Friday, 31 January 2014

The Broken Back, a poem by Adam Common, poet

And there she was,
Resting on the precipice,
My broken backed beauty,
The stuffing slashed from her seats.

My poor lady,
Her burned out husk invaded;
Stolen away, raped and burned,
And left face down in a river.

She'd drowned.

I'd wept for her.
Knees were grass stained for the trek,
The same amble of the lost
That men often walk alone.

Then I returned.
To find her gone, reclaimed
By the city, the river,
That all at once broke her down.

I cried.

To feel her curves,
That rough leather, cold metal,
Steady, assuring voice
I would never hear again.

And so I raged.
Death to my pale enemy,
That thief in the bastard night.
I'd love to take your love from you!

That's all.

What more to do?
She lays as scrap, broken backed,
In some depository,
Buried with her dead brothers,

And I live on,
Rusting and cracking for her,
Rolling downhill on flat tyres,
That never quite leave the road.

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Monday, 27 January 2014

Seed of Destruction, a Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam Common, poet

On my laurels in this awful place of death,
Destiny enquires what I intend,
And should hear clearly as I gladly respond
"To hell with all you chose to predestine."
She listens not, directs my attention
To the right, the north, the open, starry skies,
Where the wind smells strong of all the rotting things
That have presided long beneath its open eyes.

Watch my hope erode from that great gaze.
How I raise my fist, my crimson hand,
To unlock them from their vast and creaking chains,
To hone their teeth upon the bones of man.
I must resist the urging of my blood,
Which screams for me to bend beneath its will,
That will of mine to have a weaker heart,
And dedicate myself to powers ill.

But fate is not my master. Never was.
I tear my freedom from her iron curls,
And, blood or not, I do the better thing,
And burn this horrid place right off the world.
The pop of covert tendrils fills my heart,
Beside the screams of dreadful, hidden things.
The fires cleanse, the flame doth purify,
And my salvation rides on blazing wings.

The north still calls, from horrid polar black;
Those deepest seas where evil things reside.
They wait for me to free them from their moors,
My hand will ache until I dare oblige.
But never will I heed their bleating hails,
Those empty hearted goats who wait beyond.
I'd better serve by crafting my own fate,
A poisoned trek to send my spirit on.

Read my other Lovecraft inspired poetry by clicking on THIS LINK 

Follow me on Twitter!/AdamCommon

Friday, 24 January 2014

Deep Cold, a poem by Adam Common, poet

 Deep is
The light of
The Autumn
 Sun that
Spills between
Our two

The time as
You shift, breathe,
The stuff of
Warm dreams

 Cold as
The white night,
Snow capped and
 Bleak as
The roofs that
Line our

 Thin now,
The veil of
My dark and
 Deep eve.
Static so
Not to

 You so
Soft beneath
The cold of
 Sheets and
Me so warm

Inspired by looking at THIS PICTURE
by favourite Twitter bod @Diana605

Posted to Open Link Night at dVerse

Follow me on Twitter!/AdamCommon

A Better Heart, a sonnet by Adam Common, poet

Better the heart that does not beat at all,
Than one that beats and bleeds for fickle love,
Whose wild attentions swing and glide and fall,
Like blind funambulists at play above.
Such barbs of cruelty spill from perfect lips,
That do not know the taste of contrite word,
And so resentment forms from grains and drips,
Compounded by the blame so oft inferred.
How dry the earth we walk when on this path,
Bereft of life and joy and kinder things;
And wishful are the thoughts we choose to have
While every moment hurts and burns and stings.
Better the heart that does not beat at all,
Free of the warmth that has me so enthralled.

Follow me on Twitter!/AdamWhitePoet

Monday, 20 January 2014

Asylum - a Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam Common, poet

He looks on me with mirrored eye,
Smooth & black to spite the sky.
This moon. This empty nighted moon;
It's light, a cold and pleasing boon.
Such a gift he kindly gave
With no expectation due.
His tendrils reaching from His grave,
Damp with evening's oozy dew.

Barred windows casting silhouettes.
My mind too weak to bend them yet
His voice bids me sit, and stay a while,
Sweet words through broad and lipless smile.
"You wait. The stars will soon be right,
And I will break your spirit free,
To hunt your prey through blissful night,
A blackened, loyal hound for me."

The rousing scent, the earth's blood boils,
Hands pull me through it's stale soil,
And help me cross it's russet pools
To find my bread in a hive of fools,
All naive to His dreadful will;
The glory waiting to be found
Beneath the mud, the shadowed hill,
Where he sleeps in cool and lifeless ground.

Read my other Lovecraft inspired poetry by clicking on THIS LINK

Follow me on Twitter!/AdamWhitePoet

Sunday, 19 January 2014

Broken, a poem by Adam Common, poet

The trickling summer.
The wasting season.
The sorry moments sad without a cause or reason.
The screw renews its turn;
The blazing sunshine goes,
Glory passed me by wearing winters bones.

And my elation turn to sodden fear,
Sink my feet in to earth turned soft by tears.

How to turn this day
In to something kind?
Feels like peace and quiet are difficult to find.
The screw renews its turn,
And there is only she.
I stand unmoving here, her arms surrounding me.

