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Arrival of the Lighthouse Keeper

The old wooden rowboat creaks,
Waves whisper against the hull,
Where a lone dreamer sits,
Blindfolded and anxious.

A great disturbance breaks the silence,
Something immense rising from the dark water.
The black-scaled body of Grimvael,
The Serpent of the Dreaming Sea,
Circles the tiny vessel.

An enormous green eye breaks the surface,
Fixing its gaze upon the dreamer,
Who cannot look back.
For a moment,
The sea falls still.
Then the serpent dives beneath the waves,
And with a gentle thud,
Its mighty tail nudges the boat onward.

Far ahead,
A tall white lighthouse gleams,
Moonlight shining upon its weathered stone.
At its summit,
A turquoise beacon turns,
Casting its light across the sea.
The startled dreamer’s hands tighten in his lap,
Unsure of where he travels,
Or what awaits beyond the darkness.


Yet the boat continues,
Guided by unseen currents,
Until at last it reaches the shore.
As the keel settles upon the sand,
A quiet realization comes over him.

Perhaps the fears he has carried for so many years
Have not been steering his journey at all.
And in the wake of Grimvael’s passing,
A strange reassurance remains,
That everything may yet be well,
And that his journey,
Though uncertain,
Can continue.

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Fields of Dreaming

Fields of wildflowers blanket the dream continent,
Stretching to the horizon in waves of vibrant colour.
Their petals shimmer beneath the daylight,
While exotic fragrances drift upon the gentle breeze.

Between the forests and the sea,
A profound sense of peace fills the land.
The air is warm, the skies endless,
And every path invites quiet wonder.

When night falls, the flowers awaken,
Glowing with an otherworldly phosphorescence beneath the moon,
That transforms the landscape into a sea of stars.
Their sweet perfumes transform into elusive notes of spice,
As though the continent itself is dreaming.

Dreamers wander these luminous fields,
Leaving behind the burdens of their waking lives.
Their adventures are not quests for glory,
But journeys of tranquillity, reflection, and contentment.

For a time, they are free,
Surrounded by beauty, embraced by peace,
Finding in this dream-born landscape
A serenity seldom known in the waking world. And when dawn finally calls them home,
The dream continent fades like mist upon the morning sea.
Yet something of its peace remains,
A lingering fragrance upon memory,
A faint glow within the heart,
And the quiet promise that beyond sleep,
The fields of dreaming are waiting once more.

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Jump-start

I’ve sat with my inner silence today,
Numb,
Lost in thought.
Writing a few words may help.
This poem is an activation activity,
Not one of imagination.
A spark against a reluctant engine.
A few words to get me moving.
A moment of clarity.
A chance to breathe.
Who knows?
Perhaps I’ll feel better.
I’ll ride that wave
While it lasts.
Writing is speaking without voice.
I prefer this.
Just as the Candy Man says:
“For some moments in life,
There are no words.”

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Between Dream and Reality

I feel caught in slow motion.
My movements do not feel like my own.
Muscle memory guides me,
Each limb moving
Of its own accord.
Though I am perfectly awake,
My head still feels asleep.
My eyes are heavy,
As though part of me
Remains elsewhere.
I walk
With one foot in reality,
And the other in dream.
A traveller upon a narrow ridge
Between the realms.
To my left,
Dream.
To my right,
Reality.
And I,
Balanced between them,
Centred in limbo.

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Sorrow Steps Softly

Deep within the void,
something stirs.
Its serpentine inhabitant,
slithers,
churning the gut,
numbing the senses.
Within that indomitable blackness,
a distant storm rumbles.
Black clouds gather.
as sorrow approaches.

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Palace of Woe

This is not a place of joy.
No lead-light windows offer comfort here.
You do not return here for such things.
This is a palace of sorrow,
Bought and paid for in grief.

It is upon me now.
I can feel it.
I see it in every movement,
Slow,
Deliberate,
Forced.

My answers grow short.
My gaze grows distant.
The world recedes.

I have no need for conversation.
Whatever you’re offering,
Holds no interest.

Your words fall upon deaf ears.
You are of no consequence here.
For this is my place.
My woe.
My mourning.

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Secrets of the Dream Continent

The call of songbirds and distant Cranes echo,
Announcing a new golden morning on the dream continent,
The same ritual repeats with every visit.

First the birds call,
Then a warm breeze scented by wildflowers fills the air,
And the dreamer always awakes peacefully,
They see the sky and then witness the cranes,
Where do these majestic birds come from?
What is the purpose or message they convey?
They herald the beginning of a journey,
A way to speak to the dreamer,
Small gestures from the realm welcoming a new traveller,
Affirming positive feelings as they slumber.

