Often, my ideas start off as words, and some of them become poems; eventually, I rewrite and refine them. In an age of AI I have found it is useful to track my work. Here are some ideas I have been working on.

Nymphs linger in leafy groves,
fawns listen to pipe,
shepherds watched their flocks
graze in eternal spring,
while Fae maidens laugh in the fields.
The whole breaths of ancient air.
But turn, and the vision darkens:
Dark Fae gather by ancient oaks,
torches casting jagged shadows.
Their hair whips in the wind
as they chant their dread invocations.
With bloodied arms,
they circled their chosen victim,
faces wild, their cries the only sound—
except the river, the forest,
and the night itself,
groaning in assent.
A deer leaps startled through the brush—
Phantasia reveals its daughters—
dark hair, shining skin,
maids kneeling in devotion
beside the holy Grove.
Its waters roll wide and endless,
Wisps thronging its banks
to touch the sacred stream.
Others withdraw
to the shade of palms,
seeking whispered prayer,
a dervish cloaked in solitude,
guiding hearts in heatless shadow.
The Fae lands blaze with scenes
no mortal brush could paint, nor conjure colours like these—
they seem summoned by a creation
bright with streams that spill like pearls,
ribbons of water kissing
meadows alive with flowers.
The mortal-born Fae
climb the steep slopes of the mountains
straining for air so clear
it belonged to the heavens.
Only a few reach the top—
those rare souls of genius
who could breathe thin beauty
where clouds burn violet.
They dance light as gossamer,
chasing one another across the sky,
their play a privilege of vision.
And below lies
a cliff above a glittering sea,
the waves sparkling gold
as they break on the shore.
Upon the promontory stands
a towering figure, black and solemn,
a presence too grave for flesh.
Not of light, it seems—
its gaze locked, unblinking,
upon the endless tide.
Elsewhere the eye catches
shadowed woods,
blue ridges of mountain,
sheer rock faces,
rivers leaping restless from their beds,
scattering spray like shattered glass.
The water winds through valleys,
disappearing in groves
where scholars wander alone,
souls in search of thought,
losing themselves
in the beauty of the wild.
emerging at last from the cavern’s dark,
before a vast open bay,
wide and glittering, at rest.
The waves shimmering silver,
sliding among coral reefs,
murmuring softly.
The sands gleam pearl-white,
and the rising sun
pours golden across the sky,
its bright march just begun.
Above looms a cliff,
rugged and bold,
its shadow falling heavy on the shore.
At its base a hidden cove lay still,
and there, treasures long forgotten— sleeps:
hoards of gold,
silver vessels,
chests of gems
that once had sunk into the sea.
Here the ocean keeps
what the earth had lost,
glittering, undisturbed.
A passage cut deep into the earth,
fashioned by nature herself,
in the dawn of time.
Here the walls reveal
layers of clay and chalk,
bands of marl,
fossils sealed in stone,
the record of ages stacked in silence,
undisturbed,
a library of earth.
The scene burst forth—
roof and floor radiant,
a place of wonder
like the fables of Fae
who— with a single gesture
summon whole worlds.
From the ceiling hangs
crystal chandeliers,
branches of glass
casting a thousand lights.
The walls seem to blossom
into temples and towers,
landscapes and rivers
shimmering in their glow.
Here nature herself
has built her fantasies,
fashioning beauty
in secret.
Columns of stone rise vast and tall,
like giants in frozen stillness,
magnificent under moonlight.
Their arches soar upward,
as though leaning against heaven itself,
calling the spirit to look,
to rise,
to be lost in awe.
And beyond the cavern threshold
a grotto, its walls inlaid with shells:
nautilus, conch,
pearlescent fragments
shining like jewels.
The roof curves overhead
like a sea-shell canopy,
a retreat, a cave,
mossy and cool,
with woodbine spilling down,
a refuge from the heat of day.
Fair spirits of pool and spring,
of wells and rivulets,
of brooks that sparkle in sunlight,
you feed the rivers of the world.
From you the ocean swells,
the west winds blow through eastern skies,
the currents flow dark and proud,
glinting like the eyes of Phantasia-born sons.
There spread wide before, a fair expanse:
hill and valley, mountain and plain,
rolling to the horizon,
beneath an open, cloudless blue.