Long Unspun Poems
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Another Saturday of middle men gathers, save one, be another weekend passes, mumbling about, till I spoke out, forgive me, this be the truth of it.
'Tis but a few words, that I lent to friends ears, a course set to change,
for heard they, of a raw web unspun, perchance 'tis innocence had a part of it.
Furthered loan lobes, of fate's mired pace, that weld's their chest so tight,
it held the breadth of them, a chance to swim in its currents of a tenuous life.
A friend astrayed, from our prearranged meets of jovial matter, 'tis cavorting,
leads to a quietude, a disturbing view of jaws, 'twas given a shot of novocaine.
Reveal I to them, of a sacred trust, known only to me, and now our friends,
as a harp strums an unsung tune, strands of arrows tender points, prepares.
A test on a piece of paper, whose strength enough to shred an unstable heart,
and bring a man of untold years, of the worth that remains--a small sum it be.
No tear was spared on a solid face, that offers free slides of it, to yon floor,
pooling whispers of ancient values that will spirit a hospital room's brief use.
Sounds of car doors, engine revs, as the voice of gps's unattainable reach,
of heartbeat's ascent,'tis be a final race, rally they must, for the one of them.
A room of jovialness spreads, cavorting returns to normalcy, dry eyes rounds,
yet I see the truth of it, for they drown in tear-filled dams of fortuitous eyelids, all.
*October of last year, its earlier half, my colonoscopy test result reveals one polyp, and during the interim of its results, our friend passes away. A day before the funeral, a prerecorded message states it was benign. All of us had ourselves checked out. I suppose, my words suffices a small tribute to his memory, yet, he's not being forgotten by his friends for the many Saturday's that has passed. *This is for you buddy.
Date: 05/30/2019
**Re-edited**Date: 06/01/2019
Nothing stands in crops of air,
A silent whisper, an empty stare.
No words to say, no breath to hold,
No tale to tell, no truth be told.
In no dark, in no light,
It doesn't wrong, it doesn't right.
No path to walk, no self to face,
Just drifting thought in a blank space.
No voice, no sound, no silent hush,
No thorny rose, no snowy slush.
It wears no name, it holds no form,
No calm, no chaos, peace, or storm.
Yet here it sits, this hollow thing,
Not song, not cry, not anything.
A space between the pulse and breath
Not life, nor sleep, not even death.
So here’s to Nothing,
A simple stride
A silent sea of meaningless tide.
A canvas blank, a dream unspun,
Where all begins, and all’s undone.
We were visiting good old Niagara Falls, the most beautiful place on earth. With its waterfall cadences and fresh lit sun, who could ask for anything more. Hand in hand we strolled together wearing summer sandals light as air. We talked and spoke of days to come, how we'd make a family together some day.
Lovers in love
two linen gloves
fitted just right
There were acrobats, jugglers on tightropes, and children rippling the air with their tinkling laughter. Together we aimed at little yellow ducks and won the grand prize. Hugging Mrs. Jewel Bug, we walked away kissing beneath a bluest sky dappled with cotton candy clouds and morning sighs. Since we stayed longer than expected, we stopped by a little Cafe and drank frothy cappuccinos to our hearts content.
full-fledged memories
golden colored hours
days gone by
Those were the days of impulsive escapades, endless surprises and pleasant up-comings. Moments of mindlessness existence in a lifetime yet to be unspun. Today the mortgage is paid and the children left home. My favorite juggler is in heaven waiting for an old tattered Jewel bear and a swollen gal with a heart pliable as ghee. I smile at the thought that one day I will join him. We'll drink foamy coffees and watch the trapeze artists spin, swing and fly. They will hang off ropes made of stars and moonbeams, just like us.
I treat love as a rare art, a bold banner fluttering in the wind,
Only those who have fallen off the map of the world, the barefoot kings of the sky, are worthy,
Weavers of warm words, who weave webs of dreams and pure hopes,
Where girls come to immerse themselves in the boundless spring of poetry.
Then they discover the secret thrill, the bud that gently opens to the light,
And let the unspun thread find its destiny in the world like a liberated river,
To these dreamer kings, exiled from concrete kingdoms into freedom,
Only the poet's path was destined, dancing on the edges of the universe.
They walk on the branches of the stars, building bridges between chasms and unseen abysses,
Without courts or castles, only with a heart like a palace of thoughts and longings,
And there's no way to gather them, for they are the wind, the rain, and the song of the night,
They are the nomadic kings of dreams, eternal wanderers on the hidden map of the soul.
They travel through galaxies of words, in search of pure and luminous truth,
With eyes toward horizons where the sky and earth kiss in deep secrecy,
Each of their steps leaves behind echoes of light, falling stars in the night,
In a world that cannot contain them, but owes them the magic of existence.
