Tag Archives: poem

The Sea Change – Stuart Goodeve


Here’s a new addition to the creative writing section of the blog. It comes from Stuart Goodeve, mainly known as guitarist/lyricist for the awesome dark funk band The Morphic Fields, here’s some of that work

The Sea Change – S. Goodeve

And so the tides of life lay swept
The same routines the same regrets
And towards the rocks these ideals head
Smashed amongst rock these ambitions met
Only to recoil and try again, blindly, determined
Endgame set

But the Earth may it be complex
The Earth may it be alive
To change the tide and drown such pride
That has drag-ged me and overthrown me
And often left a lonely me

For a quarter century it does pass
I find my meaning, the turn-ed mast
The change of tide, may it long long last

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Creative Writing Launch – Ward Z and A Midnight Poem


Today we’re announcing the launch of a creative writing section to the blog. We’re posting 2 poems composed by new addition Wildabeast and myself respectively. We’re hoping that this area can show off a range of creative works from short stories to series installments and poetry. Feel free to submit anything you want to see us publish, just contact any of the team. Anyway, that’s enough of an introduction, here’s the first poem:

Ward Z by Wildabeast

So the old man lay down
In his stone bed to sleep,
His whole life ahead of him
In one muddied heap.

A fall to the pavement,
A tumble to the floor,
A sharp glance to his head and
The man was no more.

The old man had faltered,
Taken leave of his stick;
“It really isn’t worth it,
I once was so quick!”

“A stick”, said the doctor,
“Is just what you’ll need,
A tool that’ll help you to
Walk at full speed.”

The illness was sudden
To the middle-aged man,
A sharpish pain in his chest,
A click as he ran.

The man was a runner,
And a good one at that;
He raced a half-marathon
In one hour flat.

He married a waitress
With the name Anne-Marie,
Whom he’d met in a café,
Asked “Quel est le prix?”

He travelled to Europe,
For a race he would win,
Saw a café on “Place Blanche”,
A fair girl within.

Becoming an athlete
Was no easy venture;
Fighting his way to the top
From lowly back-bencher.

He didn’t like college,
Thought school was a bore;
Only sport took his int’rest –
At work he was poor.

The boy, he was naughty,
And he ran from his mum;
He’d sprint through the market –
The champ he’d become.

“A nice healthy 12 pounds,”
Said the Doctor to dad;
He is bigger and stronger
Than any we’ve had.

The old man was born on
June the 12th in Ward Z,
Where he’d end in a coffin
With a crack in his head.

A Midnight Poem by The Rainmaker

A midnight poem
The dark is opressive, blanket
Yet leveller of outside
The tarmac worn and wet
And yet, a perfect place to hide
Is it wrong to add the soundtrack
Or squander beautious silence
To let oneself be drawn back
And remember where we were once

In search of a story to tell
I opened back and fell
In darkness, sickness, health
Perceptive silence felt
Hopeful slumber dreamt
A chance to hear what you meant
A chance forever spent

On top of dark mountains
Balanced on 100 peaks
I left my dreams in slumber
From home I hear the creaks

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