I have been writing poetry since I can remember. I guess this is pretty normal. As a kid I even had my work printed in my school journal and the local newspaper. I have copies of it all - and it embarasses me dreadfully. I look back at it and think: "This is shit, how could someone ever print it?" ... but then I remember, I was only a kid at the time, and for a kid it was probably pretty good back then.
I won't inflict any of my early work on you. I'm not that cruel. What I will inflict is what I consider to by some of my better work. If you don't agree, you're welcome to say so, but keep your criticism constructive or it's not welcome.
Please note: all work here is copyright NPM Oakley, and is NOT part of the public domain. Work may NOT be reprinted without my permission. As all work here has been previously published under my name, steal it at your own risk.
That said, here are my offerings to history:
a puff of gentle frost, obscured by silver fog;
the crack of ice underfoot on cobbled streets;
your heart's blood pounding in your ears.
through darkened streets you trip and tumble,
frantic like a deer before the hounds.
I dance around your panic, whispering your name.
a street lamp beckons from the fog-bound gloom.
startled by the alien light, I retreat. you pause.
confusion turns you further into the darkness that is me.
a broken signpost betrays your memory, turning you again.
fragmented remains of a silvered window catch your eye,
tempting you away from well trodden paths, from safe streets.
the maze that is my heart, my home, opens to receive you.
I spread wide my welcoming arms and you tumble right in,
exhausted from your flight, weary with delight.
I caress your silken hair, your gentle face.
your breath moves warmly in the darkness of my soul.
my silken touch invades your very being.
now, your mortality painfully real, you struggle against me.
you feebly resist my eternal embrace, my malefic affections,
and slowly I devour your essence, your will.
the husk that was you now litters the cobbles
like some worn out sack or forgotten thing of rags,
empty of that which attracted me to the chase, to the feast.
nearby another stirs, moves in my direction, enters my sphere.
retreating against the damning light, I allow them to pass.
if only they knew their luck in this darken mist.
if only.
© copyright 1999 - NPM Oakley
Published in Beyond the Sunset v2.3 - March 2001
The Camarilla Australia's national magazine
when silent come the dancing eyes
and shadows creep on lullabies
the laughing angel dies today
then lives to watch the children play
through crowded streets and mottled glass
moving forward into a past
of pale skinned women clothed in lace
carriage horses, tasselled grace
tripping soft on cobbled streets
where strangers smile and laughter greets
the ears of children playing near
free of life's forgotten fear
which very often plays a part
in daemon glass, transparent art
where shattered souls sound alarm
and dreams are visions safe from harm
a turmoiled darkness clear and cold
defies the ages aeons old
and clothes our angel's velvet wings
while softly softly silence sings
reality locks on centre stage
to break us from our mortal cage
we laugh aloud in psychic mirth
and watch the universe give birth
to sunlight hours
but darkness comes again it's true
to cloud our mortal minds askew
and treat us to psychotic dreams
and listen to our astral screams
when silent come the dancing eyes
and shadows creep on lullabies
© copyright 1993 - NPM Oakley
Now I lay me down to sleep
A minor death, this time of sleep,
with deepest dreams of darkest kin.
In silence they, the shadows, meet
to drag you down, to reel you in.
I pray the lord my soul to keep
A fevered prayer, my soul to keep,
safe from harm, safe from fears.
Guarded from their nightly reap
of living death and bloody tears.
If I should die before I wake
A rude embrace to rudely wake
a hostage to this devil's brood.
Sanction then, the lives I take,
survival rules, not fleeting mood.
I pray the lord my soul to take
Drag my soul away, please take
it, hide it safe from light of day.
Bind it tightly should I shake
these nightmare visions that hold sway.
© copyright 1998 - NPM Oakley
Published in the July 1998 issue of Beyond the Sunset
The Camarilla Australia's national magazine
Can I do this?
Can I write
while the world watches?
Will my brain,
tortured by years of neglect and abuse,
allow my eyes to see?
Will my mind,
compromised by hour upon hour
of commercial TV
and government lies,
allow me past the
boundary of the real
and into the shadow realm
of conspiracy?
I walk silent streets,
eat in empty restuarants,
drink from fountains
where pigeons will not
coo and squabble.
Morality is a tender thing,
a fragile icicle
on the edge of the sun.
Question me tomorrow
and I may answer
in a way you would never divine,
never sunder.
The gun at your head
is held by my hand.
The hammer is cocked,
waiting.
Whose finger rests over the trigger?
Is it mine?
Or the ad man
in the office tower
selling new cars
to single mothers?
Conscience is rife
with corruption.
Laws made for protection
only limit our freedom.
We are children
playing in an adult world
unable to put aside our toys
and see what makes us real.
Look beyond good and evil,
see yourself for who you are,
revel in your findings
and ask yourself this:
Who would you have take the gun
from my hand?
© copyright 2001 - NPM Oakley