Salutations!
We’re all just a figment of God’s imagination
Or just a simple angle of schematical equation.
He’s especially intrigued with His favorite fascination,
His most magical, wonderful, COSMIC Creation ...
Of death and rebirth! He calls it Earth!
For what it’s worth,
There’s no need for any truth or radical explanations.
He hasn’t any real or extrapolated expectations,
Yet has come to realize as I’m writing down these words,
How absurd, little bird, He chuckles in surprise,
Then bursting out with delight, with delight!
So wise, He sighs. Oh my, time flies ...
The Dreamer never dies.
Sooooo, I'm goin' to ...
Enjoy the day to the fullest when the Sunshines shining bright!
Enjoy the day in the highest even when it's really rainy out!
Enjoy the day as the coolest even when n if I'm on my way out ... side
And now, and now, I enjoy the NOW
With Full Moonbeams on me right here and how.
Hear on me, here on me, adhere on me tonight!
So wise, I sigh. Oh my, time flies ...
The Dreamer never dies.
The minstrel with his lute so bright,
Beneath the moon’s pale, silver light,
Did weave a tale of love and woe,
A melody that hearts would know.
With nimble fingers, strings he'd strike,
Each note a pearl, each chord a hike,
Through valleys deep and mountains high,
Where heroes fought and lovers sighed.
A maiden fair, with eyes of blue,
A knight so bold, brave and true,
Their love a flame, so bright and strong,
But fate's cruel hand did them prolong.
He sang of battles, fierce and grand,
Of dragons slain, by hero's hand,
Of castles tall and moors so wide,
Where secrets hid, and dangers lied.
The minstrel's voice, a haunting sound,
As shadows danced and stars spun 'round,
His songs of love and loss did flow,
A tapestry of joy and woe.
And when the dawn began to break,
And shadows fled, for morning’s sake,
The minstrel left, his work complete,
His music stilled; his story sweet.
Were you invited
into Zion
Or have a ticket
in advance
Have the doors
for you reopened
Is your history
fit to chant
The torches glow
in sequence
When you make your
entry plain
A hymn sung by
a minstrel Sage
Your welcoming
—refrain
(1st Book Of Prayers: November, 2023)
Whatever happened to the twelve o ‘clock rambler,
nocturnal venturesome brushstroke sort,
they face whirlwind snowfall, freezing ice,
while others brazenly squirm,
not for stoic diarist this threadbare exit,
exodus of the half-hearted humbug,
but ironclad ilk stubbornly remain,
eyes and ears are substitute antennas,
of this genus, genie, genius, glow worm ghost,
peaceful prowlers with pen on queue,
velvet moon worlds sidereal captured,
crescendo of cathartic bonhomie,
icy night frost punctured by high drive fog horns,
deft nib from dark ink manteau nomad,
who engross themselves in light and shade reflection,
as we balk at the eerie life we revel in,
drama under bridges, shadow figure chinwag,
river stream babble, blind alley gust,
eavesdrop on historic past teaser,
litter swept aural gossip whoosh,
eventide mournful dog bark heart tug,
darting elfin’s sly mind peep thereon,
yet the vagabond minstrel has to comb,
each backstreet, zebra crossing, sprawling suburb,
for inert sleepy after hour dozers,
who crave eye candy fodder as humdrum sidestep
The rapturous oceans roar
And shout their praise in gospel waves
That crash and smash
Against a cold and distant shore.
The mountains sigh and moan,
Lift suppliant arms, sing paeans and psalms
That rise then echo back
A hollow, mocking tone.
The forest trees may bow their heads
And bend their knees, but not to pray.
Instead, if you should ask them why,
They pay no heedless god tribute,
They're merely giving mute salute
To wand'ring minstrel breezes passing by.
In the background
as I write
I always hear a song
Ringing clear
and ringing true
my wishes to belong
The words composed
in beats of time
with room for me to breathe
Awaiting
as the meaning sings
for voices to retrieve
In the background
as I write
where letters dance with glee
A minstrel hides
between the lines
my spirit his to free
I’d gladly trade
these phrases inked
for one unfinished tune
To sing upon
the coming wind
—and float my heart’s balloon
(Villanova University: May, 2022)
Diving deep into the depths of soul
Floating upward towards the light
Surfacing on the horizon of my mind
Words have flooded like the expanse of sky
Pouring out of me like torrential rain.
At other times I take cover in the
bunker of my mind
When as dry as a desert I draw a blank
Were words get buried in quick sand.
This is where I shut out the world and rest.
Sometimes writing with invisible ink
Like scent that evaporates leaving a heady smell
My senses following like a rivulet
filling each and every gap of my soul
Poets travelling like wandering minstrels to each
and every corner of the mind and soul.
27.11.2020.
Where do we poets go?
Sponsor-Silent One.
