I know I haven’t posted anything in a while, sorry as per usual. I have had some major writer’s block and not much time to write. This one is weird, and probably the least mopey of the stuff I’ve been trying to write, so here’s at least something.

This bridge was made of stone,
Of adamant and iron intertwined.
Now it lies glisteningly vacant,
All spun glass and spider threads.
What once held fast over a great sea of distance
Now slumps, nearly broken,
Over a mere trickling brook.
How tightly a heartstring can be pulled
Before it snaps,
And takes all the joy with it.

Thanks for sticking with it, those of you who still check back here every once in a while to see if I’m still here. I really do appreciate it.

The Nightingale sings you to your sleep


Poem: Music and winter


So I’m trying to post more often, hopefully 2016 will be a bit better for that. Here’s a poem, and I’ll go ahead and apologize for it being mopey as all hell.


Before, I was happy.
My mind was tacit because my heart was content.
I was unafraid and untroubled.

Now I wonder.
My mind is racing around my screaming, wailing heart.
I am afraid of what it shrieks,
And I am troubled by what it means.

I listen to the music to drown out the cries,
And find that the words speak the same message,
Only more gently.

I still feel the fire of a shattered thought,
I still know the heat of an embarrassed blush,
The needle-sting of an unknowing pain inflicted and received
But I know that now I feel the sharp cut of icy glass
And the cold so deep it warms the soul;
The remnants of my foolish dive into the winter sea of emotions.

Now I ask the voices who dare to voice life’s miseries
To drown mine in their own.
I call upon the low, humming baselines
And the serenading voices who sing to someone else
To draw the rotting blood from a dying vein.

I have frozen the kingdom around me,
The blizzard of a paralytic mind.
I live as the lone survivor,
Playing with the crystal silhouettes I have made.
I dare not bring a living, breathing mind into this icy castle,

I fear the cold and know it better than the warm breeze,
Which carried the smoke I so hid from myself.

I fear too the blood-heat of another heart,
Because it might melt the still, icy perfection
Within which I have hidden.

The ice is cold to repel a probing touch,
But still a crystal-clear chrysalis to watch the warmer world.

And yet I feel a warm breath on the back of my neck;
Someone has touched the glass over my heart,
And melted away just enough to let me feel their presence.

Why do you venture into this winter,
This polar chill?
You have no reason.
The real heart and mind are in the castle’s keep,
In a glass room with a lock so frozen that only fire
From within
Can break it.

Still you have taken a step through the frigid gate,
And set the torches alight.

I bid you well,
But dare not hope;
For the heart is frostbitten.
It has curled into itself in rotting agony,
And with each layer of ice and glass it seems more aflame.
I fear that in your journey you will see too much,
Will know what lies therein,
And be repulsed.

I ask of the songs to hold back the bitterness,
But of you I ask only that you not become another glassy doll
For a cold, lonely mind

Thanks. Again, sorry it’s beyond mopey. And long. Looking back, that’s a really long poem. Deal with it, it’s my blog.

The Nightingale sings you to your sleep.

Peom: In Glass and Ice


So I haven’t posted in a while. I mean a while, as in a couple of months a while. Sorry about that. I have been very busy. I see that someone has been checking fairly regularly for my posts, and whoever you are, I thank you, and this one’s for you!

Time is flying,
Whisking its way away from me.

As songbirds leave their delicate songs upon my ears to remember them by,
I feel a sulky chill breeze about their wings.
I hold the songs close,
Singing them to myself,
And tuck them into the pages of my memory.

What I cannot remember I have not forgotten,
And I am drawing from a deep well of thoughts,
Which I so wished would distill themselves
Into that intoxicating liqueur of recollection.

I only hope that the words I say find some ear to fall upon,
One which finds them soothing in mind or soul,
And that what I hum to myself,
The songs of the mockingbirds which so delicately hide my own lyrics,
Is heard by those who find the time to listen.

That my mind might find words to adequately suspend my dreams
I cannot hope for.
Yet still I know the things
Which so adamantly spill from the crystalline chalice
Which holds the sea of wishes I have for the world,
And which over them casts a gentle mist,
And a painted, spiraling frost.

As ice sparkles its creeping way over my world,
The fire of my life is yet rekindled
In a forever smiling recollection,
And a whispered memory cast in glass.

Poem: Couplet about books

Note: I found this lying in my drafts, it’s from about eight months ago. Hooray for flashbacks! The post has not been edited from its found state other than to note its oldness. Yes, my grammar just petered out and died.

I happen to be sitting in a library at this moment, and it just got me thinking. Enjoy!

A world, of words created, is found,
Within its depths, the traveler is bound.


The Nightingale sings you to your sleep. 

Anniversary Main Event: Long Promised Book Preview!


For the anniversary finale, I present the long promised but undelivered preview chapter to my larger work, which I am currently in the process of writing. Enjoy and happy anniversary!

Chapter 1 – The Sting and the Call
Fire erupts in my back. This time is worse than the others. I collapse to the floor in agony. It’s as though some great scorpion is tapping itself directly into my spine, replacing the fluid therein with stinging venom. Each time before it was like a tiny bee sting, just a brief stab. My parents thought that I was fine, just a hair pinched in my back, but I know better. Hairs do not send signals to the brain that imply that your back is being filled with searing needles. What is happening to me? What could possibly be going wrong with my body that would cause such pain?
After an hour of burning torment, undisturbed and unable to seek aid, I regain control of my limbs. Two hours later, after my parents get home and give me the usual brush-offs, the phone starts to ring. I expect some overly cheerful telemarketer as I pick up the receiver. I am met instead with a low female voice, speaking almost in a whisper.
“Is this Thomas Clarke?”
I compose myself and reply, “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Nobody has told you what’s happening to you, have they Tommy?”
“We… I can explain. I’ll find you tomorrow.”
“Wait, what are you talking–”
The line goes dead.

Thank you all!
The Nightingale sings you to your sleep.

Poem: Untitled (Inspired by Craters of the Moon in Idaho)


Here, for the anniversary post groupings, is the poem I said I would post for a few weeks now. I realize that it’s lame to put something off and then pass if off as some celebratory thing, but I figure that sometimes that’s how it goes. Enjoy!

I hope that this is not the same,
What I really would see,
If I visited another world.
It is not that it is barren,
It is not that it is bleak.
It is that it is drowning,
Flooded with people who have abandoned their homes
Until they feel that they have seen enough.
Is that what our home,
Will become?
How could we?
It is human nature,
But still a crime against itself.
We seek,
Search for new sights and adventures
Until we degrade our world,
And our sense of it,
Until we are blind
To beauty,
To the adventures and mysteries
Of a sad, flooded world.
Why is that distraught planet

Thanks and Happy Anniversary!
The Nightingale sings you to your sleep!

Anniversary (late…)


As of yesterday, this site has been running for one full year! I would like to thank you, reader and viewer, for taking the time to step off the beaten path and look for something new and unusual in my work. I couldn’t have done it without you, and I hope to have your continuing support for hopefully many years to come. I’m still a bit baffled that I made it this far without abandoning the whole project (though I did take a very long break, sorry about that). I am trying to think what could possibly be a major enough work to commemorate such a momentous occasion, and I can think of two things, both long-promised and not given. Stay tuned later today for those works!

One year later,
The Nightingale sings you to your sleep