From such a place, I view
The sea of life for a few
And then and now I drew —
Charting maps for a crew.
Oh, how i wish you could see,
The view from my balcony,
That is amassed with gentle swaying trees,
And the occasional hum of honey bees.
Down the long winding path,
Little children playfully dance,
Practicing their form and stance,
Far from their mothers protective glance.
Young lovers absent-mindedly clasp hands,
Strolling along with their heavy school bags,
Looking out at the great green expanse,
Forgetting the rest of their day's plans.
As the sun shifts and begins to set
The birds squawk and screech as they begin to fret,
Pleading to their light “no not yet!”
“The day's needs have still not been met!”
Oh how I wish you could see the view from this height,
It's vastness and colours are truly a sight,
Being forever drenched in all its abundant light,
It is my joyful respite.
1 o'clock morning morning moonrise shining, poetry in my mind. Is it a sign of a masterpiece? What will I ever be besides a poet. I write to right the songs. I am a poet. I think I know I show it. Nothing more than expert experience and exceptionality in my reality. Aah! Chilly out here in the brisk night atmosphere
Distant noises in the morning
Distant morning spread its flair
Got no learning from the yearning
Boys are riding boards out there
Something metal knocks on metal
Birds are flapping down and up
I take off the whistling kettle
For the instant coffee cup
Comes a rare span of silence
And among the flowers I
Sit and gaze at floating islands,
Formless islands in the sky.
A scrubbing time's piece
From dark cloth and pillow hugs,
Well manners bleached on
Smudge, gone moments by light that
A blotchy face remembers.
Ocean view is gift
Few steps to balcony
Immersed the blue sea.
It was covered by a blanket of moss
with a wood fence that looked as sturdy as
a young child’s craft project, stretching across
a patio, the memory of jazz.
It had a tower on the balcony,
reaching towards the moon in the midnight sky.
A witches’ tower made with alchemy
in which a kidnapped girl, hostage, would cry.
It has a fierce lean, rivaling that of
the famous Piza ruin, so extreme
it looks it will fall if you give a shove.
The castle, the image, must be a dream.
An old green forest, decaying behind
the stone castle, which I’m sure you can find.
Roses spread with lace garter;
Boutonnière and charter.
Green meadow eyes clung to lass.
Juliet was upper class.
A shepherd was he, with crook.
All gentle men, she forsook.
Under the willow, the wind
Warmed petals with no rescind.
Tempo was slow with his bride
Deep smile, a groom could not hide.
Underneath his ruddy beard,
“Reverie,” the garden cheered.
How lucky was a poor man
To find a robust woman.
Off the balcony she came.
Her shepherd, never the same.
Sat there on my balcony hoping you would come back to me
I played the chords on my guitar but the music didn't
seem the same
The winter breeze embraced me
as though it understood how I was feeling
But then, it whispered in my ear
"It's been a while since you got drenched in sorrow
get up and prepare for the morrow
time ain't something that you can borrow"
And those words hit me hard
I stood up with a lonely and despairing heart
Didn't know how and from where to start
But words of the breeze echoed from every part
I started traveling from town to town
to rebuild the life that you turned upside down
In that journey, I started enjoying a newfound freedom
and gradually regained my true majestic kingdom
I began to live my life the way it was meant to be lived
I sat on my throne and played the chords on my guitar and
the music now felt a 100 times greater than it used to be
She leans,
upon the evening balcony,
In her robe,
Casual as a lilly,
In Summer,
She leans,
Upon the evening balcony,
Sensual in her being,
As the sky is an ocean,
Her lush,
And chic golden hair,
Takes ones reveries,
Away from the evening clouds,
To a caress of her Beauty,
In your sigh,
That becomes high,
As a lilly and the horizon,
She leans,
upon the evening balcony,
A cigarette and candlelit,
Steward of sweetness,
And evening reliefs
Reynaldo Casison
The balcony bows like a bridge unmaintained.
Song birds are silent, their hearts uninspired.
Grape vines hunker down as if never trained.
Scarlet petals fall, their fragrance expired.
Shattered is the night sky like sharp glass shards.
Sparks, once in our eyes, liquify the ground.
Minstrels are mute in abandoned courtyards.
Pitter-patter is the refraining sound.
Masquerade faces can no longer hide
from the truth that beauty departs with death.
A dagger divides a young groom and bride;
lamenting cries consume their final breath.
The script is flipped over like clover in mud.
Misconstrued love poisons life-giving blood.
8-15-2022
An overhang might be a mystical spot,
where shattered hearts can be recuperated,
Hidden trusts are given fresh life,
The shouts of torment are discernible,
The sky is seen through a brought-down look,
The eyes clear away their auld tears,
furthermore, spirits are covered in obscurity,
welcome the beams of trust.
From a Balcony in Paris
Fine rain
open umbrella
Sitting on the balcony
Of a hotel
Overlooking
Haussmann-Saint Lazare.
Throngs of people
Something has changed
People drink
Starbuck
Eat hamburgers
On the hoof.
Old restaurant closed
Converted
To fast-food joints.
I sigh
Drink from the bottle
Of Bordeaux
To avoid
Getting rainwater
In my wine.
My countenance, a melancholy
After strange footsteps possess our balcony,
Close to my two-room apartment,
Now limitlessly a source of contentment..
I do anxious listening,
The hairs on my skin glistening;
My ears coming alive, a-twitching:
Those of an eavesdropper soon a-snitching.
A near filtering of the snatched sound,
As they keep gaining ground;
The fullest conviction that they didn’t belong to a friend.
Or if they did, who was heading for another end.
To my window walk up, risking important life
To part its blind by a couple inches;
My grimaces, summary of the inner strife
Of one inwardly wrestling with prickly pinches.
It’s a forced recreation of “curiosity killed the cat”
And Unlikelihood of soon lying on my mat:
More contortions of my face.
Like a marathoner badly ending a good race:
Several repetitions of “Who goes there?”
And you shall have to tell me, “From where”.
I was at the balcony so high
A golden plate shines bright above the sky
Even it's beam fell on to me
On, could you tell me? Can I come to you and be free
Wolves are howling at the plate, shine bright
That plate gives me a golden sight
Waiting for you, or I'll come to you
I'm waiting for the moon down by the street
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