A tapestry lay in an ancient sun,
Basking neath a ventrous day yet unspun,
Colorful hues of ocher and saffron,
Draws aqueous fumes that moist production,
Every eye, blossom, unhatched egg, greet, opens,
Fortuitous bounty spreads emotions,
Gathered, skins, feathers, and scales, 'bout all strewn,
Harken a flightless prayerful dove a tune,
Invocates breaths to cite a liturgy,
Jolts loose a cloak of boundless energy,
Kingpin meanders its righteous release,
Lifts a poised sky veiled like an altar piece,
Mirrored echoes o'er a restless domain,
Naked beings wild, nay wear traps of vain,
Oaths show side-by-side, generating warmths,
Pleasant touch between life, light and air, calms,
Qat leaves pools a creeks hold, stirs brew a tea,
Raven espies to hover, pecks a spree,
Symmetry fulfills in a baseless realm,
Tenacious wanton rhapsody days' whelm,
Universe descendants be a joint trust,
Vast spectered spectrums spirals to adjust,
Webbed stars a new sky, quietude abound,
Xenon fades into a nulled swarty crowned,
Yielding yawns, surrenders lids to be froze,
Zzz's orchestrates descents towards a lulled doze.
Date: 06/01/2019
Like an avian roosting when his cawing has spilled,
I mourn in grief as this shadowed night grows cold
Crushed and grieving from promises unfulfilled
Sorrow burgeons my heart, in bitterness enfold
like unspun wool on a distaff or a poem not quilled
I am overwhelmed with fear; somberly weeping
beneath my rowan tree. In dour thoughts, I dwell
Wisps of silver moonlight cross the sky, sweeping,
signaling hope in darkness, as if it were a death knell
In my den, I feel protected; sanctuary of safe-keeping
My troubled eyes are in search of benevolence anew
For faith and courage instead of such dismal dread
How I long to take flight, trading grey skies for blue
to locate a paradise where happiness can be spread
sharing a drink of wassail; fruited ale of sweet brew
I shall swiftly soar among shining stars at great height
Fluttering my wings on journeyed path of poetic volition
Never again to be lost and alone on any mawkish night
No shadows holding me in their melancholy perdition
for I've learned how to ignite flames of lambent light
Day One
The bomb when it fell sent the planet to hell
With unrestrained retaliation
The damage was done and the end had begun
With no hope of human salvation
I woke with a scream from that God awful dream
And took my wife into my arms
My thoughts were of lust but she crumbled to dust
And she didn’t respond to my charms
_____
Week Two
The landscape is stark for the ash cloud is dark
And the grass doesn’t grow any more
Few creatures can feast since the fire from the east
Made nothing as good as before
Then came acid rain, that again and again
Burned our skin til it was raw
But if there’s an upside, we now can go outside
The rain doesn’t burn anymore
_____
Year Three
The sidewalks I walked, where good neighbours talked
Are tangled with undergrowth, new
Those neighbours are gone but the heat lingers on
In an atmosphere no longer blue
The place that we once called ‘The city’
Is now thick with ferns, shrubs and trees
As I made a sound, a deer stood its ground
For nowadays no beast ever flees
From what I can see, he eats better than me
My nutrition comes out of a can
This jungle now covers this land, sea to sea
And nothing is scared of a man
_____
Year Ten
Surviving the blast gave the old man a laugh
Until the the Big C hit his bones
His loss has cut Earth’s population in half
I buried him with the unknowns
So now I’m the one to relate what was done
And document how man survived
An earnest presumption that soon came unspun
Ash shadows cannot be revived
_____
Year Twenty
Who might have guessed that the jabs in my chest
Would go unattended by drugs
My diet, I guess, would never impress
As I eat mostly baked beans and bugs
_____
Year — who’s counting?
So, this has been me; last man standing
My journey and journal now done
I leave this world to its rebranding
A process that’s long since begun
It seems I’ve been less than observant
For with these last breaths I have seen
That I, the last human, shall bid my farewell
To a new world that’s vibrant and green
In the witching hour's eerie embrace,
On All Hallows' Eve, when spirits brace,
I find myself in a darkened wood,
Where whispers of ancient evil stood.
The clock strikes twelve, the night's black heart beats,
A chorus of leaves dance in the streets,
The moon, a ghostly silent watcher,
Hides behind the clouds, the night grower.
A lyric of horror on my lips,
I tread where shadows and dread eclipse,
The path is lost, the world askew,
In this nightmare, what is true?
A figure emerges, draped in black,
A witch, they say, has come to attack,
Her eyes aglow with a hellish fire,
Her presence fuels my deepest ire.
She cackles low, a sound so vile,
It turns my blood to a cold-blooded bile,
She chants in tongues of long-dead tomes,
Her voice weaves through the night like foam.
I'm paralyzed, my breaths shallow,
As she approaches, her silhouette hallows,
Her fingers stretch, reaching for me,
In this witching hour, will I ever be free?
She whispers a curse with a wicked grin,
My soul to ensnare, my will to win,
But I'm no mere mortal to fall to her power,
I summon my strength in this haunted hour.
With a defiant cry, I break her spell,
My will is iron, it does not quell,
I confront the witch in her domain,
And in that moment, I reclaim my brain.
The witch, she fades, her form unspun,
A specter of the night undone,
I stand alone as dawn starts to creep,
The witching hour has had its keep.
So, remember this tale, young souls so bold,
When Halloween comes and the air grows cold,
The witching hour is not for the faint,
Where the line between terror and excitement ain't.