Late November,
and lonely resonance of harmattan
salutes this solitude.
A weaverbird's contralto, in one
gale-sweep, lays bare the lower balustrade
of a maisonette,
and the romance of the last seasons
shoots the long throat of the clarinet...
O'classicals, on wings
ye come;
leaf cusps and petal ears —
classicals, swearing oaths of
mellifluous assembly...
Calm rhythms hasten to the
ears of Beethoven —
summon him for a serenade,
lest the dark shelter of a
decrepit day strips this solitude.
Anodyne hisses among
this hidden threshold,
curing and healing the weakness of
Clepoatra's hair, dampened with
the venom of haters of vanity.
Classicals,
rid us now of this grief of mundane
dances...
Even in death, Stravinsky hails solitude
on notes of the keys.
From the clarinet,
the bimetallism of barter —
the platitude of life and death
(symbiosis of percussions)
epitaph to the aftermath of
inveterate tradition —
now and forever...
And the clarinet looms.
In my spirit, I desire that the seed
To blossom from within.
May bleed from my eyes
In the manner of magenta.
The bougainvillea flowed from the vine
Along the railing of the balcony
In spring, on the balustrade.
In anticipation
To let the morning sun come up.
To let it bleed akin to this
Purple blood.
To mother earth
A desire for adscititious.
Written: March 10, 2023
The horizon was brewing ominous clouds,
Dark as if they came out of hell.
The once azure sky became hazy
As the north wind chilly breezes
Puffed up more stratocumulus,
Rain-heavy clouds signified storms.
I rested against the balustrade
Of the promenade, looking down at the sea.
Waves upon waves dashed at the dark crags.
Seaspray washed my tired face.
Above the seagulls came to enjoy
The thunderstorm that would soon erupt
Above the small bay, now emptied of boats.
The seagulls were indeed a sight to see.
Only a hundred or so circled the inlet.
They plunged into the sea for food
Irrespective of where the chilly wind blew.
They were an elegant sight to see.
As the first drops of rain fell, I betook myself home.
My wife was waiting anxiously for me
Afraid I’ll get wet. “Watching the birds?”
Clearly, she was not very much amused.
She turned her back on me, as thunder boomed
And lightning flashed but I went with the wind,
And clasped her round her winsome waist.
She did not resist, and neither did I.
I have a woman.
I’m proud to call her my wife.
Some give theirs’ nicknames, ‘her indoors’ and ‘the trouble and strife’
Now, I have my flaws and they are many and vast.
I think like a man, slowly and ‘at last’!
But my wife asks me to hang the washing out in the rain!
Her argument for using the balustrade and radiators to me seems pretty lame!
They dry out too quickly!
They dry out too fast!
So, while it’s overcast and drizzling the wind will still give them a blast!
Now, I have a chunter as I’m stood outside getting my bald head wet! She says that there’s sense in her logic though I can’t see it being approved by Spock from Star Trek!
If they get wet we can give them a spin! Then wait for some sunshine to hang them out again!
The weather app says it’s going to clear up - so that’s what you’ll do. Get out there in the drizzle and hang the washing out you fool.
Beyond my Grecian villa walls of stone
a great bridge does cross the river’s divide,
and the Maroochy water’s gentle groan
concentrates my mind betwixt moon and tide.
Where over burning canefields black soot ash
on an east wind past my balustrade blows,
and big pelicans the riverine splash
their pink dive pouch longbills in the shallows.
And when the sun is low and the moon high
just sit back on my porch as oft I do -
sipping a tincture of scotch in my dry
puffing a cigar on the avenue.
And fishermen in the Cod Hole across
sit reeling in their boats off Mykonos.
Written: October 1999
What is life?
For I grew tasty to be
The most foolish, explored
The library and balustrade
Of foolery, for many a good time,
But in the line, undeciphered
That the most foolish I could ever
Get was ever going to be the startline
For another!
So I turned back to knowing, that I, too,
May acquire it and be counted a wiseman.
I did read many a wisebook and thought
Many a wisethought but, yet again, it was
Dawned on me that I was never ever going
To be the wiseman my taste craved, and that
I was a fool with permanent folly!
Hence, I turned to my mother and cried
To her of my dilemma.
She advised me to toe wiselines.
I asked her how wise could I ever be?
Then she gave me an answer that ever
Makes man sigh and hiss like a serpent!
Scented leaves falling on the balustrade
Poet's lyrics through twilight
Yet to come, buds waiting
Scented Leaves Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kim Rodrigues
13 November, 2019
Your castle has a moat
to mark for the unawares
the point of danger,
the change of rule.
My fort has a juice box
Your castle has a drawbridge
to allow in only those
who pass the "Hark! Who goes"
test and cause the chains
to move.
My fort has peak roof
for peeking out
and, on occasion
for peeking in.
But only for the Lucky Few
and only in the Lucky Few
moments when all is well,
for a spell.
Your castle has
both balustrade and colonnade,
meurtrière 'n its parapets
for staving off the storms
and againststanding and
withstanding arméd swarms.
My fort has a
pair a pets:
this fluffster at my calf,
snoring and this stuffster
in crook of arm;
well-worn, with eye
missing but stuffed
animals see with squishy bits
inside, not these button eyes.