The Minstrel
In a doorway, squatting, strumming out of tune
There sits a minstrel, gazing whilst he plays
A string of chords, discordant in their mix
Combining all his thoughts of better days.
Unshaven, threadbare, clothed as once he did
Before some unexpected fall from grace,
So now he plays life’s thoughts for all to hear
As passers-by avoid his careworn face.
A flat cap holds a few small copper coins
Reflecting those who understand his plight
And so I cross and place a token too
Acknowledged only by a nod so slight.
His eyes look through me, seemingly to say,
This could be you who's sitting here today.
Paper rustle of your lips
is not needed to her really,
You're a knight, but your heart weeps,
You were brave, why are you thrilling?
You would strip your zealous sword,
But there are no foes in moment,
It would sing and say a word
loudly-loudly without torment.
And your ballads have no sense,
You're not worthy for the beauty,
All your deeds don't give a chance,
Take it easy, slave of duty.
Because love does not take out
sword that's frozen in the scabbard,
Hear, how useless pure souls shout,
You are hero in worn tabard.
No one's happy to your flags,
Courage now must be forgotten,
Ballads die, they lie in wrecks,
Paper burns, the flame is gotten.
All will pass, they're angry, rude,
There's no point for her crying,
Drown out tubes, put on your hood,
She won't answer to your trying.
And no matter if heart weeps,
Here are many who're no thrilling,
Paper rustle of your lips
won't confess: I love you, really.
fought back those sullen tears
brow to big
to get ahead of the plan
the wandering hand
in the brigade of man
a happy tune loosed in June
the pull of my heart
to light the spark
a mellow choice
to ask the world to rejoice
No bird perch on high boughs,
Merrily are straggling they,
As Spring invades the bay.
Across the azure sky,
High and high the blithe birds fly,
Nowhere a cry or sigh.
Now at dusk they glide fast—
Lo! Even the sun is tired,
And down the West he mired.
The trees are strong upright,
‘Midst the lissome cloud and clime,
They kiss the moon at night.
And when the ocean roars,
Fidgety waves play around
The pregnant shells earth-bound.
I hear that hollow sound,
As night with its thick, dark shroud
Smothers the sea and ground.
There's a dream I've had, now and then through the years,
And I wonder if it could be true.
The vision is vividly etched in my soul,
Of the places and people I knew.
My home was the road that I rambled each day.
A traveling minstrel my trade.
My pockets weren't filled with much silver or gold.
My wealth stacked with friends I had made.
I'd sing and I'd play for the working class folk;
Whose smiles and tears were sincere.
They'd feed me, and house me, and show me respect,
And share family stories and beer.
But, The lords and the ladies, kings and the queens,
Would compete for whose bard was the best;
So, they stole me away from the people I loved,
And displayed me at royal behest.
And all that is left of the dream I have had,
Is a lonely, enslaved troubadour;
Who cannot remember the joy he once knew,
Or the friends that he'll see, nevermore.
medieval monsters
mischievously meander
in the mind of the mad minstrel
like maggots in mazes
his mysterious muse
masterfully mining for misery
melting in molten memories
of macabre mirrors
ministering malicious mistakes
morbity mottled
with the maniacal matchmaker
who masquerades with malevolence
masticating the meat
milking the marrow
the minstrel's music
a maddening march
motioning to the murder
of mental mortar
mashing morals
his mouth moving
malignant music
marked by madness
Serenading me with vivid poetry
Her pen extends thoughts so lovely
Weaving words into graceful birds
heart-felt phrases deftly placed
Feeling is conveyed in lines well displayed
stanzas of emotion perfectly painted
Beauty not contained in just script on page,
Her eyes search kindly smiling
Lips pursed to quench kiss thirst
Welcoming as only sincerity can be
Empathy radiates in the care she demonstrates
Angelesque pursuit of nourishing soul
........................................................................
Where prose meets pose...she models from either side
touches with words, caresses with sentiment
Inspires my writing by supportively guiding
This lady's both Minstrel AND Muse
My heart erupts like a volcano
bursting with scathing songs,for
the lobes of tyranny,fattened
by the deceptive lyrics,from
sycophantic lips
My tongue,a molten kalam,shall
consume the valve of fear,preaching
caution to frustrated souls,now
my music must rise ,from
the din of ancient sighs,remixed
in the swelter of pain and anguish,rehashed
in the gurgling sound,of
blighted bellies
My anvil honed labial,shall
spin arrows to pierce,their
stubborn ossiccles and
invade the cosmos of haughty drunkeness
My strident cry shall spin a noose,for
the drooling neck of despotism,hawking
chaos on our conflagrating land,where
swamp dwellers bath with spittle,and
princes pawn peasant's heritance
My touching tune shall rouse,fascist
minds to the scent ,of
our brewing anger,and
restless impatience
I shall continue to sing until,this
gathering storm harvest hearts,and
stir furious fists,to deal
deathly blow to the cenotaph of tyranny.
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