Many,many a years ago;
Along the oceans billow
In an admixed susurrance blow
And unraveling the twilight shadow
A lone valiant bard lies-
Been there till the sand dries
And listened by the ocean's cries-
And slept by the shore of ocean's eyes
Many,many a years before;
By the time of tulips hoar
I heard a lutenist lore
To whom he played for
A lady called Anabel-
To whom his heart fell
To a lady named Anabel-
Yet far he couldn't tell
Many,many a bygone days;
On a day of summers haze
And the glistening twilight blaze
A maiden danced upon a rolling hays
Lulls and she lulls with a gilded lyre
O' her eyes of brilliant sapphire
Lo thither a flame or a fire
To be fair and be fairer; her attire
Many,many a time agone;
He sang a dirge all alone
To her,those mournful tone
Wilt the corsage once she own
And he sang a dirge at bleary noon
Smelt the freesia,whitish as moon
Quoth he,'await me I'll come soon
await me I'll come soon'
The Dandy
Why tug and pull and wrench the beauty out
And leave a hole wherein she sat
When her crowning glory has a sunny glow
Closely cropped above her shape
With slender form that’s cloaked in green
From which her spiky limbs stand proud
Now thrown upon a united pile
Forlorn and shriveled, bent, unkempt
Exuding milky fluid from her damaged body
Her foes delight in her agone and gloat
No more the endless anchor that roots her to the spot
She joins the multitude of fading family
Whose ancient cures from way before
Fixed ills and made life better
A sun seeker removed from Eden
The childhood clock amid the meadows
That tells the world it’s time to go
Once agone moments in time
she was poetry in motion,
'til she pirouetted herself
onto dusty versed shelves
midst old clouded rhymes
& recollected love notes
yet, there lingered echoes
glistening 'tween strands
of web's interlacing design,
meshing her finessed
past within gossamer's
complexed entanglements
beyond labyrinths of
anciently grand symphonies
she dances, still ~
silently in her head
flirting with destiny
albeit, not quite as opulently
'Twas like imagery or perhaps deja'vu
air quotations or a hallucination,
naught tangible to the naked eye
but an echoing of whirlwinds,
mere beginning of an expansion
tucked aside noncommittal whispers
reverberating discorporate shadows
on dividers of processing graphics,
rough drafts' emphatic intimation
of intrusively summoned reckonings
referencing old featured impressions,
mid-escape concentrated faculties'
unfocused low-density frequencies,
betwixt susceptibility’s magnifiers
orbiting bout night-crawlers' psyche,
whilst darkly territorial distractions
evolve beyond unforeseen influences,
farthermost assertion's revisionary
assemblages divulging conceals,
structured within framework
unrelentingly penetrative,
drawn-out, long agone
an unreceptive peccadillo
The awaited bedimmed evening
Was foretold by the clouds rolling in,
We pelted along the herded streets
Fending the storm that was coming.
One perceived the aftermath peace
I queried the realism that was bracing,
One assured the isolated inconsequence
None retrieved the agone serenity.
The sky grew heavily with agglomerating clouds
Blusters of flames sparkled along with rapid fury,
In pain and fear, so many hands extended for a prayer
Fending the storm that was outraging.
Around them amassed the shadow of malefic wind
They turned up their white pale face,
In this hovering ambience breaking the solitude
They bade for the pacific dominance.
The courtesy was heard by their divine faiths
Pouring down the tears with biding pains
The consequence was allayed by the aftermath peace
And the sweetness aired to ease their breaths.
I wondered the realism that was uniting
Laughing, playing and dancing by the bygone bedimmed evening
That was foretold by the clouds disappearing
I still queried the peace after the storm,
why not before it?
Remembering America when clothesline displayed wash
The yesteryear clotheslines of our country have mostly gone
Gone with the same way of old fashioned outdated panache
Panache as when women dressed decent_men tipped hats agone
The yesteryear clotheslines of our country have mostly gone
Disappeared from view like Johnny Cash's song "I Walk The Line"
Panache as when women dressed decent_men tipped hats agone
Morals, good principles have been twisted like Kudzu Vine
Disappeared from view like Johnny Cash's song "I Walk The Line"
Gone with the same way of old fashioned outdated panache
Morals, good principles have been twisted like Kudzu Vine
Remembering America when clothesline displayed wash
Every morning I wake up
I feel my day adore –
Anew rays of first light
Afresh my mind, cleansed soul –
A new beginning to endure.
Yester memoir enclosed agone
Today to face more –
A whole day unrevealed
Fostered withal by elation.
Walked my way
With anew hope
Destiny wished crystallized.
Aspired aspect
Limpid élan…
Tranced.
Stacked with books, assiduity elsewhere
Exams knocking at hand
Yet the Friday get-go
And final cut buff.
Night at sea and morning sloth
The evening prowl and buddy talkies
Escaped tuition and soul mate bask
Brainsick few moments
Ended with a break up.
Hearsays then bared
Eyes filled up and a hebdomad hush.
So called a fresh beginning
They say it agone.
Acquaintances befalls
Yet the same story echoes.
Admittance time and outcome appraised
Enough with bailiwicks, now the time to revel.
Late night parties and dearly-won snooze
Weekdays lessons and awaited weekend multiplex.
A secret dope and babbling out,
Desktop eroticas and tormented psyche
Fags anarchic and creative smokes
Bohemian lifestyle
But forthcoming ruination.
A sudden consequence and fledged days
Thousand and one nights
Of a student’s time of life.
To thee I pledge my love, so still thy ghosts;
The past, a haunting blows, but reapers chill,
And bade we lay within the darkness close,
Me breathless blue, but you so bluer still;
Against my breast shall love be held agone,
As shadowed lovers frost your pouting lips;
To mourner’s winter doth your love belong,
And ne'er summer sun escape eclipse;
Another season blooms, yet bloom thee not;
Alone, a rose, I wither frostbit cold;
My love, a raging fire, is barely hot,
Within a heart, thy promise over sold;
Alas, I lay a corpse within thy crypt;
With regret, thus, I kiss thee purple-lipped.
As i sit here and wonder
all this time
why do i try to climb
this , this wicked mountian
that never stops
i feel weak
as i dream of your face
yet i stay strong
conceive of ways to a better pastime
rather than to think
of these memories
that have past me by
for i still try to catch them
in all there beauty
but they are all the agone
one can only hope for
another chance
with thier destiny in hand
what is right?
what is wrong?
the future can only tell...
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