When shadows gather thick and hide the light,
I lift my eyes beyond the darkened night.
Though storms may shake the heart with all their might,
A quiet star still whispers, "Hold on tight."
The road grows steep and vanishes from sight,
Yet hope remains a lantern burning bright.
It paints tomorrow's canvas clear and white,
And turns despairing tears to drops of light.
When weary wings forget their gift of flight,
Hope stirs the air and helps them rise in flight.
It tells the soul that dawn is drawing right,
Though now the sky is clothed in deepest night.
No winter frost can claim a lasting right,
For spring awaits with blossoms shining bright.
And every heart that keeps hope's flame alight
Will find the morning crowned in golden light.
'Tis melodious music resonant has gone deep,
Tenor cleft trembling audaciously within,
Like sea, audibly searching immensely steep,
Vocalizing many universes therein.
Violin, Xylophone, banjo, bass guitar 'tis befall!
Ambience sensation Ah soothing, pleasing tremor,
Forming audibly, crescendo shift staves squall,
Softens our e'ver stony heart like th' stemmer.
Euphony that's nostalgia intense emotion,
Sounding harmoniously wanting, an' wondering,
Instrumental fortissimo that brings notion,
Stillness, sounding turns resoundingly thundering.
Enthralls our unfathomable emotion, ring,
Induces enraptured soul never before,
Our determination echoes so despairing,
Audacious Phoenix ablaze into bright galore!
There is a man I really like
And that’s the bloke that they call Spike
Laughter is a healing balm
And when he used it it worked a charm.
To hide away the pain and strife
That he experienced in life
He exposed the crass absurdity
And did it with a degree of glee.
If you can make the despairing laugh
Then you have found a special path
I’ve said me piece now on your bike
I’d just like to thank the man called Spike.
I am a mad poet that talks to a celestial lover,
That runs towards the sun while I run towards you,
But from time to time, even she stops to watch my endeavor,
To see if between us will bloom something new.
It didn’t, it doesn’t and it won’t.
And now, I wish I knew how to quit you,
I wish I didn’t see myself in the gray, despairing moon,
That towards the sun she walks and walks anew,
But won’t reach soon.
So here I am, on a starless night,
Where only the moon is witness to my doom,
As in fields of sorrow I throw myself into,
Thinking of only you.
And I talk to her about you,
I tell her every bit of reminiscence I have on us,
Why?
For even when I’ll be gone, the world shouldn't stop talking about you,
Since a mortal life is too short to keep the memory of you alive.
I like the showers of the sowers' rainfalls—
Not that it shouts, but because it makes plants sprout.
The scenery crawls as field greenery sprawls,
That can extricate droughts from despairing doubt.
Butterflies paint brighter the greens of the fields,
And flowers flaunt beauty as bright, fragrant shields.
In dreams I crave wet seasons to whet my sleep,
Whose supreme comfort sustains my slumber deep.
I hate the stains that dwell in corners and drains—
Filthiness, a taboo my death will detest.
I despise the dirtiness my soul disdains,
A deep aversion heaven and earth can't wrest.
So sew your flowers' seeds and weed my garden—
No matter your mistake, my mind will pardon.
Love will invent the wheel of our good rapport;
Just don't adore foulness I so much abhor.
I am lost in a desert without love
and I'm hoping for a sign from above.
Oh, to be saved by a refreshing sup
of clear water from a cool loving cup,
but my chances look despairing and dire,
and soon Lord, I believe I will expire.
In front of me, I see an oasis,
but do my eyes deceive without basis?
Will its love be my long-lost salvation
or just my naive imagination?
Despairing of lightening her mood
ten children her burden
her life spent
pushing and tugging
at a grindstone
of darkest despair
She wrote of her misery
to an elderly rabbi in Brooklyn
He promptly wrote back
words of encouragement
most unexpected advice
“Attend every wedding in town
Dance every dance
Whirl like the wind
Draw others into your circle”
The desperate women did just that
Her life changing by the week
as she drew her new friends
into her ever-widening circle
As I wander across the arid dunes
Singing along, stringing along the ghastly glacial tunes
Sinking in the sands of debility
Saddled on a ride filled with sanguinity
Pondering, contemplating, despairing
Again, something is missing
Losing my touch as I bask in unfulfillment
Treasuring countless, meaningless sentiment
Albeit freedom-sworn, forever I am imprisoned
Locked behind those mourns of the damned
Days fly, and keep flying, freezing this ever old tale
The pained, unchanging currents never stopped, my heart too shall never settle
The nightly howls never halted, my eyes open unendingly
Lovely weather for Dunners' ducks (tongue in cheek peek at Dunedin's historic deluge)
"Stares upstairs..
