OF LOST LOVES AND DASHED DREAMS
So many loves lost, choked, under the weight of words not spoken.
So many dreams dashed by the timely plunge not taken.
The seemly hour never arrives, neither does a second yearning,
only the feverish clock keeps ticking…hounding…reminding…
Faces turn hoary as the minutes slip by,
memories blur and fade, much like the mind’s canvas -
smeared and splotched by the tint of tirade.
I had fettered the wings of my youthful desire
to my cupped palms so tight,
all that remained was a splintered heart and a bleary sight!
***
Distance
The illusion of change
Warmth willingly withheld
Prayers echoing
In a frozen valley
Blown awry
By vagrant winds
The silent serenade
Of unheard snowflakes
A bedeviled sun
Haunts the hoary horizon
As shivering shadows
Dance hazily
In the illusion
Of distance
Author’s Note:
This sonnet is the sequel to "Ere She Trembled", as directed by the most esteemed Lustrous Lin; henceforth ventured by a poor votary of the Muse, who dared but follow the path her imagination had first ordained.
—The Jewel of the Crown—
When midnight loosed silver from her hair,
I stole where nectar’d dreams veiled all her breath;
She turn’d, and drew me through the perfumed air,
Till warmth made pale the hoary frost of death.
Her throat, where alabaster bloom’d, was warm;
Beneath my hand, her pulse began to sing;
She met mine eyes, and hush’d the gathering storm,
Whilst moonlight trembled on each secret thing.
Then breath to breath, where waking woo’d the dream,
Our silence melted, honey-sweet and deep;
The stars grew languid in their argent gleam,
And night forgot her ancient right to sleep.
Thou art the jewel sleeping in my crown;
I’d lose the world before I laid thee down.
As a violin cries, my voice soars
And as I move towards The Lord
With my chords and my cords
Singing of the heavenly rewards
(We are God’s instruments)
It is He Who invents
And uses us as His instruments
He produces with musical implements
Every instrument that repents
For The Holy Spirit (you see)
I am a wind wood who breathes
And gives up each breath
As the symphony will progress
So play on piano (ebony, ivory and hoary)
God has given us gifts for His glory
And God is instrumental in our salvation
(As He was also in His creation)
As the stars sang and in each angel’s refrain
Listening for the trumpet blast at the end of days
And we sing of (God, as He descends from above)
Jesus: The Way, Truth, and Life, The Ancient of Days
Once there wasn't any fog
Nor wintery cold
I was young, healthy and bold
God blessed me with strength untold
I worked hard, reared young
And survived the cold unsung
Then
Just a glimmer
of a glimpse
In a mirror
While walking
Inside a store
An old, bent, wrinkled woman
That is when
A solid, thick foggy shawl
Began to lift
More and more hoary frost
Revealed__
At that moment I knew
Winter's breath, finally blew
As a solid, thick foggy shawl
Began to lift
More and more hoary frost
Revealed__
At that moment I knew
Winter's breath, finally blew
It was only a glance through the curtains,
one hoary, Decemberish night:
there'd only been two hours of snowfall,
for this glistening carpet of white.
It was only my little town garden.
As I squinted out just before dawn,
a sliver of light from my window
caught two fox cubs, enjoying my lawn.
They were laughing and chasing and playing,
delightedly kicking up snow.
It was only a glimpse, but I deem it
a privilege, now, to have seen it:
an honour that Nature bestowed.
Ache in soul, O prophet?
The world is horrid hell.
Tracheotomy Tophet!
Suffering a-swell!
Gale, crash with titanic force!
Roil the ocean bad.
Ship that I'm in, blow off course...
That will lurk, O lad...
Horror, thou art with us.
Volcano, just explode.
Mayhem, madness, ornery cuss.
Bitterness, fate, ode...
Cry of a dying warrior?
He must have got hit square.
Poisonous and on the pour!
Blessings, be thou bare.
Grim and grateful, hoary, high.
Machine on the move.
