*
My night tender, sombre, Till mirror breaking dark, How foolish I was ignoring, Those hundred drops falling, With each, new mirrors fall, On each break, life restarts.
*
So envelope, man great life spoke as yore, Nor are shaken - be still! an hour is near, Awaken! here look: the old shades gone. Nor Are gold, millions, health and people here, This room laden white with bitter white, How soon the tears would show more light, Than ceiling closed, and floor in marbled sight, On whose footsteps brought then are yours so light! All one could hear: nought. All I am, all else. I am the poet that speaks riddle from myth, Nor the gay mute bespoke, nor thought more; lest Neither no needless pain shall conjure wreath, Till trembling shook even Richter not scale, Nor are your carnal stocks be furnished here, And of what eyes foretold my judgement bail, Till scorn alone is all devils ought to fear, When hue brought is you brought with hundred spears, Did not then think hapsad upon seeing Him That you yourself then were your past gone fears?
Simple Snap
But a camera's lens like magic, What he once shot at one snap, Soon became mystery at its max; Though it appears half the world, Beneath the lens remains the rest, And though hundred years pass, So rust beget the faded grey fast, Nor are the people herein alive, But memories shall soon reside. Yet listening of heart fools deny, They idolise the captured time, And think how wondrous then! Their lives so simple and free, Like counting one, two and three, Why now do we count ad infinitum? Yes'- eerily 'twas'- sorry'- he: This editor with haughty flash, With a fine Chanel soon a room dispels, Now are the gracéd few stayed to hear, Of his youth and now explains this snap, Which now he calls his deepest regret.
Flight of the Lark
Paid visit a field yea large so gold, In whose sun taught green be bold, And so terse the holding blue So christened a sky lit hue, Whence neath the feet is stayed A lark lone till song be paid, Nor are there hours cool to bring, Nor would our eyes durst begin: Then thinks I what wings near Would I give such penance here, That I am as thought as ought beguile, Till noon approach for nought awhile The slumber of young may soon dispel, And crease mine heart with cold repel, The darting words each morn I heard Now fades to such halo yea niggard, Till warm apparel make smooth me near, Till walk more with none no naméd fear.
*
Wet my dead cheeks
Weep mine ears
Faintest sound hear:
Err mine eyes
Till morning blood
Curse my crown.
And when I’m fraught,
Farewell kiss,
Blush at the fog,
No wind near
But this cool air breathe,
Till ere brought
Are steps near to me.
Let me walk,
So mem’ry call,
That all known
Is now anew.
So round a new,
Till morn bright,
Nor cast aside
Simple smile,
Then breathe again
This new light.
Just a Song (Apparently)
Yesterday I committed treason
And gave penance for beauty in lust,
My roses garnered pens for wrought,
A larking tulip sang for bust,
Nor as I were, this pen ailed as ought,
How soon petals be turned to dust.
Never our clouds bred by solemn rain,
My trees sung on earthing veins,
Then God himself would cast them sane!
But my mind is fueled with feign!
So soon heavens may bring hell to more,
The Angel Gabriel in whom I joke,
Now Jesus fought with pains too sore!
And then is Moses whose tablets shook,
But then was I, there too fraught in yoke.
So rode in horse my hour is here,
Then crease my heart till foundling near,
When I’m dust so drink my sight,
Then breath alone till ailing right.
Treason yet, but nor am I done;
Lines yea more till I am gone!
Give four more than ghastly dawn,
When muses watch with boring scorn.
I can’t write more than I read,
So the hour is through I ought to lead!
All is well till ought be lead,
Then truth be told this hour be read.
Shards
Before pieces are shattered,
Let each shard give memory near,
How soon each shall fall to break,
Till no light would emanate within,
Nor crease air with sound ye crease,
In each of the rays as they fall,
Ash may climb the stems from which broke,
How beautiful it was to hang from above,
That no light may yet disperse its telling,
Then no room to breathe ought to dispel
Each tear from asunder swift they cast.
