Long World weary Poems
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Though my mind has clearly gone,
my hollowed vessel sails on and on.
Tattered memories clatter through,
dried leaves in search of their limbs,
desperate to seek the plumpness of youth.
Their only hope; give up the fight,
to death magnetic earth,
once more, rebirth.
Yet far and wide they stride,
the empty vastness of my tumbleweed state.
My world weary gait,
my lucid lament,
only serve to further propound confusion.
Scents send senses searching relentless.
Optical deficits, no acoustic solution.
Solution beyond reach,
beyond my touch,
and I want it so much.
For King and for country,
for valour not treason.
I search for The Season,
the peace I believe in.
For peace eternal,
for posthumous pardon.
The guide with his cheesy hat, and colorful umbrella
encourages us to: gather 'round.
His anecdotal spiel is by rote. His shtick is fact-slim
and slick, but it’s also my current gestalt as I am dragged
unwillingly along by his CliffsNotes speech.
What catches my wandering eye
is that one of those ruined effigies
is a fair facsimile of myself.
He (a god/king of some minor something),
looks mildly disgusted, as if
a bothersome fly had landed on his crumbling nose.
My world-weary face reflects perfectly
his sour mien.
At last, I am processed meekly
back onto the tour bus, where predictably,
my fellow passengers are already
peering forward into a new fancifully imagined past
from an equally fanciful present.
Dawn arrives in a dark widow’s shawl.
A hard sea rubs raw
the knuckled bones of the shore.
The first thing a sailor sees as he dreams of arrival
are the white hands. Sometimes the hands
are land marooned seagulls,
sometimes the hands are the open fists of the sea.
When in a stony village by the waves
he disembarks from the tossing dark,
when he clambers over its sea walls
he laughs, but it is not a merry laughter
more a harsh cry of a wild and restless of joy.
The cobbled streets are shedding their scales.
Fish heads are poking through net curtains.
Mackerels swim in world-weary eyes.
Old men leave their cots
shave their whiskers with a clam shell.
Seaweeds hang like dreadlocks from dripping eves.
Bare cold feet roll over paved stones
all is slipping backwards.
A sailor must wash his face with beer
while bailing green water out of his shipwrecked eyes.
World-weary, war-torn, weather-beaten
A poet is but a beleaguered soul,
A hopeless wanderer, a rootless wayfarer
Misunderstood often
Misinterpreted, ridiculed
Scorned by his lady luck
Spurned by his muse,
Wizard of imagination
reigning over a fantasy land,
He’s of a ragged spirit
striving to shape an ideal world,
A Spartan without a spear
A warrior without a weapon
Yet equipped to inflict a fatal wound,
Never home when opportunity comes aknocking,
No stranger to passion
Yet true love eludes him—
Perennially lovelorn
Forever forlorn!
That’s all there’s in store for you
if you decide to be a poet.
~10/07/22
~A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Contest.
~Contest: X'd Second Chance Poetry
~Sponsor: Constance La France.
The sculptor became jaded with prostitutes
the young ones were vacuous,
their bodies unleavened bread.
The mature subjects
scored by the violence of disappointment.
Both the naive and the world-weary
were dull molds.
The artist and anatomist, delved deeply into
the nature of form, he craved perfection.
a risen Venus, immaculate.
He dissected; plucked at visions.
On moonless nights
carried corpses on muffled barrow wheels.
By the light of a hundred candles,
he eased flesh apart,
nose swathed in verbena drenched rags,
hands tweaking, tracing tissue,
seeking once sensuous shapes
under sallow remains.
He worked with live models, hired women
of every class.
The rich were flattered, vain, the poor always
eager to earn.
None made the stone under his hands blossom.
It was a matter of timing, catching Venus
as she emerged from her littoral crest.
It seemed his models
were always coming to, or moving away
from that conjunction,
yet he kept opening mythical shells
until death took him.
At his funeral his straight-backed widow,
adorned in darkest weeds,
hid her anger well,
secretly despising those cold hands
that never did understand
the revelations of female imperfections.
The guide with his cheesy hat, and colorful umbrella
encourages us to: gather 'round.
His anecdotal spiel is by rote. His shtick is fact-slim
and slick, but it’s also my current gestalt as I am dragged
unwillingly along by his CliffsNotes speech.
What catches my wandering eye is that this one ruined effigy
is a fair facsimile of myself. He (a god/king
of some minor something), looks mildly disgusted, as if
a bothersome fly had landed on his crumbling nose.
My world-weary face reflects perfectly that sour mien.
