In shadows thick where silence weeps,
The fog rolls in—its secret keeps.
A mournful veil, a breathless moan,
It swallows light, leaves hearts alone.
This cursed ground, where echoes stay,
Of laughter lost and minds astray.
A prison forged from sorrow’s seam,
Where memories drift like half-formed dreams.
No stars to guide, no dawn to see,
Just whispers caught in memory.
Each step you take, a thought relives—
The pain, regret, what fate forgives.
Beware the one who moves unseen,
With spider grace and gaze serene.
Koh, the thief of what you wear—
Your face, your past, your vacant stare.
To show emotion is to fall,
To vanish in his silent thrall.
And once you smile, or frown, or cry,
You’ll vanish with the souls that lie.
So hush your heart, and mask your flame,
Or you’ll forget your very name.
For in this fog where lost souls tread,
The living envy even the dead.
We watch the honeymoon couples thro' rose-tinted glasses,
think how lucky they all are until the time passes,
Jo nudges me, when he saw one walk straight into a tree,
I say to him: 'I've got you babe and you've got me.'
Jo says that he did it three times and now he's with me,
not like 'that' but we're loners away from the honeybee,
we're writing so much - where everything went wrong,
then strangely went alright when he came along.
I wriggle my toes in white sand, remember emotion,
so are you happy with your freedom, you cynical hero?
Yes, Jo grins from the hammock, nowhere else to go,
this is it, we've both had enough, above and below.
Now, is it 'hollow,' this so-called nirvana? No mate,
it's bloody marvellous, if we want new - we just write it.
What do you do? Fine - I'll mention other things,
In Jo"burg, the expats were bored - went to
a roundabout and drove around, disgraceful,
don't you play any sport? Not even couch-rugby?
I used to race go-karts, play tennis, chase
the girls, even in winter, oddly in autumn;
I'm a chess player, bunch of nerds, no wonder
sometimes I'm a man of few words, expletives.
And now - I travel, write homily on Koh Samui beach,
with vacant-eyed Nesbo just out of reach,
writing is a lonely job, like waiting to die,
you'll find out - no matter how far you may fly.
Nesbo had just committed another repetitive crime,
while I was still battling with endless rhyme.
If you are cathedral of consecration
I'm the voluminous chime summoning souls
If you are the moonglade mountain peak
I'm the fedora of snow atop you
If you are the bantam flame of hope
I'm the mammoth lantern you sit in
If you are the magnificent crown of laurel
I'm the koh-i-noor glowing your majesty
If you are the whorly petals of the gypsy-sue
I'm the daggerlike thorns of flaw
If you are the bard of the Zambezi
I'm the first sonnet of your anthology
If you are the mythical firebird
I'm the scarlet embers of reincarnation
If you are the forsaken pirate ship
I'm the glubs of your drowning
If you are the ancient persian pearl
I'm the millions carats speaking your worth
If you are the sacred vial of eternity
I'm the gluck to the kingdom come
If you are cathedral of consecration
I'm the open arms of the door of mercy
You are the rarest and the heaviest
Of all our precious metals here on Earth…
Your sisters, Gold and Silver, are stockpiled...
But you are not...in case supply runs low.
To generate one ounce of you we need
Ten tons of ore and five months’ processing.
Outstanding jewelers, like Cartier,
Famed Faberge, plus Tiffany, create
Their jewelry designs in Platinum.
They turned you into lavish settings that
Secure some famous diamonds like the Hope,
Jonker and Koh-I-Noor. Your surface can
Be scratched, but unlike sisters Silver and
Pure Gold, there is no Platinum that’s lost.
You are the rarest and most valued one...
Each year we mine one hundred thirty tons,
To Gold’s one thousand seven hundred plus.
Our Platinum…rare metal of our Earth.
© Sandra M. Haight 2014
All Rights Reserved
~NA~
Contest: Periodic Table Elements
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Judged: 01/06/2015
Thailand,
Or Kensington?
Tinfoil from a Kit-Kat,
Tells you that there’s no difference,
Outside,
Cocaine,
Ammonia,
Old Martell miniature,
A Bic lighter; a mound of ash,
Bangkok?
Fly south
Like Garuda,
Drift off to Koh Samui,
A Beach house, Or Council estate?
Who cares?
Wake up,
Burnt down candles,
Landlord on the doorstep
‘Last weeks rent?’ ‘Giro on Thursday…
…Get lost…’