Poems Without a Home

Poems Without a Home

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Excerpt from Poems Without a Home by Darren Storer

Image courtesy of Whyte Tracks

Image courtesy of Whyte Tracks


Thus to speak

My thoughts aloud

So to be heard

Above the crowd

For such is life…

And some things haunt me;

Less fearful though

Than those that flee

Appearing so Capriciously.

Needs must I,

And in good faith,

Seek the words

To speak of Wraith

That sits upon

The edge of vision

Dark of intent

Within its prison;

For when its Voice

So reaches me

It does so

Far too joyously


A word first

I have, in many respects, led a life of eccentricity. The abilities I have as a psychic medium are expressed through visions which have coloured my life and accordingly the poetry in this book reflects the varied ascent and descent in my life. Some of the words here illustrate visions and dreams and the emotion that arrived with them, and some record memories of people as they come to mind.

Many experiences in this life are not by choice but are thrust upon us by the Gods. And there is a darkness in all of us, whether it is a disease of the soul or merely incidental, but in the end we all are progeny of our environment.

If you are one of those who also walk the shadowed vales between the worlds you may recognize some of what is presented here. If, on the other hand, you are not amongst that number, mayhap you will look upon the rest of us a little more kindly.

To you, my friend, I offer my thanks for taking this journey with me.


After the Storm


There I stood

And looked back

Into the mist


Turning black

Filled with lights

And roaring thunder

That split the worlds


A figure then

did appear

From that storm

And it drew near

And speaking softly

did it say

“I am you”

and walked away.

There where I stood

Not looking back

I walked into

That mist now black

For having faced my Self

And seen
I knew that I

Had never been


Sub Rosa

“Beneath the rose.” Sub Rosa, from the Latin, a phrase used to denote secrets or more properly, secret meetings. ‘Beneath the rose hides a door, and a dark passage beyond.’ The desire to be hidden comes to me more frequently than perhaps it should, as I get older.


Can there be an escape,

A way out?

Perchance to silence

All the Voices

Storming through my Mind?

Will I find my rest at last?

Mayhaps ‘tis desperation,

Or some darker thought exists

Randomly appearing

To assail this Soul

Under the Rose,

Under the Rose where

My rest is denied.

By the light

of cloud-clad moon

I sat alone

in darkened room

Pondering thoughts of madness

That brought not the air of sadness

And slipped into

another world

Where it seems

my soul unfurled

Dreams did come

like well-aimed arrows

Silver shafts

from in the shadows

Piercing through

my very being

How strange it is,

this gift of seeing

I hoped to rest

But not to sleep

I hoped for pleasures

I could reach

I hoped for answers

I could teach

And even promises

That you might keep


in my unlit room

I hoped to question

what was taught

I hoped to reason

With my thoughts

I hoped for dreams

To be wrought

Into Truths

For which we’ve fought


in my unlit room


The lesson that surpasses all others when setting forth into these realms and dominions, is to learn acceptance. To doubt one’s own abilities, or even sanity, is one thing; to doubt the reality of that which is Other is a madness in itself.


I feel less lonely

When the sun goes down

When the Autumn leaves

Turn golden brown

When the breeze in the night

Is sent to speak with me

For there the Others come

To walk with me

My shadows they

Protect my light

And perform such miracles

They feel are right


I’m not aware

Of any reason

Why they’re there

Since whenever they do

Spring to mind

They are always,

One step behind

It comes as a whisper

In that tainted hour

But not on bended knee

With a promise that once was made to you

Which you will never see

And why would you ever think

You’d need to pray for me?

For I am not you

And you cannot be me

Even in that whisper

That is a whisper

On the breeze

It comes as a whisper

Each and every hour

Finding ways to please

Seeking ways to devour

All that you believe.

What if all the promises

Tempt you to agree?

And I see where you’re going

This sight it can deceive

It comes as a whisper

Just a whisper

On the breeze

It comes as a whisper

Like some poison flower

Seeing what you see

Looking to force confessions

And laughing while you bleed

What if all the days you live

Are only just a dream

And every nightmare rolls on in

Like a stormy sea?

It comes as a whisper

Just a whisper

In a dream

Twas an hour so

Dark and lonely

When spectre came

And did quite calmly

Sit on a chair

Across from me

A sight that few

Might care to see

It pointed to

A photograph 
Of a child

Who walked a path

In winter’s light

Lined by trees

Where bridge of white

Held all the keys

Yet beneath the rose

Did meaning stay

For spectre left

And did not say

Dawn’s star came

And then the sun

With both chairs empty

And mirror gone

Beware the White Rabbit

When he attends

And the red herring

That he extends

For the harm he will deal

Rarely mends

As down into confusion

Your soul he sends

Image courtesy of D W Storer

Image courtesy of D W Storer

You can obtain a copy of Poems Without a Home on Amazon.com and contact Darren Storer on Facebook.com.

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