Disappointment Fields

Written by James Record in 2014.

The dissatisfaction flows through the soil,
Into the dykes and ditches,
That separate the disappointment fields.

The crops and the animals that reside within,
Are not as picky as I,
To them there is only nutrient and goodness,
Where I see failure and distress.

The pollen blows in the wind across open fields,
My eyes are blind,
I am allergic to what could have been,
I am allergic to the truth.

As the earth must be sifted and riddled,
To get the purest topsoil,
The mind sometimes needs to be rotavated,
In order to separate the necessary from the clutter.

The ancient trees that bind the earth,
Have witnessed far more suffering and despair,
Than I could claim to feel.
The stable ground saves the soil from being washed away,
From in front of our half-closed eyes.

The lone scarecrow watches over,
Even the seldom bird gives him more company,
Than some others I know.
The rains will come and replenish the ground,
One day we will thrive again.

Creative Commons Licence
Disappointment Fields by James Record is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

Suppress the Fire

Written by James Record in 2014.

There is no escaping the kiln,
While the ovens are firing men made of clay.
Those that are already with us are seeking shelter,
In a shade-less and sweltering wasteland.

The human state of mind,
Is independent from the meteorological activities.
A wonderful sun-filled afternoon for some,
Is a short spell in hell for those who suffer the burning anxiety.

How can one be unhappy on a day like today?
The forces that control our mood’s thermostat,
Are different than those forces,
Which push up the mercury.

Love is a cruel lie,
Something we all pursue but never truly attain.
The heart pumps boiling blood at a different rate,
Than the cold brain can keep up with.

A futile journey to find shade from our nearest star,
And hide away from both the light and the noise.
A waste to the day, but a hundred percent improvement,
A freezer I reside, awaiting the next winter of my mind.

When many bask in the glorious sun,
Others can think and work more effectively,
With the icy blizzard to regulate their mind.
Tell me again, who is wasting their day?

Creative Commons Licence
Suppress the Fire by James Record is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

References here and there

In my upcoming (as yet still untitled) medieval fantasy novel, there may be a few references to various historical and popular cultural things. I’m not going to list them all (mainly because I may change them or add others) but here is a rough idea as to what kind of thing will be going in.

  • A legend who runs around Nottinghamshire forests wearing tights
  • A real war between a king and his parliament, particularly a great relief that comes later (for a while at least).
  • Magical colourful equines

The Last Paradise

Written by James Record in 2014.

The spring leaves flutter as small insects drop down from the trees above.
Our worries will be cascaded through the jungle to the valley floor by the vast rivers.
Torrent-cut rocks reflect what light has penetrated this deep into the wild.
The fauna are accustomed to the humidity which is over bearing to newcomers.

Tropical rainstorms come each day to refill the rivers and to purify the air.
Trees older than any man alive catch the violent drops in their magnificent canopies,
And save the delicate miracle-filled undergrowth from the force of the storm.

The plants beneath the high-flyers compete for the best light,
To bathe in the sunshine day after day, as if time were merely a human construct.
The rocks are pulverised, the soil is regenerated and the forests breathe again.
The sequence will repeat indefinitely until a gear in the cycle of life is moved or changed.

Trees cling on for their life, both from the elements and from forestry.
All trees fall one day, somehow. ‘Tis nature’s way, a cruel yet fair end.
This land is distant from the destructions of man and has a peace we all envy.
Some respect the great forests, while other choose to exploit it,
It doesn’t take an intellect to choose who are the more welcome.

Creative Commons Licence
The Last Paradise by James Record is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

A Writer’s Ailment

Written by James Record in 2014.

The feathery whisper,
Pierces my ears from a mile away,
The unheard sounds,
Are a whistle that only I can hear.
My energy drains,
My mind clouds.
The eggs are dropped all over the floor,
The cleaning becomes an excuse,
To forget about all that ails me.

My pen has not moved an inch,
Paper clean and unblemished.
The thought that means everything,
Is worth nothing,
If it escapes my net.
My words are confused,
They come and go and are lost to an imperfect mind,
Presque vu, Presque vu,
The words taste bitter, but only for a brief moment.

The cards are all accounted for,
The same number as ever,
Just another way to watch the sun,
Circle the sky and get ever closer to the horizon again.
I await the perfect moment,
That moment never comes,
Idling the time,
Until it is too late and another day is untouched.

Procrastination is a game we all play,
We wager with the devil,
And hope that tomorrow’s thoughts and actions,
Will be better than today’s.
It takes a composer to produce a melody of frustration,
To get the band to play as one.
Just as a painter must throw paint at the wall,
To satisfy the need to create.

Creative Commons Licence
A Writer’s Ailment by James Record is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.