¦¦¦¦ melancholy Autumn comes ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ whispering to me,
Like the sound of ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ the sea.
Then ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ a rocky island
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ churchyard ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
And the ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ click ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ turned to waves
And the rumble of the railway
Is ¦¦¦ thunder ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ plunging
Into caves
There's a storm ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ over Kenton,
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ a line of harbour lights ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ rounding ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ a ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ sunset fire
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ boats ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ stream along the skyline
In a race ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
With the gale?
(Blackout of Harrow-on-the-Hill by John Betjeman)
Birthstones and horoscopes over a chi-square
Months with periscopes everywhere
Moon and Sun in shaded segments
Boon and pun in braided alignments
Spells and pleas yowling in the wilderness
Wells or seas swigging in emptiness
Thoughts wandering around
Droughts and dryness seething in a playground
Warmth or heat you nestled from scorching daylight
Cold air or dew drop sighed by moonlight
Wall clock that restricts your borrowed time
Or unseen counter that predicts your stolen dime
Each day that passes by
All day you ask without a bye
Each night that crawls in the dark
All your might you grope behind a scalded bark
Shadows that follow you
Wedge pillows you never had that haunt you
Tales in dreams that smother you
Puzzles in reams that harrow you...
Why bother when there's none to fear?
Fear only God who's able to hear
Your qualms will never leave you
Only until you believe they're never yours that weave you!
She spreads the butter
on a square of toast
with scratching impatience,
smearing and slapping
the hardened bread
with a dainty butter knife.
She uses a fork like a harrow
in the jelly jar,
leaving lines across the top
where she dragged it across,
then glops it on
unevenly.
She uses a fork.
because she likes to lick the bits
between the tines,
and feel the hard metal
with jelly in her mouth.
Scrape, scrape, scrape
with the butter knife again.
I love her hurrying hand
that orchestrates
this action every morning.
The cinnamon toast
is slightly burnt,
and her sleeve is damp
from the coffee spill
on the linoleum table.
A crumb clings to her jawline.
She takes a guzzle, not a sip
from her cup that says:
“The Queen of Everything”
and smiles at me, knowingly.
In the backyard, the goldfinches
returned to our feeders.
A small female
turns her beady eye
toward us
with shared understanding.
Shadow 10/18/25
The golden leaves of her,
amber with fiery, spirited show.
Beautiful preserved resin,
adoring him.
Hidden passion,
The dance, poise, deft
under shadows dim.
Canopied beneath times lair
to rest for lengthy fallow.
Fractured, curled hope takes flight
Chanting whispers assistance
Spinning beside cold airs plight
Sunshade kisses eyes first glance
Canopied beneath times lair
to rest under heavy harrow.
Her golden leaves for gray, umbra
mewling a spirited show.
Beautifully graced and grafted
facing him.
Falling passion
chances, serenity, sable
under shadows dim.
K
Although
it’s a hard row to hoe
a rough furrow to harrow
and a tough trench to plough
there’s many a meadow to mow
I hereby avow
and tho' it may be news to you
farmers have the need
to sow their seeds
where milkmaids milk the cows
swineherds feed their sows
and shepherds have their pie
and eat it too
in Slough now
Enjoy the hunt.
Savour the kill.
Sinew and bone.
Blood let to spill.
Such little flesh.
Least have your fill.
Was not to live.
Only the thrill.
These woods are mine.
I stalk this place.
Of twisted mind.
Outwitting pace.
Driven to hide.
Drunken on chase.
You think me lost.
Drawn to your trace.
Skin my cover.
As be yours soon.
Beguiling trickster.
Lyre or loon.
Quick to tire.
In heat of noon.
Your final darkness.
Night without moon.
Pluck out the heart.
Remove the arrow.
Destroy the cortical.
Suck out the marrow.
With victims broad.
And focus narrow.
Resume the hunt.
Intent to harrow.
Fantasy train
It’s night. Central London, the last subway train left Bond Street station.
The train was speeding along with me and a few other passengers.
A so powerful dream in a wonderful fantasy realm took hold of me.
My vigilance and self-control left me. Just sleep and sleep, and dream.
Wonderful landscapes, worlds, women, and intoxicants caused joy in the dream.
I feel a strong twitch and hear a loud shout.’ Sir! This is the last station!’
I woke up. An empty whiskey bottle fell out of my hand and rolled on the floor.
‘Were are we?’ I asked. ‘On Harrow and Wealdstone station.’ Came the answer.
‘From which platform can I go back?’ I asked. ‘From platform two at five o’clock.
It's one o’clock. Night. I bought a bottle of whiskey in a shop. Drink and just drink.
As soon as I lay down on an old bench in the street, I immediately found myself on the train.
On the train again. I continued my dream. Incredible visions, delights, I just live here.
Just here. Only here. Forever. I didn’t wake up anymore. A hearse took me away.
Build machines than can
Plow and harrow fields; that's what
My country need now.
Some different tactics in negating a war, a Russian
Schematic, quite probable i'm sure.! To any armies
Poised to strike.? Consider this soldiers' as you might?
