Left little finger — mocks old strident foes.
Left ring finger — wears pale imprint after love ups and goes.
Left middle — taps out the years between hugs.
Left index finger — points up high to the heavens above.
Left thumb — presses today's stamp on yesterday's late mail.
Right thumb — flips through faded pages of old diaries.
Right index finger — traces funny faces on misted window panes.
Right middle finger — catches tears way before they fall.
Right ring finger — encircles promises with gold bands of hope.
Right little finger — wiggles forlornly until another pinky wiggles back.
Too impassioned more forlornly flower, does the turning dais merit another brother from which hails the borderline snowy hail, that which emotes so white that one mistakes the ink for snowcones, the pen for flavor? I should only curse the forewarning of any haunted house the suitor exiled the forsworn blouse a billowing willow fades with time, time-travel indeed, two sick swines.
The ghost of the haunted lighthouse, standing lonely by the sea,
Emerges every morning ‘twixt the hours of one and three,
His vacant eyes forlornly search the ocean, still in vain,
Where the vessel lies forever and the sailors' bones remain.
Up and down the stairs he drifts, and thrice around the lamp,
An empty bottle at his hip, the air all cold and damp.
He moans and wails a ghosty chant, a song that isn’t known
By men of breath who come to see a man who can’t atone.
These stories are as old as hills, the haunted lighthouse ghosts,
When lonely keepers kept lamps lit on deadly rocky coasts,
With powers sublime, when tempests raged, these souls were tested then
And stormy seas and weedy pipes meant death to that ship’s men.
Springtime facade shines on convivial tapestry,
Monet’s luminous landscape of vibrant vivacity
within sparkling blue lagoon of dreaming eyes.
On luscious lips the petals of blooming lotus lie,
painted on the satin canvas of cute countenance,
designing narcissistic features of innate elegance
with the hues of Dorian Gray syndrome subdued
by pervading pride of indomitable youth imbued.
On the withered canvas the wheels of time creep,
the spider of age weaves the web of wrinkles deep.
Weary eyes look forlornly at weathered wasteland,
wilted lips lose luster of lotus once lovingly grand.
Hedonist psyche refuses to accept the fated loss,
even when time comes for the last mile to cross.
What is a face if not a metaphor for trait panorama,
snapshot in beholder’s eyes of concealed charisma.
Abandoned on the promenade,
A big-wheeled trike did sit,
Forlornly waiting for the tyke
Who should be riding it.
I passed it on my morning walk,
When few are up and out
And seeing it, I wondered
What its story was about.
For why was it forgotten?
Did the mom leave in a rush?
Or the dad or sitter tending to
A child’s scraped knee a’gush?
Or perhaps they came across some friends
And headed to the swings
With the tricycle remaining there,
Ignored for better things.
I hope someone remembers it
And comes to take it home,
Where it belongs much more
Than as a subject for a poem.
Years lay over,
tilt to shed tears,
from eaves of leaves
that sway, stay and,
stray away to far beyond.
Lay, lady, lay.
Come allay your fears
and I'll let your colors shine,
if you'll stay with me, for awhile.
Lest, I lay to rest,
a wreath for you,
for the good times we shared
long gone.
The years drift away,
way out wide on the tide.
Marooned as lullabies
of lilting longing shadows,
echoing woe, and go, betides,
way out beyond the breakers,
beyond the lay of years.
The ring of fresh colored flowers,
you once wore around your neck,
now lies forlornly lain,
as a garland of petals,
dropped from a ring of flowers
onto the ground.
Onto the layers of years,
spread out on a mound of tears,
never to grow old,
beyond the lay of years.
A rose upon the vine too soon will fade;
no matter if the bloom is bleak or fair,
its petals drop, no matter what their shade
and lie forlornly in the garden there.
A rose is just a flower and no more.
Its blossom time of hours far too few;
once petals fade, there’s no one to restore
that graciousness and beauty back to you.
But when we fall in love, the blossom grows;
its perfume lasts forever, and we find
a bloom that doesn’t wither, heaven knows
it will be a thing of beauty in our mind.
If love’s a rose, what color would it be?
Love has no color, save serenity.
She walks the streets of this vast city,
looking in alleys and corners gritty.
