Academia Aetheris

(the celestial school of verse)

They came— not summoned, but stirred.

Poets born in the umbra of supernovae, 

dreaming in quatrains 

before they could form hands. 

Choristers of comet tails, 

scribes of auroras in decline.

Each carried a shimmer of that first interlude, 

the brief binding of Flame and Listening. 

Their lines bor...

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They say the yew grows where silence sleeps—

in churchyards, beneath watchful stone,

where no one dares confess what took root there.

Its branches don’t beg the sun, don’t bloom,

don’t rise in vivid praise— but bend,

as if listening to things not dared aloud.

At noon, the light is cruel. Too sharp for softness.

So we stand beneath the yew, where shade writes

...

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A raw and redemptive,
jagged lullaby wrapped
in grit and grace.

Confronting primal origins
of beauty, tracing how chaos,
trauma, and history's rough edges
are not just background noise,

but the very instruments
in life’s symphony.
Pain isn’t just a prelude to joy—
it’s part of the composition.

This poem, insistent:
what is beautiful isn’t
in spite of the brokenness,
but be...

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Thereupon a banquet spread 

delectable dishes arrayed— 

greens, meats, fruit, and wine: 

marine, fowl, farm, and vine.

Alongside me your visage bright, 

imbibing, ingesting, we sup; 

from selfsame platter dine— 

my heart yours, and yours mine.

The goblet glints in candle gleam, 

its rim still kissed with berry red; 

we toast not to the fleeting dream,...

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Something unseen lingers above, 

casting veils over the paths we tread. 

Each fleeting breath connects us —

to the floating skies beyond, 

to whispers weaving within.

Between beginnings and endings, 

the now unfolds, echoing softly. 

Each dawn opens like a wandering tide, 

carrying fragments of yesterdays, 

weaving stories anew, timeless yet transient.

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Oh, to remember such
unspoiled kinship with the divine,
where even the wind was a companion
and silence spoke in full sentences.

Perhaps this poem isn’t just
a backward glance but a gentle invitation—
to return, not in time, but in spirit,
to that meadow of soulfulness
where love was once our native tongue.

Some part of us still listens
to the rustling leaves, hoping
the gods h...

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Her laughter in the kitchen sounded like

it had learnt the language of eucalyptus.

Then, Miss Kay asked why clouds don’t fall.

I said something about warmth and altitude,

but thought of grace instead.

This morning I read from Ecclesiastes,

then wrote half a stanza about shadows falling inward.

The kettle hissed, I answered.

Not the poem— but the Day.

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i unravel
not like a ribbon but like rope— 
wet, splitting at the seams

you turned, smirking like it was a game 
like breaking me was just physics
so clean, so unmarked

you the one always slipping off the hook 
"poor you"—the story you sold while i sank
bare feet on loose earth 
always moving, never mine

i learned to float, lip-bitten 
quiet through the avalanche 
your lie...

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The screen yawns wide,

empty as the Nullarbor plain—

"no comments posted yet," it whispers,

a sign more accusatory than absent.

You may look, it says, but don’t touch.

Permission belongs to ghosts,

long gone or never given at all.

Kindness cracks its knuckles,

flicks a cigarette to the curb—

museum-bound, archived, unreachable.

What thoughts could fil...

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Echolalia After the Fall

Language tripped on its own tail—  
flung too far from the mouth,  
it landed in the surf  
beside a crab with syntax in its pincers.  

Drôle, she said,  
but no one laughed.  
Not even the emoji blinking  
in low battery sincerity.  

The sandwich was mostly grit,  
seasoned with spell-check and doubt.  
The witch bit in anyway—  
mouth full of preposit...

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"Still Bleeding"

They found him hunched in the steaming bath,
ink staining the surface like blood’s rehearsal,
his voice still echoing down stone corridors—
a voice not for song, but flint.
Even his pulse wrote pamphlets.

He died not once, but
in verses draped across salon walls,
in paintings that turned martyr into marble,
into myth—but he lived as a nerve unshut.

And now? We are ...

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Apologia in Free Verse (After Too Much Metre)

I meant to speak plainly. To let the thought go unbuttoned, 

leaned against a kitchen chair, talking about traffic 

or the way light hits the linoleum.

But then—I rhymed. 

By accident or reflex or loneliness.

