Long Shrouded Poems
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It seems you could never stay out of a casino.
As soon as you got paid, that is where you would go.
Your life became dependent on the roll of the dice.
Each crap table visited was as cold as ice.
Your financial ability was shrouded with doubt.
The money evaporated with each seven out.
With meeting your obligations, you didn't give a damn.
You got yourself in quite a financial jam.
Bill collections, repossessions, and foreclosures clouded your life.
Gambling was cutting you up like a knife.
Each day was an experience with monetary strife.
Those episodes are what decent people dread.
You must not be feeling pain now that you're dead.
All you have left are unpaid debts and liabilities.
I am forced to scatter you cremated ashes to the breeze.
Seeking the light that lights all lights,
I see, in this world, soon to disembark,
for every place shrouded in the dark,
there's another, warm and bright.
Each twenty-four hours has a night,
but in the grand celestial ballet,
the earth spins to give us another day,
much as each wrong has a right.
How happy we are when in flight.
Other times, in sorrow, we all must drown,
or we found ourselves rooted on the ground,
'til we're soaring like a kite.
We may encounter a dark knight
whose heart is vicious and unearthly black,
and soon we're lost, off the beaten track,
when appears a knight, in white.
I've found that this poor heart of mine,
as it navigates the world's duality,
finds its own version of reality
gliding the dividing line.
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
Khalil Gibran
In days of darkness,
sad stars shimmer like somber souls.
Upon the return of solitude,
whilst shaping strings of silence,
a troubled tongue becomes a soundless voice.
In each tear there is torment.
Reminiscing unredeemed memories,
heartbeats of the heartbroken echo gently at nightfall,
as a black blanket covers indigo horizons before my eyes.
In an anthology of angst.
Shrouded shadows in manipulative mirrors,
shield the sensitivity of sincere speech.
Without words, embodied emotions,
integrate into invisible inflictions.
Perpetual pain from a poisonous past,
repeats in an unrhymed repetitive rhythm,
as fragile fingers trigger hidden trauma.
In the midst of misunderstood metaphors.
There are secrets in suppression,
with so much lost in a suicide of expression.
Spiteful spirits reappear, reflecting like
neoteric neon drops on midnight shores,
washing away forlorn forgotten footsteps -
yet the sorrows continue into tomorrow.
Trials of time leave behind trails of truth,
as facts of fate fail in this false fairground we call life.
Reflections of regret resonate a reality,
where the world is working on its own worries.
In hollow nothingness, death is a blessing,
as no one offers holy hope -
only silence remains.
I was an inscrutable, capricious mystery writer, like a pure mystery of days;
And I had composed best selling novels, like westering sun's scarlet phase.
An unparalleled passion for writing, had for quite long been the motivation,
Behind novels which captured hearts, like pink clouds, drifting in formation.
My office desk faced the picture window, near the border of riotous blooms;
And sunny views enriched often eager eyes, owing to birds of many plumes.
Friends were a forever force in my life, like the natural floods of floundering,
Or as sun and moon meet in an eclipse, darkening heyday, with no warning.
Fairy-like forests, and fields of colored flowers, flamed with furious abandon,
Frequently, as fulgent family found one, to dazzle brighter than amber sun!
I lived in the house of mist mysteries, in haze shrouded, mighty mountains;
And each cherry dawn doled surprises, like roving redbirds in the thousands.
So sleepy in sun-drenched summer, my silent street was stained with hues,
In new modern, stylish, songbird days, like a gold treasure you cannot lose.
Neighbors would navigate narcissistic night, bearing an apple pie, or a joke;
Sharing fun and noisy laughter, like a blue undersea volcano, magma awoke.
Birds swept peaks of sculpted, stunning mountains, in the hot, daisy season,
And sky and the earth merged twice a day, in affinity hues of love cohesion.
The naked man orchid shivered with breezes, like quivery trees of November,
And Johnny Jump Up puckered at lemon sun, like a sour taste remembered.
In a sapphire sea near the mountains, a friend and I set out sailing one day,
As a youth follows wildest, golden dreams. Yet, heavy fog descended to stay.