Your castle has barbican and portcullis.
My fort has a wittle wiccan. Jealous?
Your castle has both crenellation and machicolation.
My fort has an introvert's narration and ceaseless cogitation.
Your castle has walls of
stone, long-charred by dragon
breath. With dents by dint
of Minotaur and Harpy.
My fort is cotton batting,
linen for winnin'
battles with monsters
greater than your gods.
Treasure Hunt
If perchance you go to the park
they call Wilderness
look for the maroon bridge
that spans across
the great divide between
the untamed land of the woods
and the coarse grass land of the prairie;
once you find it step lightly
for it is sore with old age;
go to the middle and you will see
as you gently bend over
its knotty balustrade
dead branches and turtles
nonchalantly floating downstream
and a few feet away from the abutment
under a bed of soggy withered leaves
unprotected – a bulky old chest;
no need for a key, it opens readily
without a squeak of disapproval;
then, if you can entrust yourself
to the veil of oblivion that lingers
within you it may be a sign that
you are ready
ready for the ocean taste of life
ready to reach in and pull out
a silver sailboat all rigged up
its lateen sail bracing
for the racing wind
idly waiting to glide on the
caressing waves of time.
(1987)
This morning, I bounced out of bed
Excited to see you
I figured I’d make coffee for two
And we could sit on the balcony
And chat in the morning sunlight
We’ll ramble on about boys and toys, work and study, blogs and stories on life
Pleased with the company
Pleased with a new friendship
You weren’t home this morning
I woke to myself
I walked our hallway and lingered the lounge
As it dawned on me that you were missing
I drank coffee alone
And hung my head over the balcony balustrade
Catching the sunlight with a ting of loneliness
Come home
She gazes forth, forlorn, her splendor inspired, her grieving vast
It was three hundred years since the Bard of Avon did create
An ode to her beauty; a tale of love, of joy, of sadness and of fate
Juliet and her lost love Romeo, forever bound, forever found, forever to last
The image Dicksee created may reconcile lovers torn and passions classed
As futile, unrequited and inappropriate; yet love still lingers
Drawn as much by what can as what cannot be, for nothing alters
What a waste; Oh what we have not learned from mistakes past
So this maiden sweet stands alone, her hands resting on the balustrade
In her eyes an expectant look, longing for her lover to see
Waiting there eternally, patiently, yearning… Her promise made
Serene she waits, for what will never be
She lingers lost in memory, the poet’s pen paid
The artist’s brush stayed, alone to inspire me.
I stood by the bridge
Gazing down at the greens
Of the trees on the banks
At the union of streams.
Through mossed balustrade
Reflected I'd spy
The spires of Magdalen
In watery sky.
Leaves on the water
Red, yellow and gold
By unseen currents,
The near bank hold.
Bright against grey
In light autumn shower
A shimmering halo
Above the stone tower.
Wide wavelets circling
The still picture flows
A fast spreading mask
Where the hidden fish rose.
By the far bank
The ripple passes
Halting the gaze
Of hanging grasses.
Thinned willow and elm
Where pigeons coo,
As in the past
They forever will do.
Now Michaelmas comes,
New faces appear,
But Oxford unchanged
Will greet the new year.
Wading through the mire of me; this desolation strewn a brief life
Across time left sorting now, these pages; debris, his broken pieces ?
Many say that patience be a virtue; ten thousand years but that a day....
Jacob's ladder amid her land of Luz; surely, God, is in this place ? Nascent
Entering narrow hallways apostasy, their Pandora's box ? Analogous she seems
Yet deemed of independent; severed, the material world; venerated institutions ideal
Paragons His balustrade ? Her bard and Angels await; love's gazebo Pier's balcony; asylum.
Poor little Moon King
trapped inside a gilded cage
within the marble prison walls
the cage is painted
and the marble held up with balsa wood
a fake fairy-tale façade
castles in the clouds
ladies in classical poses
battles never won
nor even fought
locked in frozen frescos
as trapped as the poor little Moon King
forever
insulated from the cruel sisters
modernity & society
having anything you want
except what you really need
the sisters cannot let you bare
flesh and soul
crying to sleep
in the silken cradle
an empty shell
an unnatural fondness forbidden
yet tasted behind the closed door
a self-deluded love lost among luxuries
Oh Ludwig how you wished so hard
the sun would shine
on your chivalric dreams
but
alone lamenting at the balustrade
you are the Moon King
forever in plaster and paint
cloud-covered
out shined
hag-ridden highness
hiding behind a pile of stones and pretty
colours
poor little Moon King
A war raged on twixt north and south
while dimpled smiles raised her fine mouth,
simplicity seduced.
He wanted her, he loved her grace
but of her mind,well, there's no trace,
he catered and abused.
Although they'd breed her tall and fine
fed her on dates and cherry wines,
she was simply useless.
They'd made of her just what they wished
a receptacle, a tasty dish,
faults; they would address.
Then one foul day he showed his core
that gallant man was no mentor
unskilled in all but amour
He left her there by the balustrade
"I don't give a damn" is what he said.
Your charms I now abhor.
So as you see the North has won
don't let southern parts get you undone
mind your business
Leave him first that handsome bore
kick his **** out the kitchen door
he was simply useless.
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