Masonry Poems

- Echo With Unanswered Questions -

              - Echo ~ the witness who talked too much - quote by poet

                                         a mournful echo
                           sounds swamped my pulsating heart -
                                       do not repeat them
                                   empty room - masonry wall
                                   historic bells from gray peaks

Ventilating Truth

If ever we needed to ventilate,

it is now…the thickening tragedy

of lies have become too heavy

for the respiration of living truth…

 

Indeed…the dire situation

has reached lunging capacity

and the alveoli of reality

are sparking gut-wrenching

diarrheic retribution…

 

Breathe people…breathe…

check the yellowing mane…

strings of manipulation pulling

thin loose-lips of a sinking ship…

 

Breathe people…breathe…

the corona of truth shines

its bright light of truth…glowing

around the dark moon of deceit

of Americanism’s tragic turn…

 

Be mindful… people …scapegoats

come and go…in God, we must trust…

rather than loaning our sacred lives

to ill-fated government iniquities…

 

As believers—in the Lenten resurrection—

let us be about the business of resuscitation

of our beloved dying nation—yes …ours—built

by the blood-brick masonry of our Ancestors…

Night Shades

Under a smother of dark clouds
a city skyline sinks,
there will be no starshine
the lights of a million windows
must drain and replace another blanked out evening.

The eyes of stray cats fire up,
it is time now for noise to hunt silence down,
for the garish to consume the subdued.
Shoes, new and old, scuff grime
into renovated store fronts, where shadows
cling to the detached hissing
of neon signs.

It will be dawn when the shoes bleed,
when the stars return to briefly gutter.
There are rodent tracks that arrow
between gray blocks of masonry
where nocturnal crimes crumble
into obscurity.

The metro subway is empty yet full of ghosts,
but just for a moment,
only a moment.

A ghost that lingers in my spirit

In the city of dread,
Lies a haunted, ghostly homestead.
The masonry draped in cascade of red,
Shared a foul, rot & putrid smell as he's dead.

Deeply I endured & tried hard to encroach,
A sigh of relief turned the moment's approach.
A shadow emerged, dark in ambush,
Staring with gleam & hunger in rush.

Erasing the gap, he turned distinct,
His name, a blade, cut my tongue, i think.
The sharp nails he wedged,
At my waist's curved edge.

Through the spines fixed & anchored, we flew up above the range,
Beyond the empty mouth, I swallowed the raw echo in derange.
Blindfolded by those deep eyes, I lost my senses from the ocular socket in the guise,
Deep down, the blood was drowning loud from the sunk spikes. 

Splash, Splat! Sound seemed like I whined & moaned,
The body melted, rained down & disowned.
The cage of ribs emptied and broke out,
He took the heart and threw it in doubt.

Timeless Creation By Hands

Great work by hands
Walks the annals of history:
Painting, sculpture, writing 
Carving, masonry, pottery 
Jewelry, carpentry and others
Passed the test of time
Nothing is more beautiful 
Than things made by our own hands.

Arlington

The broad banks shifting 
the stone slabs across 
the deserted plains of 
Arlington white tombstone 
lined nestled beneath 
decorated wreaths calling 
upon sudden hint of braising 
sunshine gleaming over falling 
leaves catering to yesterday 
reaching for tomorrow and 
yet silence abode the marble 
timings while old glory 
flickered between the calm 
breeze hints of sadness falls 
by the way side while tears 
stain the workers cheeks 
so we’ll crafted mastered 
beyond masonry moments

The Wall

The wall of russet brick, which, once resplendent,
ever crumbles leaving gaps; a toothless grin
slicing landscape. No longer the defendant
between the plebeians and the crown within,
the ancestral barrier is at death’s door; 
rifled masonry builds shelter for the poor,
bridled meadows slowly overgrow the rest;
a child skips oblivious across, now blessed.

Graveyard Angels

Long have they labored
in their mossy wetness.
Weeping stones,
time-etched into permanence.

For Those sorrowing marble angels
are no longer lamenting 
A long-buried woe.

Sometimes I think they are God,
the way a field daisy is God.
The outer will reflect the within.

The granite masonry
softens; melts one eon at a time.
A prayer to speak for us all,
uttering just as gently
as any wind-dancing flower.

Those long falling tears,
once so sadly comforting,
they now sparkle
with each sun rise.

Do they live in the light of Gods eye,
just as do the very smallest
of meadow blooms?

