Arcadian Verses

Wasted

August 19th, 2020
Art by Monica Medappa

They said it would be the bloodiest battle history ever witnessed.For years they practised in mock battles, drank potions to grow fearless.
The battle it came. Chanting slogans ‘this is Armageddon’
Onward and ahead ‘dead more honourable than dread’
Hammers sprung, spears soaring, helmets crushed, jaws smashing, sounds of bronze shattering, limbs flying.
Screams and metals clanking.
Deafening until silence came as a blessing.
Horses snorted confused, charioteers dead.
They looked around, wasteful end.
While the last two men punched and shoved, the horses galloped ‘this is useless’ and took to making love..

Triggers: Set the night to music by Roberta Flack
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Who am I?

August 9th, 2020
Art by Monica Medappa

From lunacy and pandemonium, arose an attire of delirium.

The man behind the suit can be your best chum or a repulsive scum.

He wore a maniacal grin, from the ruffles of his linen comes a trick, another gimmick.

You could gape in awe, applaud or guffaw. Or roll your eyes but he never fails to entice.

Is he being plain hysterical? Is he satirical of a you, of a me, of society? his parody of our conformity?

A jingle and a twinkle, a juggle he bungles, you thought he’d miss so he chuckles..

Klunni ol’ phoney, that bouncing rascal!

He hypnotises my santiy to a prismatic carnival.

Is he the very disguise of the devil?

But…

The man behind the clown is a man I will never know. The man who is me will I ever know?

When the mask wears off, when the laughter is unheard of,

Does he ask himself the same question as I?

Who am I?

Triggers: I put a spell on you by Jay Hawkins ❤
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Cobalt

August 8th, 2020
Art by Monica Medappa

Oh hello there, I see you coming,

Descending on me, like a feather floating.

maybe softly humming, wavlets of teal transparency.

Nonchalantly, you shall again take away my bleached normalcy.

Here you are to engulf me.. now a world I see..

of cobalt blue, the only hue cast from this prism

encompassing this macrocosm.

Set on me your diaphanous drape,

Let all of world be a cyanide-scape.

Peeking meekly is Normalcy’s penumbra

Whilst armies of thoughts ready to wage a vendetta.

Kingdoms of notions set to revolt,

‘against who and what??’

Until this drape departs,

My reflections bleed cobalt.

Triggers: Schism by Tool
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My Pretty slain frog

August 8th, 2020
In remembrance of a frog who unfortunately crossed paths with me many years ago.

Art by Monica Medappa

Kicking dirt. Torpid motion.

Risen from an abyssal aestivation.

A scheme drawn whilst licking her eyeball.

Through the reeds she will crawl,

Onto the lettuce leaf, leap a free-fall

And then to sprawl……

Spit hunt a spider for dinner…

Sedated kinesis but HALT!

Something in the air was amiss

Tympanum tickle. vibrations of a predator.

Slither slither……

Stress hormones diffusing till the last bone,

But she remains as stiff as stone.

Should she leap or should she play dead?

Too late! At her rear is burgeoning dread!

Cold forked tongue coolly explores her shank,

Fear takes the crux; urine fluxes out her tank.

Dead giveaway! death is now not far away.

As she brings her third eyelid to a closing,

Lettuce leaves for her still awaiting.

Reeds and lilies gently swaying, a hornet gleefully buzzing.

Skin tingling, expecting for fangs to puncture,

Body glistening amber with blotched black lustre.

Why in nature is ‘pretty’ doomed to rupture?

But today was not the day, for pretty to be slain.

Steely scales brushing past but static she maintains.

Vibrations obscuring, life she retains

A trail of tail sliding into mossy terrain.

Triggers: Hello tomorrow by Karen O .
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Pyropower

August 8th, 2020
- Art by Monica Medappa
Fire to her was a funny spectacle

A plaything she could not resist to fiddle with.

As if it were a deep riddle,

Candles and lamps were her play and puzzle.

A juvenile with a matchstick in hand,

The power she had to start fire on command.

Setting fire to the hay, enchanted she was by this psychedelic display.

Indigo and ember entwined in glory, ascending in obsidian fury

To sky they made way.

” This is no child’s play!”

Family and village folks’ stern reprimand,

Did not stop her to wish for fire in hand.

Several years later, bonfire night in Taiga.

Skies enrobing auroral spectra.

Flicker in the pyre, tonight she feels something will transpire.

Voices and visions in the blue light of fire, “come hither….” they whisper.

Schoolmates and tutors around her, have all now seemed to disappear.

Trio of towering women behind the burning pyre, one strokes an orb of fire, as if to lure.

Probing to see if she can endure.

“we are from a star afar,

With us you will come for we need your service”

Confused she screams “are you thoughtless?

An orb of fire they offer her to hold,

Dancing luminous hues, lo and behold!

“In our land, fire you will foster,

Our bare canopies and icicles will glisten in warm glimmer

To you we render Pyropower”.

Triggers: Pneuma by Tool
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Brahmin Bunny

August 8th, 2020
Art by Monica Medappa

Stranded at sea, a rabbit of proud pedigree.

A far cry from what used to be.

Ousted by his crew for not fixing chicken stew.

“Banish this useless shrew”

“Pardon me I am no shrew! I am an Angora blue

Eating flesh is vulgar so Greens I cook plethora”

“Hurl him overboard or send him packing on the little red boat!”

Alone a fleece of Brahmin, middle of the Arabian.

Foreign to this seclusion, mopey from rejection.

Guilty of self-pity for he was no moaney coney.

Still he was sure the world came with good intent.

Wickedness only intermittent.

Now came a ravaging hunger, intruding his profound ponder.

Schools of fish swam erratic, “lookey lookey, isn’t it cherubic”

Rabbit on red boat made them ecstatic

Virtuous felt he, for hungry he may be but eating flesh is a deed so ghastly.

His breed owed him a medal of gallantry.

Hunger taking over his moral scrutiny.

Wait! were the Gods morphing the fishes

Into swimming carrots and asparagus??

plop! Merry minnows splashed into the water.

Flop! For the carp migrators this boat a minor bother.

Little did they know this cherub came with lethal incisors.

Devil in the gut, turning him to a monster so ravenous.

This gentle doll was in a mood to maul.

The fish, they waited to be tossed into the sea,

But on the contrary…their heads and trunks nipped off methodically.

His primal tendencies stark naked. What came next was a sight so morbid!

Gills and guts, blood and cord, gored and clawed.

All along it seemed natural.

For a lagomorph to be this diabolical.

Triggers: Invincible by Tool and Wolf like me by TV on the radio
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