Hope is a light by the window, it glows
a lit torch of doting, it never dies
Biding its time on the wings of love's throws
its a matchstick of hope when one cries
Hope is a lantern that hangs way up high
a cresset lamp at the edge of night
Rising and soaring like an eagle in the sky
it is always present and never out of sight
Hope is a feather that floats in thin air
an eider down, for the crest fallen heart
It aims to restore with gentleness and care
it cherishes and delivers, a fresh new start.
Categories:
cresset, analogy,
Form: Rhyme
Possibilities, like children, navigate the classable realms,
settling upon the measurable.
Amorous piglets, their peachy snouts delve,
rooting through the trash heap of desire.
"In a time beyond now," wheatenly speaks the tale-spinner,
plucking a clover, pale and crowned with stardust,
among the untamed grains sown in the depth of breath.
She informs a story of the jewel hung in ghastly night,
makes dark fright beauteous and her old face new.
I crave an eye bathed in Bengal's blaze,
eternity riding a celestial pyre,
Cetus dancing on an ocean canvas,
whose seas flow no fresher than the confessions' wicked drippings.
These realms are places of wonder,
where pigments of reality and fantasy blend,
and I am compelled to dwell within my cresset,
explorer of the shining glimmers.
Sipping the subtle freshness,
a learner from the lessons of Experience,
I gaze through colored glass,
where each tint reveals and re-veils truth like a story.
I wait to touch of hem of a thunderbird,
whose wings span the horizon,
whose voice shakes the earth and sky,
whose feathers spark the fire of inspiration.
And I believe I will, someday, when I soar beyond the dawn.
Categories:
cresset, myth, writing,
Form: Free verse
Children of possibilities navigate the classable realms,
settling upon the measurable.
Amorous piglets, their peachy snouts delve,
rooting through the trash heap of desire.
"In a time beyond now," wheatenly speaks the tale-spinner,
plucking a clover, pale and crowned with stardust,
among the untamed grains sown in the depth of breath.
I crave an eye bathed in Bengal's blaze,
eternity riding a celestial pyre,
Cetus dancing on an ocean canvas,
whose seas flow no fresher than the confessions' wicked drippings.
These realms are places of suspicion,
where pigments of reality and fantasy fasten,
and I am compelled to dwell within my cresset,
guardian of the trimming glimmers.
Snipping the subtle freshness,
a novice to the gallows of Experience,
I gaze through colored glass,
where each tint tells a story of refracted truths.
Categories:
cresset, allusion, art, conflict, courage,
Form: Free verse
I wish to be the gentle breeze
Sweeping tearful eyes
Of the weary midday flower.
Or to be the horrid shadow
Casting fearful darkness
For a passer-by to rest.
A rippling river of white
I wish to be the one
Drenching thirst of arid earth.
Or to be a dancing wave
Of the mighty sea
Playing with a child.
A guild of fleeting clouds
Hiding splendid sun
For a homeless soul,
Or the canopy of green
Thwarting rain for a home,
I wish to be the one.
I wish to be a cresset
Guiding glimpse of hope
In the prosaic paths of pangs
Or to be a firefly
In the dim toilsome journey
Of a soul to his divine home.
Categories:
cresset, emotions, imagination,
Form: Free verse
***(The man who is coming)
A dissonant clamor of colorful voices
equal pebbles, days equal
like some rust crumble out of the eyes.
It is late to change myself and
I am the same again – with the essence
of an oak and a rose.
Dissolved in the heavens and with immovable shape of a heart.
A movement of light, before the Angel comes by your house.
On the island a hand with a cresset lit weighs.
/o, Nietzsche – a symbol of free will,
that
your road has cut off/,
and how much does the Hawaii weigh and the frames of the madwoman
a hand – an endless feast of deep tints
(why hasn’t Van Gogh been born yet?)
On that island I’d like the feast to be...
The man who is coming is whistling
lightly ...
Categories:
cresset, philosophy
Form: Free verse