My time is short before the shadows fall,
But love survives the prison of their lie.
You will return to hear your mother’s call.
The convicted father ruled behind his wall,
A criminal who thought my hope would die.
My time is short before the shadows fall.
His cruel, usurping sister ran the hall,
And stole my proper place with wicked eye.
You will return to hear your mother’s call.
They wrapped you in a dark deceitful pall,
And groomed your gentle spirit to deny.
My time is short before the shadows fall.
Yet truth is grander and outlasts them all,
Our deep, enduring bond they cannot buy.
You will return to hear your mother’s call.
Within I hold our light, Love, proud and tall,
Our triumph echoes to the open sky.
My time is short before the shadows fall,
You will return to hear your mother’s call.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
The north winds of my mind began to howl,, bringing with them a chill to my bones..... a chill which I’ve never known before ..... a chill scented with hollow skies void of new tales while whispering only of memories from times gone by….
I think upon the present.....
which will soon become the past
The moments I enjoyed....
but foolishly let them pass....
All in lead to question::
“What shall become of these empty memories and broken dreams?,,,.... Are they to be carefully laid in hidden vaults..... locked within the dark recesses of my mind. - Visited only on cold winter day with thoughts which in time grow grander than truth ? Or......shall I set them aside in hope of a new season, a new time, a new moment bringing with it opportunity to dance once more to the tune of a new song?”
Shall I live in hope this day be the beginning of my new Spring and perhaps free me from the chains of this mind’s winter.
Over the Rainbow Bridge,
I gaze upon you as you pass away.
You, who are departing,
You, whom my hands can no longer reach.
Your death is grander than a first love,
And my sorrow is fiercer than an unrequited one.
“Goodbye, my baby.”
In your pain, you feel the beat of my heart,
Receiving my tears inside of yours.
In the end,
Your very last breath
Departs, embracing me.
“My sweet cat,
When I open the gate at the doors of Heaven,
You must come out to greet me.
Promise me. All right?”
Inside the storm clouds that seem to pierce a thousand years,
It finally swallows me whole.
At that instant, the light of the Rainbow Bridge
Blazes like a flame,
Consuming me into its light.
At last,
When I open the gate,
I meet you at the edge of the Rainbow Bridge.
The black mark under your nose, your trembling body—
Everything remains just as it was.
“Hello, Maru.”
You melt into my arms,
And I hold you close.
Through a silent gaze,
We reaffirm through each other's existence
That long wait and the agony of parting.
And then, we know.
Whether departing or leaving behind,
In the end, we shall meet again.
As it was our last night in Santander
we went out for a meal somewhat grander
Perusing the set menu I did choose
three courses with complementary booze
The waiter who came a glass did pour
leaving the bottle for me to have more.
How generous this seemed at such a good price –
those refills of wine did more than suffice;
yet what remained seemed such a shame to waste,
so I poured a glass for Olivia to taste.
With adventures in Spain so soon to lapse
we were thankful for all we'd enjoyed and relaxed.
Soon came the time to our room to adjourn,
I felt in control and steady for the return.
But on our departure I missed a step
and fell to the left. So I must accept
that a glass too many had been imbibed.
Down on the street, Olivia at my side,
a trinity of youths then rushed to my aid,
an old man on the floor before them splayed.
Muchas grazias, I said, when stood upright
relieved to be unhurt on our last night.
The death of my cat
is grander than my entire life,
And his very first cry
is stronger than my very first love.
Look upon this, O humans—
Your grand sorrows are, after all,
nothing but mere footprints
beneath the soft jelly of his paws.
Hush, sand-lung devoured
Dark doorlight on these growing bones.
Her rotten soils flowered
In the firetaps of a hundred homes.
Scratching leaves of Hades
A mother wake as she sleeps
Bang of calling winter breeze
And skull, wailing, weeps.
Yet the care of sweet Persephone
Livens petal into bud.
Forgetful are flowers loved
That she forsake the plea.
In grander form the woundglow throbs
Sealed, golden napalm's artistry.
Yet wonder who we call our gods
The sweetmeat of Gaza street.
But there's the guilty purchased hearse!
Children lost to country lines
The Child lost to moving time
Steeped this blackened curse.
In sickness dawn is sour,
Life's sweetest leaving hour.
Skin's unravelling, another's observe,
Yet the clock heavy strikes the nerve.
To whom now do I serve?
Lucky, the lattice of friendships thrown across time’s long curve—
shared laughter still ringing in the hollows we carved,
wild tales we hoard like pocketed stones, warm from the hand.
The first hello thins to a ghost now, faint as chalk on pavement after rain.
Two boys then, wide-eyed as new calves, blinking at the world’s glare.
I trace the years backward: from that pair to a ragged chorus of five,
each addition a door flung open, a shout across gardens.
We still miss the small, hesitant rap at the frame—
timid as a held breath, hopeful as first light.
