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Best Poems Written by Adam Brackenbury

Below are the all-time best Adam Brackenbury poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Forest At Midnight

The moonlit trees
   Sway drunkenly against
            The kaleidoscopic backdrop.
                             Their lunar shadows 
                                 Stagger merrily
                               Over the forest floor, 
                           Gaze longingly 
                     At mice and hares and move on.
           Soon their tipsiness and incapability
       To stay upright will come to
     A gruelling hungover end
  As the golden chariot of
      Apollo returns for another day
           To light the way home
              For lost leafy souls and
                            Drunken arboreal oaks.
                                   And Diana’s wit and beauty
                                                   Will once again be outshone by 
                                                       The mothering nutritious glow of the sun.

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Sonnet To a Midnight Fox

Wretched fox, how you compel me to write!
I hate the way you scavenge, shriek and prowl,
Invading my mind through the humid night,
With calls that drown out the melodic fowl.
I liken your shrill voice to a harpoon:
It is more sharp, strident and harsh
Than crow flocks cawing in the gales of June,
Or air baring scents of a rancid marsh.
How do I hate you? I shall list the ways.
I hate your ginger fur and charcoal snout.
Thinking of your horrid shout fills my days
With woe: ‘tis your call which caused this fallout.
Oh dearest fox, I must sleep without fright
So please ponder these verses this fine night.

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Substance

Closing your eyes in jumbled bliss you place your thumb 
On the little plunger. The needle knows its way 
To your malleable misguided mind that 
Conjures the image of the white lines on the table  
Looking like road surface markings. 
Now it seems that your trip is only one-way. 

Once more the impossible colours explode into life: 
Those psychedelic blossoms which you comfortably 
Let run wild, just as they allowed you to do four years ago in 
That Parisian hotel room. You ruminate on your new habit,  
Glancing indifferently at the revolver inked on your forearm. 
Yet you know that your deadly game of Russian Roulette will soon end. 

You know it hurts, the way their words sting. 
They think they know that everything is wrong, and nothing is right. 
And wonder how they became hypnotised by  
Your lies that you spill everywhere in fragments of warped linguistics; 
It must be strange to think that these controlled substances 
Are in fact the devilish imps controlling your pliable puny brain, 
And that those spectral cyclones in your head cannot heal 
The scars you gave to a broken-hearted family.

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The Ruination of Botallack

In Cornwall fair there lies some lonely stacks
Of rocks and bricks and mortar out at sea.
An engine house pow'ring the tin mine lacks
In completeness. The earth holding its scree
Dives from the land of tin and pasty fame
And into sea a darkest shade of blue.
Rocks of Botallack look to us in shame.
I turn my back and bid the mine adieu
But only to obtain my camera
And capture the ruins of despair.
My brain drinks this mine's old ephemera
And breathes the antique salty Cornish air.
Apollo's light then turns great hues of red
As I leave the old mine's ruins for dead.

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The Spider

In the hushed embrace of night, a weaver emerges from the shadows.
With delicate grace, it spins threads of lunar albedo into a tapestry,
a silent symphony of whispers. Each filament an extension of itself,
an intricate dance of identity yet unspoken.
As the loom of darkness deepens, this weaver labours on, tirelessly crafting
connections that glisten like dew-kissed strands in the dawn’s first light.
Each thread a fragment of a story, each knot a symbol of discovery.
The weaver knows not the words to be woven,
but truth lives within these threads.
Through inky secrecy, the web takes shape, an enigma woven by moonlight.
It reaches out, hoping to catch fragments of identity and crystallize them.
The spider, unknowingly, binds the essence of self
in the embrace of its creation.
But as the night unfolds, a revelation stirs within the weaver’s heart.
With each thread drawn taut, each connection made, it begins to sense
the resonance of its own being in this intricate dance of existence.
The threads speak a language the spider now comprehends,
whispering sweet arachnid nothings.
Slowly, like candid apricity penetrating the closet black,
it dawns upon our weaver friend ---
Reader, I am the spider
and I am its silk,
and I am the multitudes that it has woven.
With this newfound awareness, I continue my nocturnal labour,
each strand woven with intention, each connection a proclamation of self.
And as the web glistens under the moon’s watchful eye, it reads
I am plural --- intricately, beautifully, uniquely me.

Details | Adam Brackenbury Poem

Paper Plane


i took flight with innocence in my wings,
naïve to the gusts that awaited.
the winds of time and turmoil tossed me,
tumbled me in turbulence.
crumbled and creased, i fell,
my shape distorted, my flight interrupted.
but in each wrinkle and fold,
vivid and untamed perseverance.
i learned to smooth my edges,
to refold, to reshape, to rise again.
my creases are no longer failures,
but strengths, a resilience, an intelligent design.
reborn, i catch the wind once more,
evidence amidst the boundless blue,
an echo of healing unfurled across 
the infinite expanse of the open sky.