Baleful Poems

Be all end all

Before I begin writing down my 
Bizarre thoughts in a poetic form
Beware, you have been forewarned.
Baffling blend that defies categorization
Bedazzled, you’ll be, I am sure
Baleful and quite a bit, say, unsettling;
Besides all that, you’ll be surprised,
Breathtaking will be your experience
Beautiful even and at times, oh, I say
Brilliant, for I write outstandingly.
Bashful I certainly am not, you see
Babbling drunk but speaking the truth
Backpedaling is simply not my trait,
But you will enjoy whatever I write—
Bewitching, bold and beyond compare.

The Truth Rolls On

A ceaseless exhibition that stings,
Amongst matchless marvels on world screens,
A pleuritic pain to my soft breath it brings,
Subtle slight pulses caught in baleful scenes.

A blooming rushed pseudo sketch,
Like a snap in harsh lights at a clumsy stretch,
False fury flows through spectators’ veins,
With replays, the cloud of claims still rains.

The loud, jarring noise engulfs the lone truth in flight,
The sleeping streets stir at looming blight,
An unfairly tale, in ink it seals—
An art too stubborn for truth to repeal.

Whether the clear lines finally chime,
The intense stormy atmosphere claims the rhyme,
An erosive strong wind whirls the hail falls,
But a wonderful nature it remains, bravely it rolls.

The Cosmic Conflict

The cosmic conflict rages on
with battle lines distinctly drawn.
The good on one side is arrayed
Evil on the other parade.

Two forces battle for man’s mind
One to set free, and one to bind.
The good fights with means that are clean
While evil uses any means.

Within each mind the fight goes on
It starts the very day we’re born.
The evil side we’re prone to choose
So, most, the fight with evil lose.

Man was made for kinship with God
The evil side won him by fraud.
Friendship with God at first did sprout
Until evil injected doubt.

When evil yields its baleful fruit
The evil side blames God as brute.
Man’s blinded mind, thus harsher grows
‘Gainst God from whom, only good flows.

The crimes that blight man’s lofty dreams
and ruins his utopian schemes
reveal the nature of the fight
and makes him yearn for truth and right.

These virtues men will never find
While evil holds sway in their mind.
It's time men cease to play the fool,
Reject evil and let God rule.

Never to be Same

our inimical truths
our baleful words
have torn us apart
i stood for myself
you stood for yourself
i gave you signs
you gave me signs
but fate had other plans
now dark heart is all we have 
with all its chambers full of detest
if I come to your door
you won’t open
if you come to my door
i won’t open
so we lost our love
to the hands of our fears
never to come back
never to be same

Chasing What Isn’t Mine

The child pursues melodies I’ll never understand,
the notes wallowing through my fingertips like grains of sand.
But in the distance a flute laughs, softly,
a zither weeping its baleful notes—
both distant, blunt, and foreign.

I fell here once,
at the border of sound and silence,
hit by a blade I didn’t see coming.
Whose shadow loomed, blade in hand?
The answer is buried deep in the night,
stretching long and wide,
refusing to end,
refusing to begin.

Footprints in the Snow

Notes played on the wind sounded like 'Taps.'
A sad song without lyrics, expressing lament
Sorrow pelted me like crashing white caps
Beneath the fading light of the sun's descent
darkness gathered in a leaden sky.
In a whispered breath I said, "Goodbye."

So many words we'd left unspoken
when fear prevented us from speaking
Somewhere along our journey we were broken,
never discovering what it was we were seeking.
Snow began falling again as I turned to go.
There was one set of footprints in the snow.

Behind me arose the baleful sounds of cawing.
Soaring in the sky, a flock of squawking crows.
Tears coursing from my eyes as if I were thawing
The wintry world held me in its throes.
On I walked, pathway lighted by the moon,
listening to the notes of 'Taps,' a haunting tune.

Solitude - No Chance

He yearned for quiet.
He craved perfect silence.
He pictured himself in some valley,
Abandoned by all,
Resting against some old oak tree,
With no soul in sight.

It was not to be.
All he heard was rustling,
Movement all around the room.
No peace to savour,
Could not even read his lines.
He watched her moving around the room,
Now on the sofa,
Now looking out of the window.
No peace for him.
He looked straight at her,
Eyes baleful and threatening.
“Move off, pest. 
Leave me in peace.”
She looked at him,
Eyes hurt and almost crying.
Turning around she left
And ran into his wife’s lap,
Wagging her tail behind her.

death darkness destiny

nocturnal needles 
ebony embroidery 
silver scythe shimmers

skeleton sunsets
harvesting heart hue highlights 
bursting blinding bones 

baleful basket buds
spirits sparkling soil seedlings 
ghoulish ghost gardens 

reaper rhyming rain
wanton words whipping winking winds
stormy silky skulls

crackling crying clocks 
grieving grand gravestones gleaming 
sorrowful souls scribe 

January 6th 2019

Specter Looms

I died the other day,
fore am but a wraith,
manipulated by creatures,
leeches of the realm moribund.

