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Two years ago I wrote a song called “Break the Silence” for my album Long Distance. I think it’s a nice song with some good lyrics and a nice melody and so on. What I really like about this song is one little melodic phrase halfway through. It’s almost inconsequential when you think about how long it is compared to the whole album, but I think it was a little gemstone. Here it is.

Break the Silence (sample)

Whenever I hear this it makes me happy and sad. I think it’s really good, but whether it is genuinely good or not doesn’t really matter. What makes me sad about it is that I’m proud of it but so few people have heard it.

I think a great shame in life is creating something really good that few or no people will ever see, hear, read or appreciate.

Good creations need to be shared with friends, family, other artists, or even the world. Part of the reason I started this website was to share my creations with people, whether I know them or not.

I understand that creations are precious things, and we might shy from sharing them because we think they’re fragile, and they – or we – will break if we open the cage. But I believe that anything that has been created with love and passionate vision is beautiful and strong.

I would like to invite you now to share with me something you have created that you’re proud of. We do sometimes have that mixture of pride and nerves which can hold us back. I would relaly like you to overcome that and share your creation with me.

It might be a poem, a piece of music or some art. It might not be any of these, but whatever you have made has genuine value and it deserves to have that value shared.

This is quite a gamble for me – it could easily fall on its face if nobody wants to make a gift to the world. It’s a gamble that might fail but it won’t stop me from trying.

If you have made something, whatever it is, please share it with me. Leave a comment with your creation, whether it’s a song, poem, art, fiction, video or anything else. You don’t have to leave your real name, but I’d like it if you did.

I look forward to you taking charge and sharing your talent with others. Remember you can subscribe using the RSS feed http://www.prosody.co.uk/feed, or bookmark me at http://www.prosody.co.uk. Thanks for coming by, and have a look over the rest of the site, particularly my “prose and poetry” section.

A lingering moment of a struggle lies behind a body that is squeezed between rocks and pebbles, flowing fluidly over their smooth skins.

He clutches a sword, his chainmail glinting and hinting at the proud sternum’s cross. His eyes pierce the clouds to fix on the poised bird above.

Hands clasped in prayer hold warmth and promise safe from the tyrannous sea. Hope is saved in life’s palms.

A pale-masked figure invades the beach now. A column of dark stone, silencing the sea. The figure strikes the eye of the knight; the mask a contorted face of glinting anger, directed to all – sea; sky; human.

The two crouch to take up their places by the chessboard. The pieces have remained in place since their last meeting; now they become alive again, battling and colliding.

On the steel desk lay a notebook, fountain pen and an elastic band. Strangers were crowded around, sighing and rubbing their chins. They turned to each other, their eyes swirling with confusion.

“Maybe it was a famous author,” suggested one. “Yeah, it must be. Look in the notebook, he was probably writing his next bestseller. Bet it’s Dan Brown!”

A lady in a pink jacket scoffed and piped up in a shrill voice. “Hardly likely! Look at the pen – no self-respecting writer could use a pen so indulgently decadent. One must have refinement to be a writer!”

“Of course, a pen and notebook means he…”

“Or she”

“…or she could have been a policemen, for example. Maybe… a murder case”

Someone’s fingers reached to flip the book open, but a palm firmly snapped the covers together.

“No,” came a stern voice.

The voice’s arms took the items and slipped them inside her jacket pocket. Her footsteps echod away from the table, then stopped.

An elastic band snapped on the head of the lady in the pink jacket.

This is very much a work-in-progress.

Spencer woke early that morning, his limbs disobedient after a night of heavy stillness. He rolled over and patted the other half of the bed; the realisation that it was empty flushed the grogginess from his mind.

Of course it was empty. It had been empty for six weeks and two days (he crossed off the days in a cheap pocket diary), but he still could not adjust. There was something in his life he couldn’t rely on any more, and the absence still stunned him.

He wrote in his diary of his life “spiralling out of control,” of “emptiness, numbness” and so on. He didn’t really believe these things at all; his brain told him that he should, so he substituted them in. As always in these situations, his heart dutifully succumbed.

He squeezed his fists and thumped the bedside table.