Even the world ought to turn still,
Then so fast till glass displace,
Nor never no glass be in place: never!
And still she dances at the furor,
Nor agglutinate the steps required,
Till each shard in themselves repiece,
Ere the world’s slowing and respite,
Then no dance is new light without.
Lighthouse
A splash of water was all it took,
The taste of sea on ripe lips,
Whose entrance guarded bitter words,
Then spoken, and breathed, once more.
For in his heart tis freedom all he knew,
In past lives he fought to seek beyond,
The mind itself, so closed again
And then could not see what past he had.
It mattered then, the coke and wine,
And the wanks and chats: buried in soil.
He would hoist his sails now tainted glow,
Nor treat his wood as he would guard a mast,
Now miles away, yet still a light feigns past,
Mused are the ones he thought so gay,
Now cherished in light yet so far apart,
And every night he’d encircle that simple stone,
Cursing every moment this much too fast;
A simple past since is long too gone.
And the waves shall flood his ship,
And the light shall strike the sails,
And the mast shall burn to ash,
The helm detached and lost at sea,
When all his food is rot and waste,
And all his heart is ash with spite
Whilst his mind angers him,
Whence he would anger more.
But the lighthouse still shines,
Each lense shall shoot a thousand stars,
When none can see, that the lighthouse sees.
There, he can see. He knows his way.
There, a torn ship and a wretched sail,
There was still a wretched man afloat.
Then brought back to shore as its guest,
The lighthouse continued its lightward song
Whilst the man continued leaving it all behind.
*
Nor did it matter what it was,
An act yea cruel; a song yea new,
How soon this cloud of shapen glass,
Deformed, with sharpened edges black,
Whose blood would not in ern’st congeal,
Now fools the fool no sunken spell deny,
A breath of light so wretched is tolled away,
So cast thy shadow on shadow mine,
Let thine erring words colour me here,
Such that none would never be near,
That as I am till morn is broke and far,
The sun’s glory that could never reveal
Its cheapish glow with too little so dark
Yet so bright no dark is ill,
O Happy, yea free! Is this the glory ought,
That my forebears through warsong sought,
Did curse their youth this daring task,
Whilst they in soil or ash be heard,
Till even path is made is theirs unmade?
Ere my future is then my past unheard,
Let my present day swell like they did,
Though a cave I stand in here and pace,
With breaths so little to take: breathe.
Now heard are the trees whispering,
Now heard are the birds chirpering,
Through no fault at all, their day is whole;
Through no fault at all, our day is whole.
Through no fault at all, this day is new.
Malade
These people I stand with: who are they?
Ill lone is shattered like storm enraged,
A thought raced becomes a torrent erased,
No wind would blow, glasses cling to say:
Hail the wine! whispering, hail my sorrow.
Now poison me, and bring more and more.
And more.
That brings itself till dusk I am dawn.
Like the butterfly shattering.
Tis shattered.
My fragment lost, no wings bloomed. Gone.
I’ll be that clown to smile and be a photo.
I’ll laugh of course. I have to, or I’m fired.
Now birds sing, I’ll sing too; just a life.
No one’s around. The rain still pours. I’ll sing.
Ah, the pills! I’ll take one. No. Just another.
Whisper again, is it then I am this creature?
You say I’m a caterpillar. Wrap myself, you say?
Wrap myself in a cocoon of thought. Just that.
My rhyme is lost. I could hardly breathe in here.
Well, a butterfly can laugh. Look at its wings:
One half their colour emanates the rays.
The other half, my soul sinks an ocean apart.
Yet, I think to myself amongst all these people,
Why am I even here? What am I even supposed to do?
Then, not an hour passes, my thoughts disturbed,
I’ll bring smiles again. My tuxedo brazen with pride,
But in me, there’s none left that I can fathom;
The brood of my kind is but extinct to last,
Then I myself am in this world denied.
Observing the others, I see myself as ‘other’;
Observing beyond, the moon is my ally now:
Observing me, it shines a light where others can’t,
Observing all who do, that none would half converse.
