Fear not the fierce wind, o gentle heart
Though it may rattle the eaves
And give no ear to its whispers with nothing to impart
But shallow promises that hang, like dried, parched leaves
Listen to its mournful wails on the way to some distant shore
Leaving in its trail, the harsh rawness of a chill
And envy not; give pity instead and be sure to keep no scores
For the warmth of a gentle heart is by far, richer still
For who can fathom the baleful howls invading valleys below;
Billowing across the fragile earth and her boundless seas?
Is it in anguish that it protests; who can really know?
Or is it a mere expression of a mighty power that seethes?
Yet, judge not, o gentle heart, but like a blade of grass amidst a storm
Lay calmly into the wind; rely not upon your strength to stay strong
Dearest, why cry in vain to the black night
fight its gentle intent to hold and rest.
Why fear the loss of light thus malcontent?
When ego is so false upon the loom.
Dearest, what makes you think elation found
from harsh light will so frame your hearts delight?
Reality thus formed will not slay fright.
When ego goes so false upon the loom.
Dearest, husks of the Universal eye
soft grays will velveteen the fading light.
Walk on courageous in the Mother's night,
accept the silken comfort of the blur.
All that is soft and gentle comes from Her.
Dearest Heart, loose yourself upon the loom.
*Dedicated to my friend Robin Gass
and all those who fear dispersal in the dark.
Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?
Thou art much more shrivelled and much more cold
Rough winds shake the withered leaves of today.
And your stomach hath too many a fold.
Sometimes too hot your sister shines,
And often is your grey complexion dimmed;
And you always smell like my uncle’s swine
Except your upper lip is less well trimmed.
Thy eternal summer did long since fade
And lost possession of that fair thou ow'st;
And Satan brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives death to eyes.
Sad boy, could anyone mend what's broken,
And dry your salty tears, but with a hand?
Is there anything we haven't spoken,
Is there anything we don't understand?
We have taken the rope, but not the pain,
I hope you know that we wish that we could.
We'll be here for you, through sunshine, and rain;
And if we knew how to help you, we would.
I know that you're angry with all involved,
And especially those close to your heart.
But surely, some day, all will be solved,
And you will thank them for playing their part.
So please read this poem, with thought and care,
Remember that we will always be there.
~ For D (you know who you are)
The moon is full and white, and chill, this night,
it cascades past my open window sill,
and all the color fades to dark from light,
a monochrome of gray which can't be stilled.
The armoire's oblong shadow strays across the floor.
I watch it from within my canopy bed.
A nightmare gallops through an open door,
a Pooka black as coal with eyes that bled.
Its jaw agape and gore froths from his maw,
as it slowly paws the cover from my bed,
a scream freezes in my throat, a bird-like caw,
he dips down for me to mount, and I am led.
Upon this demon spawn, I scour the moor
'til dawn descends to belay this foul glamour.
whispers carry through the silent air
and linger for moments after which spoken
I take the time to let them echo inside my ear
before they fade and their presence is broken
shallow breaths in a rhythmic type of tune
wishing for the moment to last forever
afraid that goodbye will be said too soon
breaking the bond that ties us together
locked in a gaze only to be suddenly taken
away from what was cherished between
distance widens I pray to be mistaken
from what is now being forcefully seen
fear running wild I struggle to meet your eyes
as the last whisper I hear is one of goodbye
A vision through the haze of time and rhyme
a mirrored beauty, Helen sits and waits.
I see her through the window for it's late,
at dawn, I'll bring her death, for she's not mine.
As yet, the key's not turned in lock sublime,
and I will stand and wait as fear dictates.
The Master's carriage leaves at half past eight
then I approach the shrouded outer gate.
Through the door and to Helen's room, I run,
and grasp her tightly to my beating chest.
I tear the cloth from her and she's undone.
Helen prays for her Paris dispossessed,
as on the satin sheets my stanchion drums
out of fight and breath, she acquiesced.
Like Frankenstein, I, too, am loathed to death;
I walk this earth devoid of friend and hearth,--
devoid of joy from the time of my birth
and from the first draw of my infant's breath.
An outcast and a pariah among
the friended, I exist without the mirth
and glee of those born of happier worth,
esteem and prize,--O would that I belong!
Still, I am loved of my dear family
and most loved friends, my books, and by my God
and e'en by my most oft-read poetry.
These things I cherish, honor, and must laud
with gratitude and thanks religiously
and be content as worms in a blesséd sod.
THE BOMBING OF DRESDEN
February 13, 1945
Pathfinders lit the night to show the way
for bombardiers too hungry for the word;
as Dresden's dark was made as light as day,
all hearts were stopped before the blasts were heard;
and as the din was heard by all their ears
the sound it made was not reality
but far removed from all the hopes and fears
and what they thought would never come to be.
They loved the Fuhrer--sin enough for all
to die the fiery death of sweet revenge
brought on by those who had enough of gall
to drop their loads in wartimes heated binge!
And when the fire consumed all that it could
the winter of their lives was understood.
An eerie silence wrapped the bog,
I dared not move nor speak.
The chilling blanket of the fog
Where evil beings creep
Conceals within tormented souls
Now stirring from their sleep,
And there within a fate foretold
Lie secrets they will keep.
Into the darkest night they prowl
To feed upon the weak,
And even wolves with frightened howls
Hide in the forest deep.
The terror of the living dead
Will feast among the meek.
Craig Cornish Written Nov. 2, 2013
For Leonora's Halloween Contest