if a node in the sky were to rebel
leaving behind its carcass in decay
though far away it yet sounds a death knell
ominously thus prophesying doomsday
searching yellow eyes
fast, agile, hunts by surprise ~
elite sparrowhawk
this bird hunter waits
it pounces, pigeon's death knell ~
nature is brutal
When summer's heat cries out for rain,
Flowers bow beneath the strain.
Yet deep below, the roots still keep,
Revival stirring in deep sleep.
Wilt is not a finale farewell,
Nor the tolling of a death knell;
The earth remembers every seed,
And yearns to grant what plants need.
Saudade drifts through twilight air,
For things once loved—or never there.
A sweet ache woven through the heart,
When hope and longing dwell apart.
The rose may mourn the vanished rain,
Bow in submission to drought's domain;
Yet dawn returns with silver grace,
When dewdrops fall on an uplifted face.
So when the soul begins to bend,
When weary days seem without end,
Recall the bloom that learned its art—
To wilt, to wait, and mend the heart.
It is the art of wilt and wait,
By which flowers haunt at the gate,
Knowing their wilt and wane,
Will call the gardener, back again.
By unfocusing the focus of our gaze,
the shift enabled solely by heart’s intent,
by restoring vision focus we amaze,
presence in the path of ascent and descent,
caused by choiceless choice as in the void we laze,
whilst granting our innate playfulness consent.
After sight it is hearing, touch, taste and smell,
detachment from form, for ego it’s death knell.
Death knell we must quell
Asian fans under the spell
What's the point pray tell
Ground hog day must fell
T20 slog locked in a cell
Same same endless well
Lame game ring the bell
Or the IPL will just swell
Kills where Tests do dwell
Not a green verdant dell
Obnoxious & noxious smell
Glam Instagram sham we yell
Scam in tawdry bawdry shell
Just all about well sell sell sell
Warm welcome to IPL HELL!
We've woven Samson's hair, into Emperor's clothes
From the tangled web, that enough of us chose
We try to find our way back, while the drawbridge is closed
As the portcullis crashes on the cry in our throat
If we could but match it, with sincerity's tear
We might fashion a shield, and a mantle to wear
But if we cling to the cloak of the silk that's been woven
By the dance of the golden hooves of the cloven
We'll be trampled under, that stampede of lies
In the gathering storm, as it darkens the skies
It won't echo and thunder, as our epitaph
But a death knell our legend, as history laughs
At the folly of thinking, "We're better than that."
Swept into the dustpan, or under the mat
Placed at the bottom, of a yellowing page
In some forgotten tome... of enlightenment's age
He’s heard before he enters:
you all know the drill.
He lurks in Shopping Centres,
as purposeful as krill.
Socially successful?
Like a waltz named ‘Emmet Till’.
His outcomes, too, are stressful
(see Wordsworth’s Harry Gill).
The death-knell at your dinner
with his punchline overkill,
a Jeanine Pirro ‘winner’:
each day a No True Bill.
His laugh’s as loud as mowers
or dad’s electric drill,
or over-taxed leaf blowers,
or an angry whippoorwill.
Denizen of the diner,
you know, for good or ill,
he’ll use his new one-liner:
audience feedback? Nil.
Why repeat the spasm?
Get up each morning, still?
He’s conscious of that chasm,
that hole he’s got to fill.
Where have all the bison gone
shot by Sharps shooters nearly every one
where have all the shooters gone
done away by Indians more than some
the red man revered the buffalo
of Manitou's abundance living proof
to the white who sent them
to the not-so-happy-hunting grounds
a gold mine on the hoof
the paleface ways in olden days long gone
were somewhat less than perfect
and should be frowned upon
to soldiers bison were target practice
indigenous people to quell
while hunters killed for the hides
by 1884 the Black Hills buffalo death knell
lies were spoken treaties broken
but revenge was none too soon at hand
Sioux Cheyenne Arapaho attacked
and briefly turned the tide
on what was their rightful land
beside the Little Bighorn
one frightful day at Custer's last stand
"Isaac’s servants dug in the valley and discovered a well of fresh water there. But the herders of Gerar quarreled with those of Isaac and said, “The water is ours!” Genesis 26:19-20
Do you hear argument’s doorbell?