It was you that made me do it— 

not out of guilt, but because the sentence curled 

toward music, an...

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Molière’s Chair 

He wore the mask before he knew the play, 
a carpet-seller’s son with ink-stained hands, 
who traded silks for satire, night for day, 
and walked from law into the laughing stands.

They threw him apples—baked, not sweet— 
when tragedy betrayed his earnest tongue. 
Yet still he bowed, and found in comic beat 
a sharper blade than any hero swung.

He wrote in ...

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He drew the world not as it is—

but as it might be travelled.

Lines stretched taut like tendons

across the muscle of oceans;

longitudes obedient,

latitudes arranged in tempered rows.

The poles swelled with false importance,

the equator shrank to a whisper.

Yet in distortion, there was clarity—

a map not of truth, but of purpose.

And isn’t that th...

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The walls were thick with will—

                               not strength, not steel.

We laid them down like pronouns in a grammar of fear,

fluent only in repetition. Stone by stone we spelled out:

Never again. And meant it.

But silence tunnels too.

A whisper breached where no guns aimed—

not headlong, but sidelong,

like memory forgetting its own edge.

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...to a writing friend, ajr, who is gradually slipping away on the river of dementia

These bridges you have thus built
and those you keep on building
are the ones we can always cross
from which pebbles we can toss
and watch their ripples downstream
crossing over into our once upon dream 

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Words collect like morning dew on leaves—
offered, absorbed, refracted—
a quiet exchange in the rhythms of being.

Voices scatter across a vast terrain
gently meeting with fierce exclamations,
each one feeding, each one fed.

Community thrives beneath unseen threads
binding both fragile and the bold,
roots deepening in shared soil.

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stars unravel
stitched upon
coronal leaves

silky riddles 
unspin cocoons
'mid thund'ry breeze

cradle of stardust
bottled moonbeams
riding solar flair

ink of paradox
unbind unspoken tales
coil springless clocks

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Unmoored, drifting— a face blurs 
against window reflections, is it mine? 
A stranger’s? No matter.

Streetlights flicker in shallow pools, 
mirror-puddles swallowing neon, while a palm tree bends— 
wind pressing, steel humming quiet.

Petals scatter, soft confetti 
caught between tram rails, dissolving— 
the last echoes of footsteps slipping away.

Stone rises, rigid symmetry— g...

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I stand at the edge of another Monday, 

boots crusted with dust from a paddock 

I never meant to cross. 

The sky doesn’t speak---it broods, 

like it’s waiting for me to say 

the thing I’ve swallowed for years.

There’s a fog settling across the plain. 

Not the cool kind that comforts the gullies,

 but the one that creeps in just before 

the sun decides whether i...

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They left the green land behind,

where the púca ran unseen

beneath hollowed branches,

where tricks stirred in the mist

and footsteps never quite found firm ground.

Across the restless waters they sailed,

heavy with exile, grasping

the promise of gold and breath,

chasing the mirage of quiet years,

somewhere the ghosts could not follow.

But the rivers w...

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Beneath the ash-grey skies of longing,

the earth breathes—not for you,

not for me, but for itself.

A pulse steady, undaunted by

the footsteps we leave behind.

You will see the shadows move,

and not ask why.

You will taste the salt of oceans past,

and still the waves will rise—

relentless, unforgiving, and free.

They bend, they whisper,

yes, they fa...

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Wander through the burrowed light, 
mud-packed walls breathing warmth, 
a kettle thrums—no rush, just the steady, 
unbroken rhythm of being.

Hands work the earth, kneading sun into soil, 
tucking seeds deep where roots raise memory.

Footsteps soften against moss, 
small strides, sure and deliberate, 
paths well-trodden yet never worn.

Bread breaks, laughter follows, 
cups ...

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The river speaks in hushed tones, its currents thick with secrets, folding into themselves— the weight of unspoken histories dredged along the silt.

I do not step in. The water remembers too much.

The city breathes metal and wire, a maze built on absence, corridors wound so tightly that voices lose their way, disappearing before they reach the ear that listens.

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They came for the feast of phrases, 

gathered ‘round the wordless flame. 

Empty cups clinked, unsated, 

as the poet shrugged—his muse unspoken. 

“There’s no story here,” he muttered, 

his mind a drought-struck desert. 

And so they sat, grasping shadows, 

a poem promised but never served.