However, if a sleeper awakes beyond this golden valley,
Within the depths or gullies of the dark forests,
Or atop the crescent shaped mountain ranges,
That skirt the eastern edge of the dream continent,
Well, then the sleepwalker is in for a terrible time.
For those are the places where wild things slumber, waiting,

For not all dreams are forged of light and warmth.
Within the darkness of the forests travellers encounter the Devourers,
Fast-moving, black-furred hunters,
With their snapping jaws and serpentine tails,
Hunting travellers in their savage packs.

And what of those haunted mountain ranges?
They are the home of countless terrors, also lurking,
Along rocky cliff edges and beneath snow-covered peaks,
Have patience, for those are stories yet to be told,
The ranges are a place of torment, mountains of madness,
Some say the birthplace of the great serpent Grimvael,
He who lurks within us all,
He who swims in the inky depths,
Deep beneath the Ocean of Dreams.

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The Hunt

A lone Walker celebrates reaching a summit,
As they bask in the rewards of the afternoon sun,
A deep growl echoes up the valley through the trees,
After looking in the direction of the sound they spin back,
Suddenly startled by a second growl behind them,
Much louder, much closer,
To escape, the hiker has nowhere to go but down,
Yet every path is watched.

Beset on all sides by those hunting them,
Lurking in the black shadows beyond the trees,
Panic sets in, their breathing becomes shallow,
And they run, forging a path through the undergrowth beside them,
They shall not follow the worn paths,
Where the scent of countless travellers lingers,
Downward through brambles and black thorns,
Slicing and slashing their skin as they run, at times tumbling.

Their descent stops suddenly so they can catch their breath,
Their lungs burning with exertion and fear,
Concealed behind a large black tree trunk, they listen,
They hear light steps to their left and right,
Cautious, patient but persistent,
Noticing distant movement beyond the rolling mist,
They see one of their pursuers,
Large, black-furred and quadrupedal,
Gleaming orange eyes, a black scaled serpent-like tail swaying,
Its head resembled a black alligator’s,
Wider, heavier, and unnaturally broad,
Its powerful canine legs ending in large raptor-like obsidian talons.

It slowly raises its head to release a throaty guttural call,
Repeated short bursts, not quite a howl, not quite a growl,
It is calling, communicating,
Several other beasts in the forest respond to the call,
With the late afternoon sun fading on the steep hillside,
It suddenly echoes with a symphony of terrible beasts,
They run, and the hunt begins anew.

Their descent is crazed, running at a frenzied pace,
Lush wet ferns and leaves slap at their face, legs and body,
Through now heavy mists, as light fades deep in the valley,
They can hear the creatures behind them,
Running, growling, snarling, hungering,
They let out a terrified, almost inhuman scream,
And as they barge through a large fern cluster, they plummet,
The ground disappearing beneath them,
They find themselves falling from the forest edge, flailing, screaming,
Before suddenly crashing into dark icy waters below,
Driven back into the Ocean of Dreams.

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The Sleepwalkers Journey Begins

The coastal plateau lies high above the Ocean of Dreams,
The headlands sloping down through silky moonlit dunes,
Becoming cool green grasslands,
White wildflowers glow beneath the silvery moon.

A sleepwalker wanders barefoot,
Their hands gently skim the grass tops as they walk,
A distant wolf howls and, as if summoned,
The darkness of night begins to soften,
Giving way to a beautiful golden morning sky,

White cranes silently glide past overhead.
The wanderer walks on, eyes closed and blissful,
In the distance a dark forest lies brooding,
Ominous and uninviting,
The sleeper is spared that part of the journey tonight,
The forest awaits them at another time,
On their next sleep journey.

Before they reach the shadows at the forest edge,
They sit and gently lay back in the long grass,
Feeling the warmth of old memories and the embrace of the sun,
They slowly begin to fade into transparency, vanishing,
Only to awaken once more in the lands they hail from,
Far beyond the dreaming sea.

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Writing the Day Away

Today, I shall spend the entire day writing,
Lost in my dream realm, calm, undisturbed.
Absorbed by imagination and creation,
This evening I hope to rest with a sense of achievement.

Having mapped regions of my inner self previously unexplored,
Finding deep within me, that inexhaustible well,
That great cavern of riches that must be exhumed,
Its treasures uncovered, recorded and shared.

It is currently 11am on a cool June Sunday morning,
Although my eyes are weary after an embattled sleep,
I have already crafted several memorable tales,
Birthing new lands, strange creatures and dreamy sights.

I look forward to what the afternoon brings.