So what's the point of this life,
Or even living.
Nothing changes for me.
I can see it there,
Unbroken stare,
Fearful but strong.
Tell me I don't want to die.

Because I think I might.
I think I might.
I think I'll drop.
I think my tired heart might choose to cease and stop.
The screw renews its turn.
And creaking wood might crack.
And leave me paralyzed, laid up and broken backed.

But it's a lie.

Follow me on Twitter!/AdamWhitePoet

Wednesday, 15 January 2014

The Scarecrow, a Wizard of Oz inspired poem by Adam Common, poet

I've been reading the great Eric Shanower adaptation of the Wizard of Oz lately and have a new found appreciation for how brilliant and deep all of the characters in both the original and the adapted versions of the book are. Here is a poem from the perspective of the Scarecrow, who can't understand why Dorothy would want to leave Oz, when Kansas is such a dull and dreary place.

She speaks of Kansas, bleak and greyish waste,
That lacks the plenty which my land can yield,
And states "to those with minds, no better place
Than home, despite the woes that home may field."
This mystery a ghost I fail to see,
Perhaps because my head is stuffed with straw,
How can all thoughtful men much rather be,
In arid lands, and not leave Kansas all?
So my conclusion then, I must surmise,
Is that this boring land, bereft and plain,
Is fortunate to what I call my eyes
That normal men all come with tender brains.

Get this wonderful graphic novel adaptation here. It's a beautiful book, much more faithful to the original text than the classic movie. It's also much, much funnier.

Follow me on Twitter!/AdamWhitePoet

Monday, 13 January 2014

Memorial, a poem by Adam Common

Such a ticking to claim the tiniest of lives.
Such a tapping, as loud and lovely as you are,
And I remember.
The long night.
The bitter twist.
Our boy survives,
And we held you firm for all those long morning hours,
And I remember.
You'd sit quiet beneath the desk, await our advance,
And lunge, and grunt, and stomp, and chewed while I scratched you,
And I remember.
I'd wake at your turns, gladdened by your noisome dance,
Because you lived, and ate, and drank, and licked my hand,
And I remember.
Such a toll to claim the most meaningful of lives.
Such a clamour, as loud and lovely as you are,
And I remember.

Follow me on Twitter!/AdamWhitePoet

Cthulhu - a H.P. Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam Common, poet

My goal is to share a Cthulhu mythos themed poem each and every Monday until the end of March. After that, my focus will switch to another literary great. Look out for that announcement. Here is an edit of a previous reader favourite. Enjoy

"That is not dead which can eternal lie
And with strange aeons, even death may die."
H.P. Lovecraft

I awaken tossed in bracing foam,
Whose subtle fingers turn my stomach's walls.
I cling to what remains of distant home,
Her cradling bed. Her soft and silent halls.

I'm cast on driftwood, sure to meet an end
Soaked and drowning, lone upon this sea,
With sleep no haven, nightmares of descent
Down to some bleak island, ever drawing me.

Mercurial, the sun brings lasting pain,
A lasting thirst, and at last a distant gleam,
And with it distant hope I might be saved,
Or that some land had formed from all my dreams.

Long hours pass. I bob, I drift, I float.
That shore's salvation ever closing now,
The hand of madness loosed from 'round my throat,
I feel God's hands themselves direct my prow.

Though not a faithful man I must consent,
No other explanation crossed my thought,
For how the becalmed sea so smoothly sent
My sail-less vessel swiftly to its port.

I found the land, and found myself more lost.
Her beach a marsh, a slick and muddy mire,
Scattered with rocks and turgid, bulbous moss,
With a taste of pardon, but more of ash and fire. 

Once filled, I walked, and found a dryer course
On which I might just find some better fare,
But all for naught, I found just a barren gorge,
And a sightless cave, more likely something's lair.

Fatigued, I slept beneath the careless sky,
And those unfamiliar stars regarded me,
But did not seem to care I clung to life,
Inconsequential as I seemed to be.

I woke at dawn in darkness, on my feet,
Deep in the black of a vast and hollow earth,
And as my eyes adjusted I could see,
The kind of terror only madness births.

The grisly vision of a mountain spilled
From an ocean void that did not care for man,
Whose foul appearance tore at mortal will,
And mocked the lie of all I think I am.

A writhing face of feelers, slick and foul,
It's body bulbous, tentacled and grand.
It saw me and my heart and pulled me down,
And made it so I could make to stand.

His name, her name, its name, and I awoke,
My bed, my room, my prison in this life.
I smell it still. The briny, awful choke
Of blackened water, masking hidden strife.

This world is done. It scarred my waking days,
And he sits, not live, not dead, but in between,
For those shores to rise, and the stars to light the way
To an end for which he sleeps, and waits and dreams. 

Read my other Lovecraft inspired poetry by clicking on THIS LINK

If you haven't read any Lovecraft, I would recommend this story to get you started. The link is for and as you can see, super cheap but if you're in the US, UK or anywhere else, go to their site instead.

Follow me on Twitter!/AdamWhitePoet

Sunday, 12 January 2014


I am relaunching my blog. You'll notice a lot of old pages and posts are gone. Heavy editing will now occur on some old poems, while many others will never show up again.

That said, new material where I have previously lapsed. Good times.

I'll be trying to make three updates a week.

Follow me on Twitter!/AdamWhitePoet