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Shame wears a cloak of invisibility,
a shroud that hides the true self.
It speaks in hushed tones, a critic's voice,

reminding of flaws, of perceived failures.
It warps the mirror's reflection,
distorting the image to fit its narrative.

But as we peel back its layers,
revealing the truth beneath,
we see the scars, the wounds, the humanity,

and find the courage to step into the ...

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Ages passed, still reppin' strong, 

 life wrote our script, we played along.

 Throwback laughs? Still in the air, 

 like vids we’d binge- -everywhere.

We were wild, riskin’ all, 

 hoppin’ fences, takin’ calls. 

 Now we glow, still got the dream, 

 past stays fresh, know what I mean?

Years slid by, like feeds we scroll, 

 memories saved, heart on patrol. 

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The sheets loosen,
brittle with yesterday’s sweat,
my limbs heavy
with the unremembered struggle

of another dream slipping into daylight.

The tide surges again— not the sea,
but the pull of routine, a weight
pressing against the ribs.
The road throbs under hurried feet,
a chorus of engines swallowing dawn’s breath.
We rise, we move, we forget
what it was we were chasing.

Ben...

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The quill of a forgotten moment, 
a signature of time upon the sky, 
languid white clouds drifting by, 
spurs a sharp pain that wouldn't go, 
strikes paper filled with imprints, 
ink staining along a cracked soul.

The hand moves in quiet rebellion, 
scraping against the silence left behind, 
words spilling like embers from a fire 
long thought extinguished but still breathing, 
its w...

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as botanical tendrils stretch skyward
toward slivered rays of speckled sunlight
a longing for the simplicity of an all but
forgotten yesterday, tucked within
a breastplate that advances forward
today is all that is left, salve of former
melodies, always incongruous against
dissipating tomorrows, here and now
a flight of cranes in blinding light

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Many, many decades later,

time had etched its tales upon our skin.

The echoes of laughter from childhood

days still stirred like whispers in the wind.

Once, we were reckless, dreaming bold,

jumping fences we weren’t meant to cross.

Now, wiser yet no less hopeful,

we trace our past with tender gloss.

The distance stretched, a quiet river,

years rolled by like dr...

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Many, many decades later, 

 Subtrahend— —the thief of 

time—had stolen years, 

whittling away youth 

with quiet precision, 

leaving only memories as souvenirs.

Minuend, proud and steadfast, 

 stood firm against life’s relent-

less subtractions, holding onto 

         laughter, 

unyielding, even as the seasons 

adjusted the equation.

Difference, a ...

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I will not let the weight

of old winds bend

your wings any longer.

You will soar, not for escape,

but for discovery.

We will carve the sky

into new stories,

where no shadow lingers,

and no voice drags you back.

Your flight is not borrowed—

it belongs to you. So,

take-off in fresh winds’ lift.

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Kessingland
sits fog-cloaked
across the channel
from Holland.

At Zandvoort dunes
wind bites bone
ruddies cheeks raw.
Lager tins and crisps,
downed waiting—
for the flat to fill again
with stories, laughter.

Night nears.
A pudgy figure
emerges
from distant reeds.
We bow in greeting.

Before the muse returns,
conversation starts.
Always this way:
Propositioned.
Gaslighted in...

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Am I not your cup of tea?
I may not be
your cup of tea
but I am your
bottle of rum --
most definitely...
so ease up that grip:
Stop strangling my neck.

Let My liquid conflagration
scorch your lying condescension
again and again and again.... without fail.

If you but remember to be true
to what lurks deep within you
I will assail your doubts
And numb their fight,
Send insa...

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A soul refrains from distant quests,

Throne, temple, summit—all forsaken.

The answer dwells, soft-spoken, near,

Its whispers carried on dawn’s breath.

Kindness becomes as oil of lamps,

A quiet deed ignites warm glow.

Within the dark, love forms a hymn,

Illuminating hearts, unseen.

Do not journey far,

The warmth you seek

is folded close,

Residing de...

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Velveteen Rabbit:
left forgotten on the floor,
overlooked, shy, sawdust-made,
snubbed by the grand and mechanical,
a world of prideful toys,
and absent understanding.

Timothy, the wooden lion,
boasts of his noble ties,
the painted boat speaks
in the language of rigging.
Yet Rabbit finds no place,
nor kinship in hollow superiority.