Jealousy causes a groundswell
like a sink hole.
Antagonists are raising hell
over an underground bombshell
greed's sordid goal.
Contentious opinions foretell
what sounds like a solemn death knell.
Isaac would bid anger farewell;
he'd forgo harm, refuse to yell,
showing control.
He'd breathe deeply, hot air expel
before maddening tempers swell.
Like him, extol
peacetime; just dig another well;
be forgiving. Ring freedom's bell.
An unearthly fog thickens nocturnal’s peaceful aura.
Scents of lamenting petrichor mix with slick, decomposing leaves.
A disharmonious death knell calls to me,
Untying the red strings of fate from the celestial loom.
My heart weighs heavy against a faltering ribcage,
Standing in front of the wilderness of mirrors.
Disembodied voices duplicate—
Head spinning, whiplash ensues.
Reflections distorted, coated in soot—
I've become both saint and sinner.
Looking down at my hands, veins darken,
Burning from within—realization strikes:
I’m the ashes, the smudges obscuring judgment’s view.
Glibly goes; the globalists line deprivation is freedom
And eternal war is so fine' repression of the west that
Had afflulence and health.' That might spill over? to the
Third world..Kept upon its own shelf.' By empowered
Populations un-predated by war, in appreciation of advances, from the decades gone before..As thought
Pharoah Tutmoses; the second to none? The folk in
General are most numerous, of my riches whats is to
become? So he made 'interventions and punishments'
Hard.! to deplete them in number..To kill young males
His trump card.' And yet there was plentitude, innovation
All was well.' Now his agressive intention unto evil actions
Would sound the death knell.'
Underneath the blue-black twilight
of an impending, grim, nightmarish sky,
I hear the ping of deathly bells ringing,
signaling that my end is nigh.
Buzzards circle above,
swooping down, playing with their prey,
pecking ever so gingerly at mourning flesh.
I swat them away as dread fills every pore of my being.
Soon, the sun will rise over the bloodthirsty horizon,
its first streaks of light illuminating the sands.
I know my fate will be sealed.
Sweat beads and pools, coating my back.
Trembling now, I try to grasp my sanity.
The smell of the air has changed—
stale sorrow replaces the sweet scent of desert lily.
Dusk is close at hand.
The death knell grows louder,
drowning out even the most minuscule of sounds.
The executioner sharpens his glistening blade.
Arising, I am led to my ghastly doom.
Within seconds, crimson will stain the sands of time,
and I’ll become nothing more than mere food for the forgotten.
I hold three magic rocks, in my hand.
Rolling them over and over and over.
Leaving reality behind, far behind.
once an eagle
with a clipped wing
attempting
without surrender to once again
command the infinite azure sky;
continually nosediving
whenever tossed in the air.
his convalescence
punishingly long;
now complete.
embarking on a mission
to quiet doubting Thomases
that sounded a death knell for him
and laughed him off as
a paper plane
incapable of flying
far beyond the horizon...
look at him today!
look at him soaring above
majestically;
his journey
from the depth of asperity
to the dizzying heights of majesty...
m a g i c a l:
almost miraculous.
he's withered
the slings and arrows of life
intact; he's in flight once again
a testament
to his strength and resilience.
The air writhes for a funnel.
The wind tunnel is unusually special.
Quick sell a landfill a prequel.
Befell death knell in a clam shell.
The lightning bolt on a beach.
Thin glass forms from the impact.
A firefly trapped inside signals his family.
Goodbye.
Each second dies so brief it stays
among the minutes, hours, and days
of living’s murmuration spell,
in which we mortals have to dwell;
as each moment slowly decays.
Time is inconstant; it betrays;
traps you in it’s alluring maze;
then so, quite when, it’s hard to tell,
each second dies.
Time is not all that it portrays,
that of a roll of endless days.
Too soon, you’ll hearken your death knell,
tolling seconds fond farewell;
as fickle time, with you, it plays,
each second dies.
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