The Man Afraid Of Stairs

Faithful readers…
The refrain “The man afraid of stairs” has been going round my head for weeks. This finally, after a long and painful labour, is what’s resulted from it. I’m not entirely happy, and I may revisit the man himself, but for now it feels good to get something down. I hope you like it.

Through the town where monsters sleep,
She leads me on a dare;
To darkened tower high above,
And the man afraid of stairs.

He lives above the maddening crowd,
In cloud touched minaret;
Where visitors of daring do,
Could say they are well met.

With fear of steps he will not roam,
Remaining in his lair;
What life is there upon the ground,
For the man afraid of stairs?

To travel round the winding walls,
Arriving at his door;
The sound of moaning from within,
Fists beating on the floor.

She calls allowed through painted wood,
“Poor wretch, are you in there?”
But not a sound is heard within,
From the man afraid of stairs.

With caring voice she asks of him,
“What caused your fear to run?”
Though satisfaction we both craved,
An answer there was none.

And so she led me by the hand,
Bored now with her dare;
We’d never learn the story of,
The man afraid of stairs.

Frightening World

Faithful readers…
This is a rather strange one. I’m not sure if it works, but I’m following advice given a long time ago to publish without thought. Maybe it’s a mistake. But that’s how we learn. Let me know your thoughts. Thank you.

Within this mind
Of shadowed halls and
Whispered tones,
There are such forms
And images
I have not the wit to show.

It troubles me
This lack of skill and
Missing verve,
For how can I
Reveal to thee
This inner frightening world?

To be so skilled
With brushes, oils and
Startling ink,
Would give to me
Such sweet release
And blessed freedom to think.

But as I am
With language held
And scribbled words,
I do my all
To write about
This inner frightening world.


I paint with oils
On canvas blank
Your form and face
And through the night
While candle burns
Your image is

With swirl of brush
And splattered paint
Each stroke you’re more
And as your image
So arrives
Your wickedness
Is given.

As picture forms
And colors glow
Your beauty seen
So clearly.
This frozen point
Of coloured time
Shows why you love

This work of art
That flows from me
So ready to be
Reveals to all
That gazes here
Why I am so

Not A Poet

These words that fight my fragile hold
and so deny their lighted view,
cannot compare to others work
so blessed with art and truth.

These worlds I pluck from minds dark space
and humbly show the gazing few,
are bleak and barren, empty so
not jewelled with seas of blue.

These structured phrases scattered here
that poorly get my point across,
are naught but scruffy anecdotes
that talk of love and loss.

This effort worked in to these lines
that surely would be better spent,
seems pointless now in artists hope
though sweet was it’s intent.

But battle on with each attempt
for words and prose are all I’ve got,
to clearly state what’s in this heart
but poet, I am not.