There on the step, heart a trapped bird against ribs,
“Can he come out? Tell him the ball—” the plea half-swallowed,
then vanished indoors at the call of plates, the steam of stew,
gulped down fast, then out again, spilling into dusk like water from cupped hands.
Let us not surrender the feral children we carried inside us—
kings of cracked kerbs and sun-dappled alleys, our realm decreed
by nothing grander than speed and the next game.
It will not circle back. That knowledge settles like frost
on the morning the knock never answered,
and the door stayed shut, sealing the kingdom we lost.
Of a foaminess hung
Rose-round, odorous
Or what, ivy-musty, a sturdy
Held up ruin pose as
No grander is one led
Nor quite as gracious
Up paths, though rough, to doors, though warped
Than neath one's bricked mass.
She was about to adorn memory’s wings,
She would conjure the most wondrous things.
This life has shrunk to a mere fleeting trace,
It was meant for a journey of much grander grace.
She sold her sleep to buy herself dreams,
She who even in dreaming slept, or so it seems.
She who can never return was once a part,
That dwelt in the corner of my heart.
In longing and desire’s yearning embrace,
Her innocent light was fading from grace.
What comfort remains in pain now that she’s gone away,
She who once wept so softly is lost in dismay.
In the bird’s eye glistens sorrow and tears,
The hunter’s gun will soon sleep for endless years.
(after a painting by John Constable)
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
And ravens, weathering wild thermals, glint
blue-black beneath these clouds of graphite grey.
The strong, squat tower, formed of ancient flint,
has settled in the landscape, like the bole
of some decaying oak. The long-dead lie,
obscured by nettles. Nestling on its knoll,
the tiny temple shoulders out the sky.
What is compact is beautiful, to me.
Design with deftness guarantees a grace
that grander gewgaws lack: economy
is elegant, sublime in straitened space.
The more I practise, play and ponder on it,
The more I love the stature of the sonnet.
The snow retreats with gentle grace,
Revealing Earth’s hidden face.
Young blossoms bloom where frost has fled,
And streams awake from icy beds.
The Winter Wren call through warming air,
Their voices angelic, beyond compare.
Soft moss returns in emerald hue,
Beneath the pines still kissed by dew.
The mountain breathes a fresher song,
Its stillness stirred by daylight long.
A daffodil, so small and true,
Stands bold against the melting blue.
The winds grow mild, the skies are wide,
As life returns to every side.
No grander throne, no finer art,
Than springtime in the mountain's heart.
Life is nothing more
than doing what you want
when you can,
and what you must
when you can't.
To live you need not the loudest voice
nor the most vibrant clothes,
just you, your hands and action.
A blade won't cut through dust
but will disturb it enough
for it to appear beneath the light.
Sometimes that is enough.
If you'll enjoy a grander view
then you'd climb another step,
whether it be for the mountains
or to seek the stars.
Whether it be to keep the lanterns lit
and ward off the fog
or just to feel the wind,
we have to live for something.
Roaring African Diamond, Rolling Thunder, Beloved Warrior—
Cotton’s Violent Cr-owner craving Tougher, Blacker Pickers
praying Brother, Sisters, Mothers, Fathers couldn’t recover
Delight, Comfort, Dignity, Respect, Fortune, Majesty… covered
Blinded Visions, Inhuman Vitriol flowing through Uncivil
Society. Grander Savages casting Shallow Shadows; Ignoble
Secrets. Darkest Templar, Limited Freedom belongs Nowhere.
Will the tears ever dry?
When wrong wishes wreck what we want,
Still, each day we must try,
Featherfins flee from feral fish,
Known for never bein' shy.
Strength still same, sanity stays sane.
So we're still full of grace
Gentle giants give grander goals.
Though failure leaves no trace,
Because best buddies brin' business—
No regrets in our case.
Done deals don't destroy destinies.
Can hate stop our prayer?
Extra egos, evil echoes,
But we're under His care.
Big blessings brin' bolder beliefs,
Till success becomes clear.
We won't waste what we wish we want.
For things our minds conceive,
With wisdom we will win worse wars.
We rather hope than grieve.
Taking turns to task the trials,
On God's robe, our hands cleave—
Right resources, real rewards.
I sat with pen, with page snow-white,
to sculpt a verse, to birth some light—
but all my thoughts just slipped away
like shy young clouds who won’t stay.
No poet’s muse knocked at my door,
no thunder-voice, no metaphor.
My words were socks without their pairs,
just stumbling down unwritten stairs.
My rhymes were cracked, my rhythm weak,
I tried to write, but couldn’t speak—
for every phrase that dared to bloom
got lost and left the quiet room.
I rummaged through my mind’s old shelf,
but found no magic—just myself.
No dazzling terms, no lofty art,
just beating pulse and stubborn heart.
So I wrote not with golden fire,
nor borrowed lines from grander lyres,
but stitched each verse from threadbare thought,
and hoped it showed the care I brought.
A lack of words is still a start—
the ink runs best from honest heart.
And though no muse stood near to guide,
I found my poem—tucked inside.
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