Were we heading for wide open water, or drifting to shores of purple flowers?
That danger held a lovely mystery, like adventure during the nighttime hours.
Hour after rosy hour, we were drifting blind. Our motor had long since died;
Like green butterflies, questing for hours, in a place pink daisies lately cried.
We were afraid of being lost forever, so Pearl and I joined hands and prayed,
Also praying for our downhearted families, if fate's hand would not be stayed.
After many anxious, vagrant moments, a foghorn sounded, loud and so near;
Our desperate prayers were answered, by the voice of our Savior, very dear!
One hundred years ago, or so,
The train that hauled logs
From Baw-Faw Peak to Glenoma,
Ran right through the center
Of the place we now live.
The rails are long gone now,
Lost to the ravages of time,
Though pieces of it can be found
From time to time when clearing
Out a spot upon which to build
An indecently modern home.
Sometimes when the atmosphere is just right,
When the full moon rises
Or the morning sun lights up
A fog-shrouded forest,
You can hear the whistle of that old steam engine
As it pulls it's heavy log cargo
On invisible tracks to it's ghostly destination.
This poem is for my family who have lived on that place since 1970. They have heard that old whistle many times over the years.
*****
Boistfort Peak, also called Baw Faw Peak, in west Lewis County is a peak in the Willapa Hills in Washington state. The summit was once the site of a fire lookout and is the highest point in the Willapa Hills.
Glenoma is an unincorporated community in east Lewis County, Washington. It derives its name from the words "glen" and "ome".
Lewis County, in SW Washington, was created as Vancouver County on December 19, 1845. In 1849, the county name was changed, to honor Meriwether Lewis.
I
The bell the Town Courier want to toll
To salute the day of reckoning in Getham City
Is now on the neck of the scary-witty cat her paws like dragon
Saints, Publicans looking on at each other nose
Of whose can prove his vigour to bell the cats?
Lo! Saw earth sweeping away into the abyss
Yes! Her treasures sunken into the ravine
Restlessness wind voicing its bewails
Cursing and mumuring for the evils enacted upon the City
II
The Armageddon Spirit has resurged once again to the City of pleasure
Seen I melted bodies, brokenness on the fields of refinement
Lo! Saw townsfolks running helter shelter for cover
Sought in vain for any place of rest
The phantoms re-awakening in its limberness
Saw I its thunderbolts, hiding away from fierceness of death
The head corn blown away its tarp, causing
Further dent to the fragile macrocosm of the sorry City
III
The people’s spoils being devoured by mass human-like robot caterpillars
In a twinkle of an eye, falls of death have reaped them
Saw I kings, Princes and noble men fell on their knees
Shrouded from calamities that befell them all
Their once happy life becomes bland within a whisker!
The happy faces have lost all mojos and blooms
Unable to elucidiate their misfortune that I my seen
That raging storms from the Eastern coast reaching the City
Epicenter escapade the knowledgeable, is sadistic viewing can’t I fathom
IV
Pale-looking creeping creatures with craggy-winged bodies
Swarmed towards the water shore for survival
Pugnacious in the lonely deep sea
Its rumbling re-awakes the deadly sea animals
Ready to pounced on wander souls, taken away
Their weary souls, waited too long for divination to placate
But lost in the labyrinth of the lonely deeply sea, the water gods
Unknown livid for the peril caused her during their rotten lives
V
So yet and black it’s the sky
Gazed I deeply into the black sky and yet-
The picture seen gave me deepened sorrow
Lonesome and silenced in the midst of
These rotten and malicious bones
Tears flows from the redden eyes
Saw I the once lively, attractive not fortnight ago
Has become a bestialized and plangent City
With fading strength and bleeding heart
Waiting patiently for the breath of life.
The Hunter
(His identity and his prey)
Love is blind, deaf, dumb and stupid.
I blame it all on the imp called Cupid.
No warning shot did he let fly
Before his arrow struck the bulls eye.
The poisoned point of his little dart
Was the reason love grew inside my heart.
The toxin traveled within my veins
And held me with the strength of chains.
