Poetry Blog by Adrian Metcalf

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Do not fret to see the clouds besides horizon,

Chirping a soliloquy,

dead beneath the shore.


Governed in a blue light,

Your arms open more,

And I see what is again beneath your maddening open door.


Greatest in the melody,

Your enchanted means of singing,

Are but desolate I now implore.


Bestroking in an afternoon sun,

Your melody washes to the shore,


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Off by the wayside,

A couple sit,

In gray afternoon sun.


Pretzeled in a small window,

A child peeks beneath the shore,

Blankets of meadows.


Dandelions dig roots deep,

And the walls sink into the soil,

But the city remains.


Crickets tick,

Their tocks,

To the afternoon delight.

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God Father

Shall it be spent,

This way to Sundays,

An after image of the night?


Over the days,

In throughout the measurable decay,

And fathered be the day gone by.


Gathering in circles,

We walk amongst the shore,

Places to behold in anguish and sacrificial obstinance.


Brotherly in nature,

And hollow be thy name,

The greatest forgotten,

And we are all the sam...

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It’s aside the fact in the face of glory,

That the weather seems nice,

And the feathers fall swiftly to the shore.


The death of a nation,

Besides me,

And the winters are cold here.


Oh dearest dying within me,

Shall we wait to see the sunset,

Beneath the ocean and receding sea?


A draft to the left,

Is all but inside me,

And the feathered walkers in th...

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Fuck Narcissists

Shall we walk amongst men,

Feathered and torn,

Absorbing such a delicate flower?


Shadowed misery in the lime of starlight,

Gathered around for the awakening,

A father rots from heart forward.


Shallow graves dig a hole deeper,

Not fast enough,

To save me.


Oh but they beckon a cause!

This sick and contrived reasons for existence of water,

Their smiles ...

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Afternoon Delight

It’s an afternoon delight,

To the sunday morning,

Afternoon did die today.


Wandered in a shadowed of the wall,

And the places of seas,

Soon to be seen.


Feathered in a winter,

Basket in hand,

And a mother screaming to the door.


The watered images,

Of painters dead,

The faded images of the apple.


Watching to the side,

A person does see,


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That good feeling

It's sadened in the face of glory,

Capricious in the gauntlet of fear,

And a feathered man dangling from strands of hair.


Yellowed in a mouth of foul,

Copper lining the walls,

And red in my ears.


Gothemed in the berg,

Sinking to the floor,

A mountain of disbelief and despair.


Forgotten and afraid,

In what was left before the end,

A god of the people,


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Brisk and colorless,

A pitted husk masks the ceiling,

The green earth rocking back and forth.


Horses halt before the golden trenches,

On this brisk autumn night,

Wind shaking their docile springs.


Your tongue raises to another tone,

Proclamations of the weathered elements,

And places of shadowed glory.


Blackened hands,

Covered in the dirt of yesterday’s...

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Shadowed Images

Go before a wintered moon,

And wash the floors with blood,

Calvary shed tears for fallen men.


The saddened shape of wallowing mothers,

Forgotten besides a rock half hearted,

Blue in the garden of afterimaged suns.


Follow me in the bask of glory!


A sanctity of food,

And willowed aspects of what of you?

The swallowed end of a dream to be,

Flailing in moti...

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Look towards a horizon of the afternoon delight,

The shadowed feather drifting to gravel,


In desecrated flight

And greatest of night.


Follow in waves to the sound of marching,

A circle around fire,

Say goodnight.



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Filth by the side of water’s end,

Greatest son forgotten,

Drown again!


Your arms around me,

The water does not rise,

The betrothed pause in mystified night.


Walk in shallowing fields,

Mud and grease lifts seeds from the sediment,

My forgotten son may rise again.


Visceral and delinquent,

Eyes match the shaded robes,

Washing off what were once clothes.

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Continue On

The way your blood touches mine,

You'd think it were time,

That had stopped.


The sensation of god in the rapture of one free hand,

Raised to the sky above short bracelets and necklace,

It wasn't meant to be.


But oh how I grab onto the air in search of something,

To complete me,

Yet I lack again a leg to stand


So I must,

Continue on,

From dusk to day

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Let's begin again

A end to the shining,

You and I can stand.


Oceans are small before me,

I can hear the sounds in sand.


Washing my clothes in the salted water,

By my side you stand.


Reaching to the end,

To start the beginning again.

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It is

Six feet under is where blue moons rise,

The ocean now rides along the shore,

gandering into the opened tongues.




Step off this shore into broken sand,

Perpetual day holds my hands free of sorrow.


Greatest greens now wander from the shore,

Opening their eyes to ever move closer to you.


Fractured light in the trees glisten to hear the sound,


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The fallacy of me

A fallickle man torn deeply at the seams, 

Clocks flowing backward, 

I am but the shadowed after-image of the yet foreseen. 


The desolate paths etched in green and blue, 

Make way for the emperor, 

That which is me. 


Shallow and hollow shells, 

I do not see life in them,  

For the depravity of man fell solely on my shoulder,

It seems. 


Gothic be the day...

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Filthy and Afraid

Filth be by day and morning alike, 

Beyond the wrenching of a shadow,  

In dampened corners frayed. 


Filthy don’t fall! 

Withering the dead do lay, 

Besides me and away. 


Randomly they sit beneath grey and opened windows, 

Sedement curling,

Where do I sit today?


Skin granular and coarse, 

Besides we crumble, 

The fellow men did lay? 


Or at le...

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The internal structure spins,

In this hollow man,

Such as I.


The shattered panes of people look,

Besides them for a savior,

We are but a person besides another.


Combine in strength and despair,

Beneath a hollowed out earth,

Where the women can’t bear.



I am a child,

Hollow and bare.


Metal in the spikes of a train,

Intricacies in m...

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Blue Moon

The Saturday fell awkward into the night. 

Good night. 


Fellow men and moon. 

Raising beneath the stars. 


A hollow man stands with great power. 

And those below sit fingerless and bored. 


To the bone. 


 The fatherly figures are but the graceless endless sight. 

In the eyes of the blind fool. 


Grasping to grip a straw that waits no longer. 


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Flying, to be free

The sweet midnight falling,  

Windows swaying beneath the hefty breeze,  

Shadows mourning for young hearts. 


Wallowing falls upon deaf shoulders,  

Shadows stand beneath their heavy trenches,  

Mourning the dying stars. 


Forever to sit in muddied waters,  

Is one but a shadowed man, 

Besides me. 


Set up the walls and set fire to the mountains,

To begin...

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