Angels’ weeing above..
Be a good chap..
Show some love bruv..
Turn off the tap..
*****
No refuge from the subterfuge of the deluge..
Parched sandbag phalanxes..
Ranks marching in flanks..
Arching across busted banks..
Quaffing..scoffing..downpour spanks..
**********
Disbelief at the leisurely river Leith..
Despairing at it baring...glaring..teeth
Hurling....haring to unsheaf grief..
Mischief rashly unfurling…
Brashly whirling beneath.
Bawdry..tawdry thief...
******
Baffled..can't they see...squiffy South D in a jiffy downed..
Snaffled..drowned and raffled to the sea..
Don't they care...iffy white caps slaps..won't perhaps spare even sniffy..
Snooty..spiffy St Clair..
****
This rain ruckus.. pluvial palaver...
Whichever not whatever...
It totally sucks..
Planet forever in..
Fluvial flummoxed flux..
Tis rather lovely weather..
Though for Dunedin's ducks.."
Whenever beliefs are placed
above any worthless things
they affirm the essence of true ideals,
that sparked visions in people's minds.
Hold on those beliefs and assert feelings,
if brave men stand by them and resist
the menacing shouts of despairing ideas;
in such a brutal way: shouldn't we react?
Beliefs can express liberalism or conservatism,
they both define a character ready comfirm it
in deeds that opponents them infused with alruism;
do you divulge them with brashness or intellect?
Some wealthy men gave everything to the needy and hopeless,.
they lived a humble life renouncing to all comforting luxuries;
who comes to mind if notTostoi who saw many human miseries?
His beilef reiforced the existance of faith in acts of kindness.
It's the 20th March again,
The clouds can't hold crystals to rain.
The old well that dwells in woods,
Peacefully humming all broods.
Turning up the level of fears,
Filling itself again with bitter tears.
Echos of despairing souls that reside,
wretched air that spreads deep in void.
Yet, trying to bury all demons that swells,
And finds a blooming self in gleeful daffodils.
journalist hours visit policy budget for all night viability of crime
the next debate was done
uncovering secrets of privacy violations is a job
violating pricacy of secret places we don't no well enough
is a policy writers wrong
for not being elsewhere or otherwise employed at the moment
all sorts of want ads are always awaiting the newspaper reader for innovative opportunity and adventure
back in the california worlds of different people
no questions are ready for the debate
infinite journalist objectives still the fix of debate
fact checking and rumination
all depressing and emotional ruin a despairing lust for life type of loser could want
endless hours of caffeine religion and madness
hard earned madness dealing with perception
too much options in the hidden dictionary lands of opinion pieces
and the like, go for broke and attempt living on a share of a dollar and a quarter in a lifetime
marching within a soul-less abbreviation of the subway ride to dinner, missing every chance to date the thing thats trendy. thats the malicious code of love i live with
#careermoves
February Gray
The weather and my mood, dismal as KING 5’s Headline News
reports of politics, war and a cold rain forecast for tomorrow,
makes me take a break from TV or staring out the window
at gray Seattle skies to take a walk down on the waterfront.
Only 5PM, yet pier 62 dock lights are already on, pale and heatless
halos of dimness in the hard as iron air slowing everything down.
Dark waves caress the seawall, rolling rhythms of shushing silence
murmuring me to wonder, When was the last time we whispered?
Suddenly, as if a dream could control weather, the sky brightens.
Beams of soft sunlight, glowing rays from a blue lip on the horizon,
radiate a warmth felt on my face. I smile for the first time this day,
as wet forecasts and despairing news recede with the setting sun.
When driving in Colorado or Nevada,
where twilight crimson rays on canyons burn,
into ancient layers of blood red strata -
on crooked roads, don't take the wrong turn.
They say, in these parts, a lonesome cowman's spirit
every evening returns
to this despairing place or somewhere near it,
just as the blazing sun adjourns.
For a century his heart was laden,
since his proposal was coldly spurned
by a cruel, but lovely maiden;
and since then his heart has yearned.
The canyon's winds can chill you to the core -
the doleful moan that will not learn,
but waits in vain, and hopelessly implores
an echo that will never return.
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