Scars etch my face from lobotomies,
artistry crafted with a silver brush,
scalpel carves sanguinary in hush,
by a blind man, a white coat.

Smoke, Lilithian billowing tendrils,
swirl my essence, telekinesis,
baleful aura emanates the dirge,
mirth to match their futile folly.

Pluck the harp, smack the drum,
turn the skeletal key,
jiggle the loose lock,
yclept maestra death incarnate.

Destiny..

The space between

There exists a space between us
that has widened since the passing,
which slowly fills with more distrust
as faint demons start trespassing.

The closeness of a touch still there;
but eyes that once stared into mine
now focus elsewhere, in despair;
beyond, and to that baleful shrine.

Words attempt to bridge the distance;
depart to fade, arrive unheard.
We live in ghostly coexistence,
you, deep in bitter loss, interred.

And so we spend our long days thus;
love parting, contempt amassing.
There exists a space between us,
that has widened since the passing.

I have seen the peaks

I have seen the peaks
Majestic mountains
Flaunting themselves
Before a diminutive sun
Watched a shadow
Snare the radiance of light
Stood before a Cathedral
Surrounded by truth’s beggars
Touched the hand of an infant
Reaching out in wonder
Felt the sting
Of doubt’s lash
The soothing balm
Of hope
Listened to the murmurings
Of monotony’s metaphor
Heard the herald
Of the hounds
The baying 
Of baleful bastards
I have caressed
A soulless sunrise
Bedded down
A morose moon
Argued
With the stars
In the emptiness
Of a moment

Winter Magic

I beheld amidst the baleful sky,
a single snowflake falling gently
startling white against the slaty gray.

The crystal alit with cushioned sigh
upon your lips and sat contently;
you, too cold for it to melt away.

Rested long upon that ruby scar
did that winter's magic falling star.

If It Wasnt For Poetry

From the very depths of my inner being I cherish  poetry,
without the written verse I’d  be impoverished as a person,
literary projects spur me on to otherworldy epic peaks,
an open channel with furtherance from lexicons endowed,
golden opportunity for human pathos rich and fair,
stomach-wrenching pain, joyous peals of  laughter, mental stimulus,
visions I adhere to have a wider world impetus,
the comity of fellow authors and their honest feedback,
diplomatic goodwill hint at barren lapse within my canon,
and gracious honeyed Bon Mot of peer group kudos on occasions,
that  angst-ridden moment before a contest sponsor judgement,
bold gasp of relief at higher placement than expected,
or just as likely glum expression at the baleful NA,
in support a staunch muse Jay A Pallen shed her light,
loyal and demonstrative sister, whose sparkling eyes ooze warmth,
sagacious councillor supreme, bestowing love on this bard and their ardent stanza,
who brought to my attention bewitching vistas waiting to be captured,
influencer of my first ever piece  “Downward Plod,”
shortlisted for Creative Writing Ink poet challenge,
where this writer’s magic life-enhancing odyssey began

In the Zone of Twilight Terror

jolted out of 
a fluid fuzzy 
fragmented 
dreamscape
into the sharp
dark ruminating 
ruins of reality

(it is very late in the evening
very early in the morning)

a paralyzed brain 
pleads for mercy in 
  a moribund purgatory
anticipating
  another shock
  another loss
  another step closer to 
     the endgame

cars furtively growl out of 
a deceptively quiet complex
in the gloaming

a gurgling gut
gags on pulsating 
  waves of dread
awaiting
  another arrow of entropy
  another firestorm
  another bolt
     out of the baleful bog

a chorus of singing birds sweetly
taunts the crumpled man
clinging to a rumpled bed

(it is very early in the morning
very late in the evening)

there are no 
answers
only pleas
in the zone 
of 
twilight
terror

A Baleful Light

Sorrow circle back,
you bury it, ask the moon to bless it
and then again that same moon
comes looking for you;
you see by its baleful light 
that the grave is still open.

King Kong loved a little lady,
big mistake.
At night he listens
to the vicious buzzing of bi-planes,
and though his eyes are dry
he weeps.

You need to be the forgotten one
if you want to forget.

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