Doom and Death, deliver! I?
What have I to prove?
Clash of giant armies?
O warlocks, bombs away!
Never mind the charm! Cheese?
Just dessicate and flay...
Pray, O poets, not too long.
Come on not too strong.
Best to stay where you belong.
Potentate, thy prong.
Song of banshee, sirens, wail.
Never end, O tale.
Hollow, are you, garbage pail?
Blizzards contain hail...
Ah, yes! College ‘road trips’ bring back memories fond
of toga parties, and booting on sorority lawns
Of pimple pus oozing out from one’s cheeks at ‘make-out time’
or asking your date if you can score another nickel or dime…
Ah, but today! Ho-ho-ho. To hoary old traditions we say a loud NO!
We ‘road trip’ to protest-rallies, to NYC, LA and Chicago
Bringing ‘paraphernalia’ we stash in our ‘toolkits’
Masks and kaffiyehs, bullhorns and live ammo
Stirring up trouble is what we do best
Road trip’s not over ~ 'til we’re under arrest
Many mountains, seas, women, and dollars made
But for you only was each moment played
As an aged wine flask, your decrepit skin cracks
As flaccid muscles bend your creaking back
Hard hammer toes hamper your stiff walking style
Toilet king, bilious bombard of bile
Fog obscures your mind, only to rise again
Wishing for many things which might have been
Stung as by tzetse flies you cannot forget
Fantasies won’t revive corpses of regret
Too late, with dreams drooling down your hoary chin
Awaken to the state you are now in -
A dream without legs, with all hope beyond reach -
A jellyfish sunbathing on a beach.
haiku : protea
~N A T I O N AL flower~
hoary pinky Proteus
** sticKy **
f
i
N
g
e
R
Mine was a somewhat humble Holy Grail.
For forty years, I hoped to see a plane
fly right across the moon. I hoped in vain.
Though once I got to see a vapour trail
bisect the orb, I couldn’t quite prevail.
Like Joey Starrett, running after Shane,
It seemed to me the gods might preordain
a lifelong disappointment. Would they fail
to humour me? It all looked pretty bleak.
One hoary April morning, just last week,
on glancing up, I broke my losing streak!
Flamed by a sun which, here, had not yet risen,
a tiny aircraft, shining with mystique,
flew through the moon, and smashed my earthbound prison.
The irony of life and love,
tricks played on trusting souls
by a heartless prankster.
I didn't even know what I didn't know.
I longed to play the music of your heart and body
with magical, skillful hands.
Youth, full of vigor, bluster.
Heads full of air, light as eagles feathers
and just as beautiful.
The hoary head has earned wisdom.
Now that I understand this game,
I sit alone with no one to play with.
No teeth to instill fear
nor smile that brings butterflies.
Finally, seeing perfectly,
we can't command the stage
but must give over to the air heads,
the collective "us" of the past.
Awe...age. Hearty-har-har.
Vapour
While I sit lonesome at the water’s sprawl,
crepuscular rays have the heaven’s sigh,
as golden hues descend on evening’s crawl,
and soften the edge of a fading sky.
A gentle mist ascends above the lake,
to veil twilight’s plunge with a hoary shroud,
slowly curbing my vista to opaque,
while swans shelter unruffled in a crowd.
A sailboat drifts athwart my vision lines,
winding in patterns delicate and slow,
clutching the air, adapting to the signs,
an ambling dance as the leeward winds blow.
In this serene and tranquil atmosphere,
my thoughts like vapour gently disappear.
Give me a memory
that never did occur,
not to you or anyone else.
Life is full of recollections
they sprout like scenic views
of a dead planet.
The past is only resurrected
by the already dead.
When you pass go
you have not left the prison
you have jumped back into it.
O my poor dead lovers,
my enemies and pals.
O all those poor begotten weeds
of momentary flesh,
let us once more besiege
any musty, old curiosity shop
beg a hoary taxidermist,
once more
for an everlasting history
of all that never was.
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