The Roots

Written: November 11, 2023
        ____________________________________________________

Zeal, which requires forbearance as its root,
      Akin to a home built upon sleek clay
Yet, as brave as all the walls on the route
      And its high spires proudly rise to the sky.
Though skilled creators leave behind a trail,
      Aesthetic pyrrhic shapes on every hand.
Shining sculptures in shady nooks prevail
      And waterfalls dance in some pastiche stands.
Yet, when a gloomy easterly breeze blows,
      The worst wind blows, and dewy showers fall.
Always defeating a hindrance that flows
      Then! The ornate design crumbles and crawls.
        Earning love spells the skill to endure pain.
        Masonry-like friendship called to remain

The Lighthouse

It stands erect over the sea and land
abounding in rocks and stones, protruding
from an ocean full of water and sand
guiding its voyageurs with its lighting

The lighthouse is a symbol for those who
have lost their way and are longing for home
a sentinel at watch, never changing hue
it is a steady light for those in roam

While she lights the candle for the sailors
this monumental grace house beams its light
as the moon turns a different shade of pale
this knight in shining armor shines out bright

Erected and assembled made of brick and stone
a masonry of strength, it always stands alone.

A Song of Determination

(This is an old poem of mine reposted with some modifcations )


I hammered some words
Out from the quarry of my brain
They fell around in shards;
Some like boulders, 
Some like rocks and rubble 
I picked them up one by one.
Block on block, I piled them up
Thinking I could build a ‘pleasure dome’

But,
When it was time for the workman
To marvel over the beauty and wonder
Of his dream creation  
His masonry tumbled down
Like sand castles built
By little hands on sea strands
Or dunes of quicksand sliding down

I have lost count of the times,
This has happened before.
Now that I stay resigned,
Amid a heap of debris

Is there any use feeling remorse?

Like Nero fiddling on his harp
When Rome was burning
I sit on this pile of wreck
Piping my thoughts away.

In the cusp between victory and defeat
I have charted my future action plan
Decided not to cry over spilt milk 
But to start over and continue my work
Till I can erect a ‘pleasure dome’ of words
As our famed poet Coleridge did!

Nov. 25. 2022

Just Before Release Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Unseeking Seeker

The House

He had not dwelt there long,
he was a tenant
a traveler.

The stone walls carried no sound
to the outside,
but on the inside
every movement and whisper
was transmitted and amplified
through a matrix of fluting's,
gullies, pipes, and vents, etched
into the leaden masonry.

His room was a dry-walled cube.
He lived there quietly,
for even the closing of a drawer
or the tinkle of glass upon glass
seemed clamorous. The sounds
magnified.

He had not seen the other rooms,
the other tenants.
He had heard footsteps,
shuffling movements,
groans,
toilets flushing,
close sotto voce conversations
between lips and ears,
doors slamming.

After only days he moved on,
closing the thick front door
softly behind him.

Into the city street he stepped.
No one looked at him,
no one seemed to see him.
Afraid that he was alone in this
unknown world,
he tuned back to the house
but alas
it was no longer there.

A Song of Defeat

I hammered some words
Out from the quarry of my brain
They fell around in shards;
Some like boulders, 
Some like rocks and rubble 
I picked them up one by one.
Block on block, I piled them up
Thinking I could build a ‘pleasure dome’

But,

When it was time for the workman
To marvel over the beauty and wonder
Of his dream creation  
His masonry tumbled down
Like sand castles built
By little hands on sea strands
Or dunes of quicksand sliding down

I have lost count of the times,
This has happened before.
Now I stay resigned,
Amid a heap of debris

Is there any use feeling remorse?

When Rome was burning,
Like Nero fiddling on his harp,
I sit on this pile of wreck
Piping my thoughts away
In the cusp between victory and defeat
Exacting as much ecstasy as I can
Before the truth looms large
In all its stark nakedness!

____________________________________

May.14.2022

A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest

Gamma Gamma Delts

He asked many people.
And sought the wisdom
Of wise people .
Because it has the ability
To teach and educate
He cited cerro gordo
as a perfect cite to
Build a college.
To recreate something that
Once existed and give life
Back to an area  were the
Ancient secrets of yesterday
Can teach and educated students
Of today and tommorrow.
He saw schools of carpentry, masonry,
Plumbing, culinary, hotel management, 
Clothes making, theater, jewelery making,.
Tourism, business administration, medical
Drone college, terrafugia and jetoptera 
Creating traffic and logistics to remodernize
Areas reelctrifcatiin and machine college.
Desert farming and water harvesting, and realestate.
Greenhouses, helping people means educating them.

A Self Portrait

I am neither a star nor light
I am not bright, I am not shiny
Just a spark that cannot drive darkness
But I can let a blaze start

I am a reed, hollow with dents
A plaything or a trifle in many eyes
But with the touch of a maestro, 
Can produce sweet symphony

I am not a poem with a rhyme
Nor a carol that does chime
I am a jumble of words
If rearranged can become a song

I am a stone with pointed edges
Shapeless and lumpy, solid and rude
If chopped down and cut up
Can become a sculpted marvel

I am neither a giant nor a genius
I am not very smart or skillful
I am an ordinary human, blessed,
With a heart that can feel and heal

Thoughtfully shaped on God’s anvil,
In His eyes, I am a piece of priceless art 
In no way, shall I demean my worth
A masonry built by God’s divine hands

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