Only Skin Horse, aged,
fur rubbed bare and stori...

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In quiet moments, whispers softly flow, 
As shadows dance beneath the silver moon.  
The world awakens, cradled in its glow.  

With every heartbeat, time begins to slow, 
Memories linger like a haunting tune.  
In quiet moments, whispers softly flow.  

The breeze carries secrets, sweet and low, 
A symphony of night, a soft cocoon.  
The world awakens, cradled in its glow.  

Each s...

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In the warmth of a sunlit day, 
We walk through the whispers of time, 
With hearts that beat in sync, 
And eyes that hold a universe of dreams.  

Each moment, a fragile breath, 
Filling the air with hopes and fears, 
We find beauty in the shadows, 
And comfort in silence’s soft embrace.  

Life is a dance of love and loss, 
Where every tear tells a story, 
And laughter mingles with ...

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History does not pause for breath,

it moves like morning,

inevitable yet unnoticed.

We carve decisions into it,

rough edges and second guesses,

but no moment stands untouched by the past.

Some call for restoration—

others dismantle, brick by brick,

rebuilding from what remains.

The voices collide,

wary of each retort.

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They tell us to hold steady,
keep the ground firm,
but the ground itself shifts—
silent adjustments beneath
the weight of old decisions.

Change rolls in like the tide,
deliberate, insistent;
some brace against the swell, while
others dive into its forward pull.

Neither stillness nor
movement alone can hold us—
we are in the in-between,
where each choice sends
ripples across...

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The street moves beneath us,

shifting without command,

we say we walk freely,

but the road has already been carved.

Someone chose its shape

long before our steps left their weight.

A voice rises, measured, cautious,

another shouts before listening—

the argument swells, ripples outward,

each side gripping their claim

like dry earth clinging to rain.

W...

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Secrets remain shrouded, unspoken,

yet I see them seep

into the spaces between breaths.

Truth, as it stands,

refuses the grasp of words—

it thrives in the moments

we dare not recount.

The echo of vanity

envelops everything I once chased,

leaving me at odds

with the reflection staring back.

Comfort is fleeting, or perhaps,

it never truly existed for m...

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Secrets are secret
Truth cannot expound
Everything is vanity
No comfort to be found

Truth is relative
or so it is, they say
Life for us is short
no time to dry the hay

What Truth will illumine
Lies would then conceal
with ebony tusks uncover
wounds that would not heal
 

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O Dionysus, breaker of chains,  
I sing not for the meek, the tamed, the gelded—  
But for the wolves who howl against the night,  
Who tear the velvet lies from rotting thrones!  

The poets now are eunuchs, lisping hymns  
To hollow gods of equity and dust—  
But we, the few, drink deep the blood-red wine,  
And laugh as cowards beg for kinder chains! 

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they lie there-

brave, frail,

the same.

hands, cold,

pretend to hold.

no saviour.

only the knife.

the gasp.

(you think you feel?

you think you live?

steal.

join.

prize.)

priest waits,

blade bright,

arms wide.

rest now.

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They call us mad, they call us cursed,  
For we will not bow to their painted gods—  
Their temples reek of incense and decay,  
Their priests chant empty words to dying fires.  

But we—we keep the old flame alive,  
The wild song, the untamed heart!  
Let them rot in their gilded cages,  
While we ride the storm, unchained!

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The lake breathes in and out— 
an ancient rhythm, unseen, 
hidden beneath mirrored stillness.

Wind whispers across its glassy skin, 
pressing, coaxing, shaping the waves. 
The basin awakens; 
water slides forward, recoils, 
a pulse against the boundaries of earth.

No storm, no flood— 
just the restless motion, 
the silent pull of tides within 
the heart of this enclosed world.

...

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Slabs of stone

Greet the morning sun

Or is it the Sun

That warms their cold

Thawing the shiver

Of their last moments

Bringing light to that tunnel

only to dim again at dusk-

So let’s keep the torch lit

Lest We Forget 

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Once—words spilled like rivers,

ink coursing through valleys of paper,

their pencil etching trails in the grain,

each mark a rippling of thought.

Night stretched long,

lamp-light flickered like kindling.

But the mind burned— a wildfire of ideas,

embers pressed into pages,

smoke rising in the form of verse.

Then came the hum of glass screens,

words tra...

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