(The result of his hunt)
Love spread as quickly as a wildfire,
In heated flames of uncontrolled desire.
It left behind a heart that was torched,
Wounded by being burned and scorched.
I refuse to rhapsodize that love is grand
For it can disappear like words in sand.
Only a romantic fool will ever believe
Love brings only joy and no reason to grieve.
Of sad songs and tears, I've had my fill.
They've left me as cold as winter's chill.
I now sleep alone in my half empty bed.
It's the price to pay when love is dead.
No longer reason for me to linger.
He'd removed the ring from his finger.
Without hope that he'd put it back,
Our marriage was shrouded in funeral black.
From the precipice edge I began to fall,
As high as a towering castle wall.
In fear, I tumbled ever further down
And saved myself before I drowned.
Heart-wrenching, my decision to walk away,
But I could no longer risk my life to stay.
No words of sorrow would I have written
If by Cupid's arrow I'd not been smitten.
How different would be my private thoughts
If he'd not taken aim at my lonely heart.
No memories to keep me awake at night,
Or to recall upon morning's first light.
As bitter as these words may sound,
It's an honest attempt to be profound.
A reflective moment of bereaving.
A remembrance of love's deceiving.
Would I have wished I'd not been shot
And wounded by love? No, I think not.
Even though it has come to an end,
My seared heart has begun to mend.
What good is there to live with regret?
What point in wishing we'd never met?
What once was love is now in the past.
Cupid's potions don't always last.
Sometimes love brings too much pain
With more to lose than there is to gain.
Time has passed without a pause
And broken the hold of Cupid's cause.
I've taken away the hunter's quiver
Before another shot can be delivered.
Another love to tear me apart ~
Another arrow to pierce my heart.
Sometimes I see you standing alone
Before the ruins of your past; you moan
For the withered leaves that were trodden
By you along the riverbanks, your mundane
And prosaic hours transforming into dream
Hand in hand, the soft woodland mist, the gleam
Of your crimson heart; the inevitable kiss
Opens up all the secret caves of bliss
A silent breeze caressing your careful tresses
Your sojourn to the domain of clouds that bless
All the magical fountains sprouting love
Dancing down through vales, the treasure-trove
You stand perplexed before the labyrinth of present
Where love’s fairy tale is shrouded in its end.
I entered a room
and saw familiar strangers
and knew in an instant
they were me: past lives
made living flesh again.
I saw the fat baby, 38
pounds at one year!
(Poor Momma's back!)
I saw the angel-face boy
of four who spoke only
gibberish-- the doctors
told my parents "Sorry,
but he's an imbecile,
best send him far away."
Lucky for me, Mom And Dad
got a second opinion, and
six years of speech lessons
till I spoke like a happy
little English lord....
Then I saw the teenager--tall,
gaunt of cheek, dismissive of
lesser intellects. I grimaced,
and he sneered: I did not like
him, nor did he like me
(though we both lamented
his forlorn virginity)
Behind him stood a 20 something.
I had filled out by then, handsome,
confident with women, tossing them
aside like used hankies, not knowing
how vast was my emptiness-- not
even knowing I was a blind man
until...I crashed into that fog-
shrouded iceberg called Death.
And Death took me to that terrible
place where my soul burned briefly,
and then, without explaining,
returned me to life.
My soul, which one day I had
not believed in, and the next
I knew to be absolute, had been
seared but my eyes finally opened
and I began to see beyond
this world of pleasure and pain,
hunger and feast, war and peace.
Then I met my married self, and
shared with him the happiest day
of our life, when she said yes
to a man still lacking but at
least now trying. Decades later,
he is still inching closer to God.
The banshee wails within the gale
and unease weaves its wary tale
across fair Eire’s inland moor,
a Lord will die by ancient lore.
The banshee wails.
Her hair is torn, her face so pale,
her gown a tatter shrouded veil,
bringing only dark and horror.
The banshee wails.
'Tis but a warning, a mournful hale
a piercing sigh, the end's exhale
soulful sound, a mother’s clamor,
cutting through the shields of armor
though death, the sound, will not delay.
The banshee wails.