Every sin laid upon me, left its stone.
Each dream denied, buried deep, is a stone.
Unkept promises haunt, their weight cold stones.
I walk, hunched by forgotten oaths, their stones.
Suffered wounds unseen, each bruise casts a stone.
Given pain returned sharper, molds its stone.
The choirs refused my ears each hymn, a stone.
Heaven closed; its silence bequeaths me stones.
Mud clings to my steps, the ground spawns stones.
The self is prison, walled in jagged stones.
Under skies, burdened breath, life begged for stones.
I build ruin. To endure is to move these stones.
Now contemplating mourning the hypnotizing hues
Seeing life passed me by illuminating the given blues
Walking the winding fossolic paths with God in mind
Remembering the dreams of the night still to find
In thy head theory bequeaths the imagery to surrounding
The view - sunrises in my very buried womb - binding
Missing it relishing a blue sky beauteous be
Memoirs - the writes as the day by goes to see
The blues they too inspire the mood also of the soul
Still in the head the reflections, those moody blues indeed
Take a toll!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Early fall has passed; it’s November now. The air is noticeably colder, drawing the heat from my skin. With each breath I take, the moisture from my lungs rises in thick plumes before me.
winter sun readies
autumn sighs, bequeaths its gift
confetti garland
Rhythm, rhyme, and resonance.
Riddle, riffle through.
Red run roundabout? Last chance.
Buried deep in blue.
Stifle, sound of silence?
Better not ask why.
Victory bequeaths violence!
Somebody must die!
Pool up, silk thread, on my spool.
Thunder, fly at once.
Help the boy to keep it cool!
Goblin, grinning, guns!
Tyrant of the ancient waste?
How does success taste?
O ye virgins, art thou chaste?
Turkey legs a-baste!
Lobbied for, O hobby? When?
Now or then again?
Gods of death, a death! Try ten.
Dragon, from thy den...
Rattlesnake, thy timber.
Cone of volcano.
Hurry, Blizzard! Cause shiver!
Bloom, thy bungalow.
Dun the skies on Martian soil.
Fate, must we embroil?
O ye serpents, thus to coil!
Water hot to boil...
Figure eight? It's gotten late.
All men hate to wait.
Cross the desert or the strait?
Limestone gone to plate!0
Being of sound mind and body, this dude
Bequeaths his soul to help those who've come unglued
The world needs more giggles
And more positive signals
For a better world to emerge with a new attitude
Here, I pray, is a sonnet he may have written upon his passing on, ironically, his 52nd birthday, April 23rd 1616...
The Bard Bequeaths
'Twas two and fifty years of mortal worth,
This twenty third of April owned thy fate.
Thy soul commence and hence departs this earth
In midst of spring as summer's passions wait.
Those passions drip from quill like dagger's tears,
The blood of inspiration spake and writ,
Like life itself, upon the stage appears
Until, at last, a poison potion sipped.
Though ne'er a day begets where peace doth dwell
There, hidden in the chaos is reward.
Though, like the Queen of Scots, there was no knell,
Thou tarry not, before the henchman's sword.
Mine heart doth pray that thou hath left behind,
Conception's want that cannot be confined.
‘Most of the dandelions had changed from suns into moons.’ – Vladimir Nabokov
The humble dandelion Earth bequeaths.
Oh, golden bloom which ancient lore bequeaths
that fortune ‘s woven into bridal wreaths.
The dandelion turns from sun to moon.
A dandelion morphs from sun to moon
for wishes cast so young and old may swoon.
The Shepherd’s Clocks are pacing march of time.
My Shepherd’s Clock is marking march of time
as day would turn to night with stars sublime.
The moonlight whispers capture early twilight
of moonlit scenes betwixt erstwhile twilights—
a transformation silence cloak the night.
The fairy clocks now spent, they dream of sheen
of mornings when they shone, showily preened.
Passion springs from its sultry spot,
Warm and sweet; bitter-hot;
Belies the eyes that speak of love.
Cherished secrets fade away,
Chasing phantoms toward the day.
Passion seeps into the mind;
Treachery in Reason's sound embrace.
He smiles at innocence, laughs at grace;
Mocks the armor of the young.
Oh, sweet love!
Cares nothing for the heart beneath
Or all the good that love bequeaths.
Passion springs, wet and warm.
Nothing safe from its seering harm.
Leaves me breathless from the heat,
Sadly hoping love to meet.
Love trembles, a heartbeat,
Echoes through the soul,
Bequeaths joy, so very sweet.
