Immortal Words

Life should neither be some walking shadow,

nor a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

signifying nothing.

Macbeth misspoke.

For life is prose and poetry

both embraced and intertwined,

like latticed lace and iron ring.

And existence can endure beyond a given hour,

in our vestige of scribbled lines,

soft or hard,

to lighten shades

and even with shifting tides

keep otherwise fleeting footprints firm within the sand.

When strong hearts have ceased to beat,

or unworldly wings raise us from this coil,

perchance an imprint of character lingers still

if only in a living thought.

Not nothing,

but instead a passed ideal,

a fable               

or a dream perhaps,                 

for their enjoyment as much a guiding hand

even if told by fools,

and most certainly full of whispers

and clangs,

and no small amount of

madness.

Further yet, each bard's great prize,  

to carve infinity in a row of words,

and share immortality

with the gods.

*A souffle of Shakespeare, seasoned with a pinch of Blake.

Big Bang Beginnings

We are the Scribernauts...

...two novice writers on a journey to writing our first novel.

It may be long and arduous, no doubt with its share of pain, peril, tribulations, and disappointments. Because what real journey would it be without any of those things? The greater the challenge, the greater the reward…right?

"What if that’s bollocks though, hogwash for the dreamers?"

Don’t worry, it’ll be great.

"It might be rubbish."

It won’t be.

"Let’s hope for the best."

Allow us, then, to entertain you.

"Or at least try to."

---

But where to begin? asked the Scribernauts, keen to get off to an encouraging start.

Begin at the beginning and follow wherever the fates take you, there and back again*.

Sound advice, the fledgling writers agreed. And so, to the beginning.

---

*Credit to Lewis Carol and Virgil

Poetry: The Rime of Dead Tommy

'Ea! It's so cold!', I cried from me bed

As I pulled back the coovers an raised up me ed

To see bright rays of sunshine stream into me room

An fill it with joy where before thar were gloom.

I pocked out a toe, and pulled it back oonder

And thought our kid Jack ad made a great bloonder

Cuz outside t'were all glorious, an na cloud were in sight

But inside t'was bloody freezing cuz the heating were shite.

In the car, fookin 'ell, I wouldn't say it were nice

With the screen all glazed over with crystalised ice.

An when I turned on the wipers

An one snapped in two haffs

If I adn't ad cried I might just have well laffed.

But the day soon got better an I dried up me tears

When Skint Sam brought a round for the first time in years

In the Old Speckled Hen

What a fine poob that is

With a slip of a barmaid called Jolly-Faced Jen.

They ad a warm fire wiv coal an big logs

An even Dead Tommy could bring in is dogs

To sit by the arth

An whimper an whine

Til Jolly-Faced Jen would say it were time.

Then we'd all get our long coats, an Bill with is scarf

Wrapped round is thick ed an the dogs by the arth

Would look up in blithe ope at the thought of a bone

Dead Tommy might nick from a bin by is home.

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The Rime of Dead Tommy has absolutely nothing to do with our novel. But there I was rummaging around in an attic box of old photos and scribbles, when I came across this forgotten bit of whimsy written on a cold January day back in 1999. Time flies and this is how it goes... (Warning: adult language and improbable northern accents.) Whether it should have remained forgotten is up to you.