SoRoL

Meet

SoRoL

Hello!

I am a Poet and Writer, with the Pen Name: SoRoL.

I was born de-educated and raised in South London.

After 18 years of growing a fairly adequate humanoid body, I set off to seek my fame and fortune and after some interesting years in the Merchant Navy I returned home a wiser and more world-weary man.

I then spent a further year hitch-hiking and doing the modern version of the “Grand Tour” of Europe.

I have been writing and publishing Poetry for many years and have written in all forms and genres.

I have had many poems published in various magazines over the years as well as doing poetry readings at various Poetry Festivals around the U.K. in the Nineties and Noughties.

I have also self-published several Poetry Titles and Collections. You can find out more about these and other writing works in progress on this site.

In more recent years I’ve turned my hand to full fledged fiction writing; having produced a cluster of original short stories and a series of children’s fantasy books entitled: The Dragon’s Erf Series.

I now live in the vibrant capital of the North West of England – Manchester, living with my lovely wife Bibi!

And yes, I do of course support the all-time greatest football club ———————–ever!

(Fill in the blank as you wish!)

I hope you find my writings here entertaining and/or of some merit!

Be Kind – If you can’t be kind – Be Gone!

Best Regards,

SoRoL

The Man in the Moon

(Something for Halloween!)

There’s a ruby-eyed hiss of electric fright

In the radio station’s throat tonight.

There’s a need to feed my soul with night

And to walk in the land of anti-light.

There’s a long-held breath of death and doom

Squeezing inside the lungs of my room.

There’s a call to come and haunt the gloom

From a lonely ghost in a moon-swept tomb.

There’s an awful dryness and dread and drear

That’s drawing me out to somewhere near.

There’s a cool and clinging web of fear

Gripping my heart and drawing me here.

There’s a curious curl and coil of design

In clouds that cling with cold moonshine.

There’s an emerald stain of green-ghoul wine

Around this gloaming moon of mine.

There’s a wind that whips and a wind that howls

About my moon of gloom that scowls.

There’s a spirit calling like a hooting of owls

Along with night’s moanings and groanings and growls.

There’s a tree so black with claws like shears

That’s flaying and flailing and full of foul fears.

There’s a mist in the air that rises and rears

And enters my eyes, my nose, and my ears.

There’s a sighing and singing of a soft dying tune

And a fading away in a silvery swoon.

There’s a seeming, a dreaming, a screaming, and soon –

There’s a humming and coming of – the man in the moon.

SoRoL