James Green
Bio
Weaving words into captivating worlds, this author's storytelling will transport you to realms of imagination and leave you breathless.
Stories (332/0)
The Watcher at the Window
It was a cold, dark winter night in the city of New York. The streets were empty and quiet, as everyone had retreated indoors to escape the biting wind and relentless snow. All that could be heard was the soft crunch of tires on the icy road and the occasional howl of the wind.
By James Greenabout a year ago in Fiction
A1
There was a small town nestled in the mountains, known for its beautiful gardens and tranquil atmosphere. In the centre of town stood a grand park, filled with lush trees, bubbling fountains, and winding paths. And in the centre of the park stood a towering statue of the Buddha, carved from gleaming marble.
By James Greenabout a year ago in Poets
TICK-TOCK CLOCK
Tick-tock goes the clock, wall hang, tick-tock. Twelve numbers ticking around, twenty-four, lost and found, tick-tocking around. Sixty hides between those lines, making one just like a spine. The numbers aren't just for show, the more you count them the more they grow. Round is the face, two are the arms, numbers body, legs are the sound, for what is the use of movement when tick-tocking around. Sit down and wait, for what chimes next is great, sounds that boom on the dot, the line, straight shape. Ding! "Oh my, what a sound this is!" Dong! "The joy of sounds, oh ultimate bliss!"
By James Green2 years ago in Poets
NO ONE CAN HEAR HIM CALL
Hear him call, the knock on wood that fell from a tree for paper to use by thee. Hear him shout, whilst ye sit in the corner all alone. No one can hear him call. Cheerful, stout; "God's name, what is this man yelling about?" Heart of Gold, sincere with a pout; sitting in the corner listening, can't make out. Silence becomes words, a stern look, no frown, for what's delivered is honest, shivering through and through; words become silent; cheerful, renewed. No more, no nothing, here and the now, bewildered, feeling a frown? "Look, you'll see, this gift I gave you."
By James Green2 years ago in Poets
HILLS
Look to the hills, where the air is fresh with the odour of blooming daffodils. "Hello?" The sun, so warm in the sky, blazing down upon hills, fresh with daises. "Pleasure to me you." Roll in the grass, cartwheel down the hills. "I can't believe we met." So much green, so many hills, the air so fresh, the smell of summer, sweet. "This has to be a dream?" Not a cloud in the sky, blue, so far and wide. "It's not." Bloom, everywhere, blossom, day. "I'm so happy we met." Daisy chains, yellow-white daffodil cups, grass stains. "Me too." No rush, whole day.
By James Green2 years ago in Poets
SLOW SNAIL
Too big to fail, moving slowly as a snail, looking everywhere for places to win instead of fail. Steady pace wins the race, snail slow move looks for a faster pace. Chiselled cheeks, moving faster, wing span, space, so high can't fail for fear of loss to the face. New movement now, no new race, just a pleasant jog, win, fail, chase? Chase win, fail? Choices of the will. Pleasant surroundings for a smile to fill, sit, listen, feel, words become rhythm when the mind is still. What's right? To fail is to win, as long as you're left with a pleasant grin and less chagrin.
By James Green2 years ago in Poets
BELLS ON HIGH
The bells on high, they sing without being shy, in towers of gold they spell out kindness. They ring all day, without a thought of praise, as they're there for you. Don't look back, for what is there is a trap, let wisdom speak from lessons learned as they ring quietly in the back. Looking forward is scary, for the tired and weary, for what more can be done. Stay loose where you can, intelligence, life span, governance, no plan; for all can be lost, if thoughts rot, thinking, not. If time is to pass, finish not, finish last, to the sounds of gloom that can ring loud, hourglass.
By James Green2 years ago in Poets
HERE'S THE SITUATION
Here's the situation. A train arrives at the platform to take people to their stations, where they station themselves at their desks in hopes of compensation. "Why do we do this to ourselves?" Each asked themselves in mutual adulation, knowing that in the end tokens for their time will be rewarded to them for pleasant jubilations. Or so they thought. "Times are tough." One frowned to another while the train pulled into the station; another nodded in agreement, with a sigh and a huff of mutual frustration. "At least the sun is out." Someone interjected as they stepped onto the train with seats as blue as the sky they walked away from.
By James Green2 years ago in Poets
MORE WINE!
From the forecourt to the tennis court, how many miles must he splash until he wishes for his law court, to end? Days? Maybe weeks? But who can tell when foes are bound to stifle whatever truths are bound to peak. To the drinking den where voices sound like hens, beckoning for worries to end; fend off those foes whose lies and deceit wish for your happiness to end. "More wine!" For what is presence but a stifle to one's peace of mind. "More wine!" Red, lushness, deep, like cheeks on the faces of those who sing, "More wine!" To court! Whatever filly comes my way. "More wine!"
By James Green2 years ago in Poets