Poetry and Creative Writing for All

Edward Jones

Edward Jones is an 18 year old poet and novelist. Apart from living in Spain for 6 months he has lived in England for all of his life, and has been writing things sporadically since he was a child. In the last few years writing has moved to the forefront of his mind, and his recent move to Austria, and end of his A-level studies has presented the ideal opportunity for him to write, before pursuing a degree, and hopefully a career in advertising. His novel, 'The Embrace of Traitors' (working title), is set during the Crusades, a period for which he has always had a deep appreciation, and has influenced his poetry, as well as the Ancient Greeks, Egyptians and Romans. Themes of death, war, nature and hope permeate his work. Most things creative interest him, and in the past he has been a reviewer of, as well as creator of, digital artwork, and has recently started learning to paint. He has had a short-story set in feudal Japan, and poetry, published before, and been 'delighted' by Conn Iggulden's praise for his poetry. He also runs a website, which may be of particular interest to poets wanting advice: www.freewebs.com/eddead327

By The Royal French Shield

By the royal blue shield 'neath the royal blue skies
See the royal blue banner with the royal blue ties
There the royal blue soldier in his royal blue guise
Hears the royal blue sea as a royal blue cries
 

In the silver grey light glints a silver grey sword
As the sliver grey land hosts a silver grey horde
On a silver grey head sits a silver grey crown
As the silver grey king takes the silver grey town
 

On the sand beige ground sits a sand beige fort
Where the sand beige towers guard a sand beige port
Watching sand beige bows like a sand beige wave
Sending sand beige people to a sand beige grave

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Changing Faces

The changing faces of the mountains
gaze forever at one vista;
a cacophony of colour to expand the artist's palette.

Their relentless watch
locked upon the valley's bedlam,
until unbidden mists descend,
like hoods of heralds; drawn over eyes.
 

Destruction forks from Heaven down,
snapping at the world beneath
with bestial jaws, by ill behest.
 

Vapours of the firmament are shred
upon the still, yet living, peaks,
to whisper by, hinting what they bring behind.
 

Dark titans seep into the vale, a sodden fume;
to drown green lungs.
Vengeance is avalanched upon the plains,
assailing the wharf at whose pillared feet they drink
– to quell the thirst of their fell torrents.
 

The sun bursts forth – angered bronze –
waging her eternal war,
dispersing grey drapes like a silken mirage.
 

Her captured sparkle
plays among the rippling pools.
Her warmth, creeps into fractures where lofty points
meet tufty spectres.

Softly, she strokes the land
into slow and silent slumber

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Their Last Farewell

Between those desolate hills,
sunlight pierced wept raindrops,
making diamonds of the sky,
their tranquil trickling,
eroding monuments of grief.
 

The silhouette of tombstones,
marking merchants of a golden beyond,
where peace reigns beneath earth;
left untold tears,
like dewdrops,
beneath old eyes.
 

Those forlorn men would never vanish from the grass,
waiting for the polished stones to disappear,
so golden hair could glint at dawn,
rising with the sun.
Wishing their loves weren't dust,
or souls that through those final gates had gone,
but were there,
at the tolling of the bell,
to receive their last farewell.

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See

People are revealed through their stories,
unleashing their souls with abandon,
cosseting every syllable,
to shield the vanilla paper from the gnawing of critics,
and the bins that seem to hunger for their failures,
before they're devoured by their grief.
 

Incredulous listeners become speakers
as the curtain of madness is torn down,
releasing the clutch of drug imbued trances.
The room of the mind is not so barren.
Bleak it remains,
but with blue skies and warmth clawing at the concrete.
 

Tender hands coax them out,
down the septic halls,
awaiting screams that will surely come,
as the troubled prove they really are.
From the bed of chasms where their eyes must lay,
they stare at you. 
 

Emerging from their private prisons,
they'll quantify their worth,
and looking only down
they'll decorate their visions
with the ribbons of their legs,
slashed to bones that dribble,
with sight they hope is warped.

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Lament of Loss

I search the vanilla blossom,
the hollow country's flags,
and embrace the stones of truth,
grey in cold division.
I shall find no answers here.
 

Silent rhymes whisper through the ageless blue,
the dove, the diamond, and the candle,
three moments beauty in one view.
 

The pure tune enchants the air,
as snow in flurry follows,
beacons light the street with freedom,
and orchids choke those buried eyes.
 

My sight ablaze as I bewail,
pleading for your calming touch,
yet knowing thought alone cannot do such,
for you have bled and now lie dead.
 

My shaking knees inhale the slate,
their shattering caps a physical disruption,
to the mourning of my soul-mate.
 

The season of his life had passed,
and I became another victim
of that inevitable theft,
a ghost of former glory,
pitied for eternity.

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Submission Guidelines: Poems of no more than 30 lines in length each will be considered.