Chromium Dreams

Vintage Sci-Fi
Vintage Sci-Fi by Josh Newton

 

Chromium Dreams
They promised us of Things To Come:
The Future’s oscillating hum,
When dreams of Progress are unfurled
And pitched to claim this Brave New World.

We always knew it’s coming soon,
Those holidays upon the moon,
The robots, ray guns, rocket boots,
The purple hair and silver suits.

But look at what infact we get:
The wind-farm and the internet.
Organic foods, not protein pills,
And terrorists, not air-raid drills.

We never got to live like gods
In fully-automated pods,
We never got to touch the stars
In UFOs and flying cars.

There’s no-one chilled in cryo-sleep,
There’s no-one dreams electric sheep,
There’s no-one swashes laser-swords
To saves the Earth from Martian hordes.

We’ve waited, just to find, too late
The Future now is out of date,
Yet still unripe its promised plums –
Alas, Tomorrow never comes.

 

 

Proem to a Poem

lecturn

 

Proem to a Poem

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome, all –
We’ll shortly be commencing:
I promise we shall soon enthral
Those senses we’re suspensing.
So let me introduce, my friends,
This ev’ning’s main recital –
Where joy and anguish each contends,
And lovers crave requital.
An epic true, a ballad grand
As stanza follows stanza,
Heroic does this potent hand
Bring forth extravaganza:
The finest Truth on life and death
That verse has ever captured.
So hush the lights and stop the breath,
And brace up to be raptured.

 

 

The Poetry Competition of my Dreams

rhyme dic
Whitfield’s Rhyming Dictionary by Frank Griesshammer

 

 

The Poetry Competition of my Dreams

On any subject, of any length,
With first, second, third, then commendeds to tenth.
But note !  There’s a catch, there’s a strange paradigm:
We’re looking for rhapsodies raptured with rhyme !
We know it’s old-fashioned, we know it’s awry,
But surely you cannot be frightened to try ?
So make your rhymes nat’ral and make your rhymes sharp,
To make ’em a hammer or make ’em a harp,
Then relish your rhymes with a resonant rhythm –
But don’t try to force ’em, you just gotta live ’em !
Not plucked from the ether and cultured in jelly,
But grown like an ulcer alive in your belly.
They’ll come when they’re ready, they’ll come without warning,
They’ll come in a flood when your thoughts get to spawning;
Oh sure, they’re not perfect, they still need a polish,
But rub them too hard and you’ll only demolish.
They’re twisty things, rhymes are, a mongrel eclectic;
But get them to spark and your verse is electric.
So send us your poems that make ’em a strength;
On every subject, of every length.

 

 

First Eight Lines of a Sonnet

shakesp
detail from the Chandos Portrait, possibly by John Taylor, possibly showing William Shakespeare

 

First Eight Lines of a Sonnet

I sometimes feel like life is just preamble,
All As and Bs and As and Bs forever –
There’s building-up of tension for the scramble,
But no antithesis can slip the tether.
Won’t someone blow the whistle on this shamble,
And get me underway in my endeavour ?
I long to find a volta, take a gamble,
But always must await a break in weather…

 

 

Footnote

poetry book

 

Footnote

Your tetrastich hits up the top of your page,
And lonely it sits on its white and crisp stage,
Too precious to muck in, too scared to engage,
Your verse gives no truck for a cut in its wage.
Those acres of landscape were begging to share,
An ocean of paper that’s nothing but spare.
Have you, as its poet, no other to air ?
Then come on and show it !  Let’s put it in there !

 

 

Through a Dark Glassly

reflection of finger in a mirror
Photo by Jenna Hamra on Pexels.com

 

Through a Dark Glassly

I sit here so poised, just a-waiting to write,
Waiting for fresh inspiration;
And I sit and I wait for the flash and the light,
And the spark of the birth of creation.
But thoughts and ideas and visions I lack,
Just feeble attempts from a half-hearted hack,
I haven’t a notion that’s worthy a crack:
An impotent writer’s castration.

I sit here so poised, just a-waiting to write,
Waiting to fill up the hollow;
And I sit and I wait, but though try as I might,
I guess that I’ve nothing to follow.
My ev’ry polemic is written and done,
My anger is shouted, my wit had its fun,
My dreaming is dreamt and my grief seen the sun –

But ask me again come tomorrow.