Lends hope, making hearts whole.
Love erases the darkest night,
Whispering with gentle grace,
Reflecting the song of its light,
Brings wonder in every embrace.
Love breathes a prayer of hope,
Stirring the dreams, the muse,
Guarantees the soul can cope,
Singing a song that won’t confuse.
Love rouses the beauty inside,
Feelings so extraordinary, so alive,
Conveys perfection to ever abide,
Kindness that will eternally thrive.
Love reaches through the fears,
Conspiring with faith that lives,
Wiping away the most painful tears,
It’s serenity that just gives and gives.
Love pours out smiles of praise,
Arising to be a friend, adoring,
Light that is forever and always,
Its sensation is kind and restoring.
Love bonds hearts and souls,
With a magnificent beyond verse.
Love so powerful it completely controls,
Saving hearts from doubt that can coerce.
Written: October 19, 2023
Poem in the Fragmented Form Created by Poetess: Constance la France
The good work is done by people with jagged, broken edges because those edges cut things and leave an imprint, a design. By Harry Crews
_______________________________________
Love's blades tear within as a dull scalpel with teeth
Leaving merely a crushed, dead chunk of flesh
It shreds, gouges, and weeps till the heart bequeaths
Offering its heart gambles will be accepted fresh,
Being hugged frowns as it gulps the vile reality
The dagger sinks further, piercing the frailty of sanity
A heart still bleeds while succumbing to sociality
Pathetic, petrous parcel with pebbly peaks
Jagged-toothed dome rising into bespeaks,
Each is engraved, erose, and has surface breaks.
Swallowed by a murky quagmire of an abyss beneath,
Snapping at heels all life, laden with vessel mensch,
Unfathomable evil clings to grief and jagged vitality
Vow to thrive with every word your soul speaks.
Towards the light it always glides
to find a resting place
The anchor lies within its gloam
its answer is a prayer ;
Beneath the keen observant eye
of a Divine soul, the heart bequeaths its silver sleeve
and makes a promised oath to serve and to protect ;
The soul, devoid of sly and mischief act
can gleam as bright as noonday sun.
Within the essence of its life
pure love abounds inside a soul most true.
Thank God he gave us souls to make us grow
I am grateful, and I know you must be too.
Kundalini ascends,
signalling soul’s intent
to raise it’s consciousness,
by granting love consent,
ensconced in blissfulness.
Kundalini ascends,
as vibrant liquid light,
transmuting nodes within,
in a dance of delight,
with bliss tingling our skin.
Kundalini ascends,
magnetising our form,
centring pristine presence,
whilst drenched by bliss throbs warm,
thus peaking soul’s vibrance.
Kundalini ascends,
aligning our five sheaths,
soul imbibing wisdom,
as blessings God bequeaths,
for within’s His kingdom.
21-May-2022
Notes:
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kundalini
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kosha
Autumn bequeaths
chestnut dappled
ethereal forests
graciously hued in
jeweled kaleidoscope leaves
migrating north on
primeval quiet
river snow
tapering under
violet winter's
xeroxed yielding zenith.
11/13/21
Entered in 'Z' contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Coffin
Your striking aura leaves most folks aghast,
a somber beauty that bequeaths its mark.
Adorned in satin, some would think miscast,
may leave the tenant raging in the dark.
Declaims fond memoirs of the recent past,
before the raven called, there was a lark.
How fitting that you came to be from death
and now inured to lack of deed and breath.
The poet dreams, and with a simple glance
at trees or sky or at a mountain spring,
begins to write, endeavors to enhance
each sight of beauty with imagining.
He paints midsummer as a day of gold,
the song of birds at twilight as the tune
for his beloved, whose aspect is extolled
and likened to the splendor of the moon.
At times, his heart is pained. It seems that doom
pursues him in that chasm where he grieves.
He finds he still must write. . . and there may bloom
sweet wistful roses on his journal’s leaves.
Though meager be his assets, he bequeaths
to us a treasure with the words he breathes.
Entered 10/22/2020 for Line Gauthier's Have You Published Poetry Contest
From my chapbook: Dancing the Unicorn: Lyrical Blooms 2
I had won a chapbook deal for my Lyrical Blooms 1 entitled Dreaming the Unicorn, and I followed it up with a part 2 Dancing the Unicorn, a 44-page chapbook pubished in 2008 by Shadow Ink. The book contains poems of various themes with about two poems per page and organized by types of poetry forms. Blue roses are scattered through the book. Shadow Ink sadly stopped publishing.
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