blue
Reflection of the skies.

Yet though beyond me you have passed,
From my world you have gone,
With elvish charm, Elvina, still
You are my lovely one.