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BastionKnight
14 78,948 M Big Steps 9
PathStep 1,198 Compassion hearts15,206 Forum posts160 Forum upvotes328 Current upvotes328 Age GroupAdult Last activeDecember, 2024 Member sinceAugust 19, 2017
Bio

If you are unable to be anything else, be kind; it costs you nothing, but it means everything to someone else.


Recent forum posts
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The Dark
Poetry / by BastionKnight
Last post
 December 13th
...See more Hush, hush sweet darkness, don't despair. No sad sibilant sigh, No rueful thoughts, no weighty care, It is just you and I. You are more than the fear filled warning. More than the bridge from dusk till morning, From which wild roiling shapes are forming That freeze and horrify. There, there soft darkness do not cry, They mean you no ill will. Enfolding silent lullaby, Instinctive primal thrill. Within you lights escape their mooring, In velvet aether, dancing, soaring! Enchantment kindled, rushing, pouring! There's magic in you still. When light departs, that void you fill, Awaiting as a friend. And by my side you stay until The night reaches it's end. Your formless cloak upon us sweeping, Persuades the frenzied hearts to sleeping And dreams relieve the souls still weeping. Through lonely streets you wend. Fret not, oh darkness I'll defend, I shall not cede your hill. Misunderstood, unfairly penned By voices loud and shrill. You're not the teeth, nor do the biting. No, neither flesh or spirit smiting, But their imagination fighting. They tilt at their windmill. Shush, shush kind darkness let's distil That which engenders smiles. Transforming dread, instead instil With love, no more reviles. No more should it be just you chasing. Towards you arms outstretched are racing, Those once who cringed, but we're replacing. With ardent lygophiles.
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Lots, many, some.
Poetry / by BastionKnight
Last post
 December 9th
...See more A quadrillion stars, (they estimate), comprise the endless night. Yet they're outnumbered ten to one by all the dreams we set to flight.  The trillions of the human cells, we count at thirty seven. But days till Christmas seemed much larger when we were still eleven. Eight billion people share this world, with more arriving daily. Small sum compared to all the rest that's shelled, feathered, furred or scaly. A year it takes for the heart to beat thirty five million times! Still from love it cannot break, a prison that frees as it confines. Over seven thousand languages are spoken now. Wow! Who Knew? Which means there must be much more ways to say a simple "I love you". One hundred percent / The whole of it / Entirety of the cake. Strange then to say "Give 110!". More than there is to take!? 10 years a decade identified by its art, music, and clothes, Nostalgically parcelled in neat little slots, trends fleetingly flows. And now we reach units, nine down to one, looking ever so small. Yet One is YOU, unique in existence. Thus, most precious of all.
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Where do poems come from?
Poetry / by BastionKnight
Last post
 December 9th
...See more Clutch Ephemera, gossamer wisp. Ghosts of emotions, intangible. Poured from burning beating crucible, Distilled to essence of syllable. Resurrected raw, sharp, and blinding crisp.
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Too Much
Poetry / by BastionKnight
Last post
 November 14th
...See more If set to flight each grain of sand, By crashing wave and tidal roar. Shall drive haboob across the land, And leave a barren, rocky shore. Once fallen, why press the attack? It's not enough to cause defeat? To force the bone until they crack, And gnaw upon the fragile meat. Fiend or friend speak with both voices. The war is won or lost within. Freedom from the chain of choices, Or loose the beast who shares this skin. If churning sand can dance and sigh, Under receding wave's caress. Tide, drag away all tears to cry and drown in undertow the stress.
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The Dunes
Poetry / by BastionKnight
Last post
 November 12th
...See more Evening sky of grey and orange, fleeting clouds of gossamer lace. On spongey lichen It crouched kneeling. Through gorse and heath Its fingers feeling. Above It screaming seagulls wheeling. Rising slowly, frame unfolding. The head turns at a glacial pace. Sand slides hissing at whipped wind's kissing. Salted air assaults Its face. Striding slowly on sandy soil that sinks and drags and undulates. The marram dances as it passes, Its hands stabbed by the sharp-tipped grasses. Sunset now burns in bronze and brasses. Summit crested, beach below. Crashing waves that builds then devastates. Sea-scent tingles, with wild flower mingles. From the dune It stares and waits.
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Unspoken
Poetry / by BastionKnight
Last post
 November 5th
...See more Lion-mouse, Dragon-dove and Mr Jangeley, Whisper-soft, such cold delight, sharing company. In the attic, so so white, Two round windows searing bright, Clock tock tick stop... We all sit down to Tea Dragon-dove, head to the side, looks on puzzledly; "What are those on your skin, the colours that I see?" Fearsome red and livid blue, Mauve and mottled purple too. "Ink stains, not more" And nod assuringly. Breathless day standing still, and passing endlessly. Creaking floorboards under groan, throb arrhythmically. Cobwebbed corner, dusty book, It is to that now they look, Closed. Bound. Sealed. Locked. Around the neck a key. Squeaking purr, bristling fur, "Will you show that to me?" Lion-mouse pointing paw, the others both agree. Writhing under focused gaze, Caught beneath the windows rays. Excuse profuse. "Another time maybe?" Leaning forth, ribcage tune, and smiling secretly. From rictus lips, fermented words of Mr Jangeley. In the attic with no door, Empty room and nothing more. "Alone inside. And ever shall it be"
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The Lost Garden
Poetry / by BastionKnight
Last post
 November 2nd
...See more Wanderer rests against the tree, Wild wind groomed hair and dust stained clothes. Ahead a shattered apiary, Overgrown by damson and sloes. Behind the foxglove and sweet pea,  The briar penetrates hedgerows. As thorns engulf the burnt debris, A garden that no longer grows. Advancing on and pushing free, The gate that this sad site enclose. He kneels, and sighs in sympathy, Beholding there the tattered rose. Brushing aside an errant bee, He reaches down, his hand appose, That flower scooped up carefully. The dirt betwixt his fingers flows. "Unhappy fate in you I see Your mangled form, this cruel repose. No more alone. I mourn for thee, The storm, your epitaph compose" Then laying in dark soil gently, Stem and leaf, petals rugose Buried as the clouds wept softly. The thunder sobbing throbbing woes.
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Just a normal street
Poetry / by BastionKnight
Last post
 November 1st
...See more I saw a unicorn today trotting past my door. It's mane of moonlight flowing proudly, Fetlocks feathered and white coat cloudy. It neighed for naught but did so loudly. From sparking hooves the splash rose misty, (As ghosts of last night's rain turned wispy), The road beneath grew wild and twisty. And never has it done that before! With breath and sleeve I cleared the pane, but odder yet I saw. Upon the steaming asphalt glowing, Ploughed bobbing bow, behind which rowing, A mess of goblins, lungs a-blowing With shanty shrill and chests a-heaving. Through crumbly crests of tarmac cleaving, A ragged zigzag course were weaving, Their wee ship to some unknown shore. If views can shake then mine were shook down to their very core. Nor was this all I gave mute greeting. Some more, some less worth here repeating. Stranger strangers that passed by fleeting. And as the day bled out it's colour, Returned to grey, both hue and duller, Fading mirage of storm kissed summer. I peer from my window seeking more.
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