You’ve found a blog for the rest of us. Those who are not compelled to write every day. Those for whom word-craft is not painless. Those who write because they think they might be good at it, but don’t know yet.
That said, there will be entries most days. Poems, some random thoughts, some mental detritus.
Please, delve below for my content – and comment at will. This is, and will likely always be, a work in progress.
I’m not driven
Here to scriven,
But something once I took as given
Has, of late, been riven,
Seemingly, by me just live’n.
All the thoughts, my mind is sieve’n,
And the rhymes are misbehaving.
Bryson Thomas
Fame is correlation
Not a cause
A coincidence of luck
That opens doors
A megaphone for voices
Sounding wise
But catering to tastes
Of passing flies
Mercurial
Ethereal
Nutritious as kids’ cereal
A sparkle
On the turds
Of crushing bores.
Bryson Thomas
Entwined
Embraced
Entranced
Enlaced
Our hands
Our strands
Our harmonic bands
In mind
We find
Our thoughts
In kind
Apart
We stretch
The other
To fetch
In love
In love
In deep
Complete
Oh, how I’m tangled in you.
Bryson Thomas
Simple words carry all the weight.
Not fragile,
Nor vulnerable,
Not teetering,
Nor doomed,
Not hopeless,
Myopic,
Oblivious,
Or shallow,
Just
Life.
Us.
Home.
Truth.
Safe.
Happy.
and Love.
Seven words.
For seven years.
For ever.
Bryson Thomas
Night is when the words visit.
Taunting my mind
In diaphanous cloth.
As cool, heavy sheets
Sing lullabies of safety
To slow my nervous heart.
And coyotes wail their carrion tales
To everyone, in particular.
Night is when leaves grow
And dreams flow
And gods file past
With skies in tow
And dew hoards starlight
For the near-dawn show
Night is when scars heal
And lovers reveal
And the world is,
In a word,
Reset.
There is hope here on this earth as yet.
Bryson Thomas
Stand agog at my collection,
Let thine eyes squint at the glitter,
As I adjust my prostrate form,
And languish on my litter.
Amongst these bracing stalactites,
My treasures flow in drifts,
Exposing shining memories,
As my plated belly shifts.
My thoughts pile deep around me,
Golden coins cast down this well,
Each a wish for loved-ones,
Or a story hard to tell.
These riches are my children,
I love them all the best,
Secured by stone and earth above,
Held closely to my chest.
But lest ye think I’m but a worm,
Ensconced beneath your shoes,
There was a time I sought the light,
And had no wealth to lose.
In truth, I soared in years long passed,
Free of fears and full of wonder,
My scales would shatter sunlight,
And life was mine to plunder.
It was love that brought me down to earth,
A knight that pierced my heart,
Some call him saint, I named him George,
He had me from the start.
His love the greatest diamond,
Cool to touch and free of flaw,
My flames were immolation,
When I lost him to a war.
So I nestle here in darkness,
Where my dragon heart beats calmer,
Breathing sulphur vapours from the stream,
Surrounded by my armour.
Think ye not of stealing,
But a penny of this wealth,
My talons are still sharp as wit, my
Defences in good health.
For all of this is part of me,
Every shimmer, spark and gleam,
So hasten ye away from here,
And leave me to my dream.
Bryson Thomas
Humanity is an eternal battle between the creativity that forges our future and the predictability that secures our present. Change frightens us, but our drive to keep things stable will likely lead to extinction.
Imagination is life. Go wild.
Bryson Thomas
Roaming around it,
I know I’ll miss this place
When it’s time to leave.
This sun-stained face with
Heritage curb appeal.
These paint-swatch eyes
Scuffed by struggle,
Flecked with joy.
These arms that held
People who are now
Only pictures.
This comfortable chest
With its spare room,
Decorated with love.
This waist, a crooked
Hallway between hope
And nostalgia.
The leg scars that the kids
Measured their growth against,
When I stood tall,
And they still looked up
In wonder.
These knees that creak,
Like the side door
Reserved for friends.
These epilated shins
With marble-veined facade.
The left pinky toe,
Still crouched in surfing stance,
Like I was when I broke it
Trying to impress a pretty girl.
This place.
This sweet, sustaining ephemera.
This home,
Was only ever rented.
Bryson Thomas
This morning,
Like every morning,
I surrender stiff knees to an east-facing mat,
Closed eyes still propolised with sleep,
Bare arms goose-bump quilted
Against the night-touched air,
I still my body,
And notice my breath.
Breath.
Just one word for an eternal battle with gravity,
Life forced into cells
From whence it will plot its escape.
But not today.
And not now.
Now is abiding by my stream of consciousness
Without wading in.
Neither war
Nor worry
Nor warming
Nor waste
Now is simple.
Now is breath.
Bryson Thomas
I can still hear your voice, my friend,
Rising easily over the din,
You’re cooking too much food,
And saying something rude,
And welcoming someone else in.
I know you’re away, my friend,
But it can’t really be all that far,
You’ve gone out for a dance,
Put a split in your pants,
Or made seven new friends at the bar.
You’re probably busy, my friend,
Not a second of your time is wasted,
You’re laughing at jokes,
Making strong rum and cokes,
And the best meals that anyone’s tasted.
So thanks for it all, my friend,
Even if I forget some small bits,
I will always still hear you,
Even though I’m not near you,
Shouting “Oy! This’ll rip off your tits!”
I miss you so fiercely, my friend,
All the way down to my core,
But you sure let it rip
And then took that last ship
And left us all wanting for more.
And wherever you are, my dear friend,
Even if that’s somewhere above,
Thanks for showing us living,
Is for laughing and giving,
And that everything comes down to love.
Bryson Thomas
brysonthomas 