At last I am processed meekly back onto the tour bus,
where predictably, my fellow passengers are already
peering forward into a new fancifully imagined past
from an equally fanciful present.
Cut loose, cast adrift
from all I set out to accomplish.
Thrown to the other shore
by a stream I was sure would carry me to the sea.
Stranded at the source
words replaced thought, images replaced word
to leave me speechless
mind agape
transfixed to glossy page after page
of color and pattern, wholeness and detail,
art and craft manifest
in perfect balance on warp and weft.
A beautiful obsession, from ideal to actual,
a literal magic carpet ride
to a figurative land before time
a land of light, and space,
barren hills
and broken hearts,
sheep and wool, plant and dye,
ceaseless wanderings and flights in the night.
A land of my dreams and conception
(there on the carpet as my parents lay)
a carpet beckoning and enticing
to stay and rest awhile, caress and stare
without inhibition
at the sheer beauty
only a fellow nomad could conceive
for the solace of another world weary soul.
(2/20/22, first published in my sixth book of poems, OUT OF TIME OUT OF MIND, 2022)
In the marathon of life, we run with grit,
In the sprint of moments, we dash with grace.
In the relay of generations, we pass the baton.
Our legs pump like pistons, hearts our engines,
Our breath is the fuel that fires our journey.
We run through valleys of shadow and doubt,
We run over hills of triumph and joy,
We run beside rivers of tears and laughter.
Our feet leave imprints on the track of time,
Our sweat waters the flowers of our dreams.
Our second wind always waits in the wings,
Our hidden reserves hover just out of sight,
Our untapped strength lurks beneath the surface.
We inhale determination, exhale fatigue,
We drink from the well of perseverance.
We're strong enough to move mountains,
We're powerful enough to shift paradigms,
We're mighty sufficient to forge our paths.
Our will carves canyons through fields of impossibility,
Our resolve erodes the stones of obstacles.
But gentle enough to embrace butterflies,
But tender enough to nurture hope's delicate seeds,
But soft enough to cushion a fallen comrade.
Our hands, calloused from life's rough road,
Our touch is a balm for the world-weary soul.
We pace ourselves for the long haul,
We stride purposefully towards distant horizons,
We leap over hurdles that bar our way.
Our race is not always to the swift,
Our victory lies in the running itself.
So we lace up our shoes of courage,
So we stretch our muscles of resilience,
So we warm up our joints of adaptability.
Our course may wind, our path may twist,
Our destination: the finish line of our potential.
A moment long ago
The farmer said he needed sand for the fenced-in chicken run
Off we went, hooking the cart to our tiny female horse that had
been so sweet a foal, she was named Dokka (doll)
The beach was long and empty, the cold water of The North Sea
did not invite bathers
When white-topped waves crashed ashore, the water was
translucent with a hinge of green when the sea retracted
made a world-weary sigh.
When the cart was loaded, it was time for lunch, the farmer’s
wife had made a hamper of bread, boiled eggs and cheese;
After lunch and when the farmer had a dram or two, I walked
around feeling great for just being there.
Then I saw two white stallions riding a wave to shore, magnificent
animals with flying manes, galloping to the tree line and
disappearing yonder.
Time to leave, but the horse was not there had been bored by seagrass
began walking home, I ran to fetch her, where she stood confused by
a crossroad, I rode her back to the strand feeling like a king of the world
Going back to the farm, the farmer fell asleep on top of the load
When arriving, the farmer’s wife was angry, I unharnessed the horse that
quickly ran to the field where it neighed and snorted, jumping before
settling down, I think she had seen the stallions too.
You in the shadow of your room
A young woman, not yet in your prime
Following the ways of your mother
Pulling strands of deepest indigo blue
And richest madder reds
Across the woolen warp of the loom.
Knotting nimbly as you go,
Mind relaxed, absorbed, immersed
Transported hour after hour
Day after day, month by month
A youth protected and well spent
In the deepest reaches of ancestral time.
When it’s done
You will have woven a masterpiece
Something you will quietly glow with
Something that will long outlast you
Your children, grandchildren, great
Grandchildren and culture.
You will have created a portal
Reaching across time
And space, across cultures
To suck in and absorb
The world weary
To another world.
In this other world
Children laugh and play as children do
But also learn the ways of deepest time
And spend their days apprenticing
In the ways of subtle earthy magic
The ways of warp and weft, knot and dye.
A world beyond time
In a space where lovers meet
Babies sleep
And the old die in peace
Held together on the sturdy loom
Of traditions, bound by hardship and love.
(9/18/26)