mid song ~
yet almost lost to longing
methods of the mundane
soothe no more
distance holds my gaze
in ways that purge time
but not infatuation
the intricacy of binding spells compels
steals me back
to last gasps
of ecstasy
shimmers of tears clash
with murmurs still embedded in stone
lapping waters draw me under
until it is I that is too weak of will
within your embrace
I should expire
entranced completely by desire
no lapsing thoughts
nor dread in swathes
a mystery scaled
in a myriad of ways
woken up and ushered in
retrieved from perpetuality of sin
by moving earth
and crashing wave
transfixed eternal
by all the ways you save
SITTING IN LIMBO
"What time is it?" Decades has passed..
I'm always the idiot, sleeping in limbo..
as time tickles, the river flows, seasons come and go, flowers flower and whither.. The birds keep singing sweet meloedies to the rainbow?? sky above.
I sit at that place where many rivers cross each other, there I shall always be, flowing with the rivers, singing with the birds, lapsing in limbo. I'm a handicap, crippled from birth.
SITTING IN LIMBO
"What time is it?" Decades has passed..
I'm always the idiot, sleeping in limbo..
as time tickles, the river flows, seasons come and go, flowers flower and whither.. The birds keep singing sweet meloedies to the rainbow?? sky above.
I sit at that place where many rivers cross each other, there I shall always be, flowing with the rivers, singing with the birds, lapsing in limbo. I'm a handicap, crippled from birth.
SITTING IN LIMBO
"What time is it?" Decades has passed..
I'm always the idiot, sleeping in limbo..
as time tickles, the river flows, seasons come and go, flowers flower and whither.. The birds keep singing sweet meloedies to the rainbow?? sky above.
I sit at that place where many rivers cross each other, there I shall always be, flowing with the rivers, singing with the birds, lapsing in limbo. I'm a handicap, crippled from birth.
SITTING IN LIMBO
"What time is it?" Decades has passed..
I'm always the idiot, sleeping in limbo..
as time tickles, the river flows, seasons come and go, flowers flower and whither.. The birds keep singing sweet meloedies to the rainbow?? sky above.
I sit at that place where many rivers cross each other, there I shall always be, flowing with the rivers, singing with the birds, lapsing in limbo. I'm a handicap, crippled from birth.
SITTING IN LIMBO
"What time is it?" Decades has passed..
I'm always the idiot, sleeping in limbo..
as time tickles, the river flows, seasons come and go, flowers flower and whither.The
birds keep singing sweet melodies to the rainbow sky above.
I sit at that place where many rivers cross each other, there I shall always be, flowing with the rivers, singing with the birds, lapsing in limbo. I'm a handicap, crippled from birth.
To view nature through the Lord
Is to give vanity a
Shattered mirror –
Time seldom glances at me,
And neither does she –
But my, her beauty is of
An olive orchard, blossoming
Under a springing morrow;
And I, the poet, lay witness
Upon my windowsill, suspended.
My words falter before the page,
And the evening sun snickers
O’er the swaying oaks, to mock
The brunette hair lapsing upon
Her bosom.
Perpetual moments
the key
to existence
Memory
your biggest
foe
Blocking
the path
to future promise
Lapsing
forgetfulness
grows
Time an illusion
a crutch
for the weak
To hobble
and stumble
in constant retreat
This instant
recurring
when chosen at will
Where Poets
and Prophets
— forever instill
(Villanova University: July, 2025)
In the blithe breeze
A baby’s hand opens to the light.
In a daze, the radiant blaze, towering flower
arching toward the golden solar rays.
In a time-lapsing daydream, it rises, stretches
and unfurls, soaking in and beckoning the sultry Sol,
the simmering summer Sol.
No wonder it is seen as good luck.
First conceived in childish crayon,
It bears the ragged, jagged edges
of toddler joy, of a blunt golden celebration.
Clutch it to one’s chest,
the Raggedy Ann blossom,
the perennial of laughter and glee,
great daisy pregnant with seed!
Same Mistakes?
Still learning about how to act
Still trying to join the pack.
Still lapsing like a terminal case
Still miles way off the human pace.
So stupid, how I can’t explain?
So crazy, such little brain
So insecure, I might explode.
I’m like a safe without a code.
I find excuses I’m never direct.
I haven’t got the intellect.
I think you can read my mind.
I’m so many miles behind.
Apologising, when the monster comes.
Apologising every rising sun
Apologising I’ve repeated the same.
Apologising I’ll up my game.
This poem, another confession
This poem therapist session
This poem is a plea, understand.
This poem nothings planned.
David Cox 07/05/24
Behold, the lonesome lake amidst the evergreen woods.
'Tis drifting in the quietness of wondrous solitude,
Upon the visage of languid silvery hue,
The earthly splendor of greatest joy imbue,
Waltzing the emerald ramparts of wildering trees,
Which sway around the curvature with the solemn breeze.
And the handsome brake will greet of the sweetest gay,
The joyous weeds in the shore gleaming with the ray,
Of the sprightly sun on days of summery haze,
As the flowery band carols in a tempting gaze.
And Oh! It has been hours since my long sojourn,
For the weariness o'er I bore, now has gone!
In the whispers of tender waves lapsing to and fro,
As the gentle eye of summer bids for his withdraw.
And departure 'tis for a visitor I am,
Subtly on the padded floor, Adieu with a shame!
You fell on earth,
sinner!
you shall meet your demise.
No God will pity you,
your vessels shall wreck
through your body.
Agony is your punishment,
foe of your happiness.
You pious little men
hope no more!
Poison lingers even after death.
For having sinned you shall fade.
No God will weep for you.
No Man will grieve for you.
Lapsing to life was wrong,
pathetically cruel was
surviving.
Autumn Colors
David J Walker
What if I found you and
You hadn’t changed at all
Would you recognize
This aging disguise
Would you see me as this
Elderly
unsteadily
70
year thing
Remembering the Spring
We shared
Would we fall in love
In the fall
When the Greens of Summer
Have morphed into
fragile hues
Floating on cooled breezes
Would we see past the
Lapsing ages
Swinging on a pendulum
Holding hands with the
Spinning face
Of the clock's place in time?
I’m trying to remember
Which of Autumn's colors
You loved best
that carves out a space of measured boundaries
that's given shape by force of will
that makes one smaller in walled existence
to think outside the box
to forge a different understanding
to upend expectations
to act on words that burn with fire
trail blazers
like seniors lapsing marathons
what's blocking the exit?
a box of familiarity that isn't freedom
when shadows stand in for substance
a lethargy of vision
where no fresh colors flash their sheen
what can be wrenched apart?
the box that traps us in seclusion
to re-imagine music
to elevate like choosing
Poem written April 30, 2023
inflamed by its sputtering,
cavity muttering-
opened by oaken and metal frame fluttering,
lapsing from pavement and pierced into meat.
uttered uncomfortably, aortas ushering,
sizing in varicose clumps that then gush and bleed-
underneath-
addling-
marrow now callousing,
blood pools in pockets that rise then fall avidly,
omen of tragedy-
spilling haphazardly-
out through the holes in the abdomen cavity,
ribs weaving in with the antlers and atrophy,
breaching the velum, the lungs, and the tapestry
matting the fur and impairing anatomy,
mottled in apathy-
unsatisfactory,
violently waning to seize.
soothing the battery
bathed in a subtlety
gathering suddenly,
proboscis covering-
over the spills-
haemolacria bubbling,
butterfly, moth, and diptera now summoning-
spreading, embedding their needles and string.
bleating, unfleeting lachryphagous meaning,
now turning the pool to a flowering weave.
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