Hoping to find love's tender smile,
but instead finds loneliness in all the miles.
He roams the streets of this vast town,
staring forlornly at the dirty ground.
Despair has taken its final hold.
The lack of her love has left him cold.
They pass each other on their way,
neither having a single word to say.
Two empty lives drifting aimlessly,
wanting a love that will never be.
Our dogs have a pen twelve times bigger than a shed
They romp, jump, and frolic until their faces are red
But this is only if their mama is inside with them
If I am out, they wait forlornly, at the gate of this pen
I am but one person.
On a mission I had gone.
I'm now locked out of safety
of the spaceship I was on.
Black ink is spilled around me,
vast and never-ending
as into nothingness
I find my body wending.
The oxygen inside my tank
will last perhaps six hours.
I can see stars - stabs of light;
they are cosmic flowers!
Forlornness embraces me -
a suffocating feeling
so unlike my loved ones’ hugs.
With gloom my brain is reeling.
I travel in my mind
to things I cherish most -
my family and friends.
To them I’ll be a ghost.
A ghost forever floating
in this upside-down endless sea
which will be a graveyard
of black surrounding me.
God, I am imploring you
as I drift and drift and drift,
may I soon be in your light -
my death both peaceful and swift.
Based on Iron Maiden's "The Final Frontier"
Once, a lonely number three
sat forlornly on my knee.
In his eyes, I saw despair
as he was sitting there.
"You needn't sniffle, cry or pout.
I too have been the odd man out."
Mermaid
This afternoon a mermaid swam to the shore and took flight, so you didn’t, know that the beautiful creatures who live in our seas can fly, she lifted her delicate silky wings and flew seeing me staring forlornly by the kitchen window with a dishcloth in my left hand not seeing a fairytale being I used to believe in as a child
She knocked on the window I opened up, but not much because close up she lolled like a Karen of the type saying men are useless but call you to open a tin of sausages or fetch her slippers in the bedroom Suddenly she took fright and flew away but the
knocking persisted it was my neighbor who wanted me to scrub her back, I helped her out of the bathtub, and before stood a scrawny 84-year-old mermaid
joyfully pursuing nothing today
no plan
no schedule
no worries
no cares
my car sits forlornly
she misses me
I do not care
this retirement gig is delightful
I can sit in one spot for days
and I do
until Dr. G begins talking about blood clots
that go to your heart and kill you
when you sit for too many hours
I walk up the hill one time
hoping that is enough
because I want to sit in a recliner
and watch TV, paint or write poems
joyfully pursuing nothing today
In the starless nights and cloudy days,
to travel in the tortuous trail of life isn’t easy.
When the flowers turn pallid and the trees tawny,
on barren garden path in tears of toil hopes dissolve.
When the journey is long and the time finite,
at the dark end of tormenting tunnel I don’t see light.
When in the wasteland of destiny in the stormy nights
the shards of splintered sky fall around me, I forlornly find.
I don’t question the dictate of the supreme designer,
wait for the sparkle of the starry nights and sunny days.
Without complaint I take the transient time of His as it is,
and wait for the spring of emerald trees and fragrant flowers.
Under fallen sky my broken dreams lie in debris mount,
I’ll go within searching the soul’s sanctum for divine light,
surrender totally to His control, and His will I’ll devoutly comply,
with His blessing I’ll get the inner strength, so I can move mountains.
Anaemia
Who cares for her once glorious dreams
Utopia is the new reality
Dopamine-starved citizens gaze forlornly
As blood feverishly flows out
From her gaping wounds
Siamese twins of hunger and anger
Starving her of peace and progress
In a land of high Testosterone
Security gone AWOL
Citizens on their own
Slowly but steadily
Life ebbs out
Deprived of nutrients and water
Homeland turned fiefdom by renegades
Despising folks, they make foes
Pious laughter loosens frown
of frail freedom
Blood-sapping East wind
Turns grasslands into deserts
Bruised and beaten by the day
Body and soul in dread of dawn
Conquer battlefields of the mind
With riots of laughter
This Mephistophelian theatre
With broken social ligaments and
Ruptured moral tendons
Will one day get a transfusion of a new life
Or die slowly and solemnly
of Anaemia
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