Long Mitre Poems

"Life is like a chess match 
To win you must be swift and able to maneuver 
Yes, life and the chess match are very much the same 
Once the king dies, no others continue the...

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This is a poem about the University city of Cambridge in the UK , although I have only been there a few times , I decided to write a poem about it. Lord Bryon one...

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Good morning my dear, are you still awake? 
Yes, I know it's quite late but let me make 
it quite clear its not entirely my fault,
I was caught in the rain by the Old Town...

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I took my periodic stroll through the local antique store today.
I stumbled over things and stepped 'round clutter to make my way!
I looked for clocks - found none, but saw many things I could do...

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I am woman and I have borne the Torah on a gold cloth 
over my shoulder.
I have consecrated its dust-leadened parchment, 
cradling the scrolls into temple darkness...
clicked-shut the doors, saddened and empty.
I am of childbearing...

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Spring Is In The Air

Seasons changed as revolutions circled in the wider scheme
of matter with great things to come and wonders gone past

Summer in unforgettable rays of foam covered ocean spells on
dune’s treat feat and...

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Where would you like to be buried they asked
Well really that’s not my concern
It won’t bother me if I’m under a tree
Or stuck on a shelf in an urn 

Tell me what kind of a...

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At the end of a dry, harsh August, as
Autumn slowly descends upon Whitechapel, 
I begin my vicious practice.
From Buck’s Row to Hanbury Street,
I make each house call brief.
My methods most precise—each cut, so deep,
So effectively...

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The lightly fizzing mood
I've felt all day
and fenced within a grin
is at odds 
with the stoppered
solemnity of this pompous 
ceremony I've had to attend
and is becoming harder 
to hold, slowly pressurizing
to a giggle and then...

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In that we are all a vassal to age
  no sceptre or mitre can set us free,
and no fealty can old time assuage
  or rail against its synchronicity.
For ever decreasing circles besot 
...

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The ring depicts a promise of fidelity.
I smile as you stand in your cloak.
That headgear is the symbol of the tongues of fire.
I smile as you receive that formal mitre
and that pastoral staff is a...

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Oh Death, grant me organic mirth
Return to earth ‘neath lifeless moon
Undo the tendrils that hold sway
Allow embrace of Mother’s womb

For I am now but skin and bone
Freed from the angst of memory
Sought naught the mitre...

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