Like 2 acres of land? to till and harrow; make ponds with
Fish, build greenhouses full of marrows? Potatoes radish
Sheep and a cow, free range chickens cabbages in rows.'
Your very own house, on rich fertile land a generous grant
To develop and plan, the space is here, we're free market
Now..' communisam went west.' The air here is pure and how!
There's a lot of whats best..just drop the weapons leave
War stuff. Make love and prosper, theres more than enough.' Find time to live a more familiy life, come east
For the promise, we bet that you'll like.! Just park your tanks
And buy a boat' theres lakes and rivers where you can
Float.' Away on weekends.. Then return to work build your
Dreams you can go (full flight) theres lots of ladies all
Un-jabbed so many.! Such healthy children; they can carry'
So Mister Putin..I hope you'll agree.? To stop more killing?
Just some advice from me.!
Written: November 19, 2023
____________________________________________
Beyond the ethereal hues, reigns peace,
Incongruous with intrinsic ease.
Noshing desire tugs at the core fibers of my soul,
Wear tiredness bruise, frailty, and out-of-control.
The twinges of awe distort and narrow,
Dazzling me with its emerald harrow.
Crushing the sunlight rays that spread,
Oozing a cruel throb of dryness in my head.
The emptiness hosts sight and sound,
The truth is revealed by my idle ground.
Controversy seeps through my arteries,
Providing a safe haven for my mysteries.
Salt penetrates the skin's surface,
Water waves form in pools as they face.
Sharing the mind wonderful disarray,
So utterly, I'll be in anguish all day!
Life is blasted against the glass akin to sand,
Time is marked by simple, quiet steps stand.
What remains is a barely flickering light,
That is a velvety smear spackled in the sight.
A picture appeared on my phone today,
on the proverbial page I perused.
A view of an evil most vile,
villainy veiled behind verve and vim.
Sadists from Auschwitz,
smiling in a storm.
Shoulders shrugging,
to shield from the sky.
No hint of the horrors,
the Holocaust they heralded.
Not haunted like the humans they harrow,
but hyenas, howling, in high humor after the hunt.
Their consciences clear, their cruelty concealed,
their cheer chills me to the core.
They caused such wicked calvary,
a calamity that echoes into the current century.
Yet they dare to delight,
while they deal in death and dread.
Their depravity so deep that they grin,
as they decry virtue and destroy millions.
But what mortifies me more is,
how mundane their mien.
Will we fear the next fiends fittingly,
or in time... if their faces feel like friends'?
Kiss, this is my kiss for you which
Makes everything ambrosia, nectar
And panacea of the mesmerized life
Where heaven also comes down
With the twilight twinkling stars
To light up the dark lamp of the heart
Where the butterflies dance over the buds
In the paths of blooming fragrance
To sip and quench the thirst of absence
Where the raindrops touch the cheek
By dripping a loving sonnet from Shakespeare
To awaken the sleeping feelings
Where the stranded poets harrow the verse
For the lovelorn souls in the mystic womb
To resurrect the life of immortal love
Kiss, this is kiss for which we’re integrated one
In the pairs of luscious swelling lips
-March 11, 2023 Chattogram
Writing Challenge - 'K' Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
The Marvel comic book unique character,
Mark Spector, an American mercenary,
called the Moon Knight, becomes the avatar
for the Egyptian moon god, Khonshu.
He assumes the identities of Grant and Jack,
arising out of his mental reflection.
Grant, the mild-mannered British gift-shop employee,
becomes Mr. Knight, and confronts Harrow,
the servant of the Egyptian goddess Ammity,
who summons a jackal to exterminate Grant,
but he transforms into a cloaked warrior and kills it.
Jack, the third most ruthless alter,
eventually kills both Harrow and Ammit.
The story revolves around the fatal mystery,
mystically linking the Egyptian gods
with Moon Knight’s multiple alters,
perceived through dissociative identity disorder.
________________
October 5, 2022
Contest : Moon Knight
Sponsored by : Robert James Liguori
I am looking for a book I left
on a train back in 88.
A book concerning explorations made
on the Metropolitan line
between Harrow-On-The-Hill and Croxley.
An odyssey
only reaching its destination today
as I now circle low
over the Jovian moon Calisto.
Close to her sad old face
I can see that she was
a good mother and an unfaithful wife.
Diana, Zeus clad in the form of Artemis
all three orbiting a scandalous history
disguised as pulp fiction.
Her womb is full of dead stars now
but she shines by the light of Jupiter himself.
As predicted in an overlong story
they still circle round the same
orbit of West London,
where a book I had almost finished
must always lay completely unread
as a tale planted by the very God's
that stirred my younger mind
to be a train reading rider
in the first place.
Women know which men to marry
And Normal Woman won’t tarry;
To keep praising her Sir Barry
But it’s going to be Larry,
Barry to keep giving her Garri
To keep enjoying it Larry…
And she’d keep flirting with Harry,
Who her great burdens does carry;
Ceremonial thanks to Zorro
Who in her behalf would borrow,
Promising creditors morrow
But bed-time sleeping in sorrow…
Poor Zorro who does hard soils harrow
And watch over sows that farrow.
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