Abattoir, thy cover black:
Written in red blood:
Spells within thy fabled stack?
Mud, become a flood.
Now to brew some trouble, sirs!
Grab some land up high!
Mother Entropy murmurs!
Chaos, keeping dry?
Unleash the primal forces!
O rivers, running red?
Looking dark in our sources!
Humanity, bed!
Tympani, tornado.
Quahog clam, pie of quince.
Groundhog, shadow? Even so.
Four leaf clover mints.
Raspberry bush, hollyhock.
Gather well, honeybee.
Belladonna, blighted balk.
Vile the vintage, flea.
Schedule, on the third weekday.
Doom and disarray.
Debts cyclopean, repay.
Help them lose their way.
Dismay, dismantling. Starling:
Mournfully sheep sing.
Monsters love. To altar bring.
Machine, maddening...
Sting of sadness, great is grief.
Strong beyond belief!
Lawyer, judge, thy legal brief?
Coral, build a reef.
cloaked in a cover of kindness, my kindred conceals
conniving, colluding: their kiting of attacks
armored afar, yet still arduous against the arbiter
artful at-large he is, with his argumentative farce
mounting malice upon the mournfully mild or mundane,
masquerading as the meek and the moral
trust in the avenging nimbus, avowing its subsistence
my turn will come
I am a willow tree, sturdy and proud
I bow to the sun and I welcome the crowd
An enchanting mystic, to wallow in shade
My resilience astounding, unwilling to fade
I cry in the West, mournfully blue
Bringing life in the East with a positive hue
Adapting through time, I offer a portal
To a life just like mine, eternal immortal
When asked what I am, I declare very loud
That I am a willow tree, sturdy and proud
See, faced with no one,
yet in my mind I see him everywhere.
The best thing for me;
do not name it,
stitch my mouth,
say nothing.
But silence is never nothing.
Silence is the loudest thing he gives me.
What seizes the eye at once
makes the heart beat between lines.
Utmost, inexplicable, perpetual stimulation.
Now the wind blows mournfully,
and I let it.
Naturally, flagrantly, palpably,
replaying each line,
bona fide, constantly, truthfully, carefully.
Beating through language,
an ache written sideways,
pain grammar cannot hold.
Devil-may-care.
On the edge of a single smile,
he walks through my thoughts.
Every gesture is an answer.
Every lack of gesture is an answer.
I build whole futures
out of unfinished sentences.
Between my wanting
and his unknowing,
through life's clenched jaw,
I cling to the unrequited knowledge
of reciprocity.
Day is done and night now comes;
flowers fade and birds sleep.
Hear the wolf, he sings a love song;
through the darkness deep.
Hear the shadows weave their lullaby;
weave a soft melody.
As you dream, they sing their gentle song;
sing for you and for me.
As the day fades, and night begins;
let your dreams arise.
Watch as the starlight dances along
through the midnight skies.
Hear a howl at the silver moon begin;
hear them cry so mournfully.
As you dream, you'll hear them gently sing;
sing for you and for me.
What if I can't continue,
evolving into this mystery?
What if the story dies with me
grabbing and pulling at the hands of reality,
what then?
Do the stars continue to plot their courses
in an ocean of black?
or do they just fade away?
Will the universe drift mournfully
acknowledging the loss of a sun?
Do at last the heavens and earth embrace,
casting their differences aside.
holding each other into the void that is their love.
afraid to look away. In fear that the other has done the same
Will the morning star finally sing her song into the west?
will my passage still require gold once the river has run dry?
An outcast this night,
I mournfully sigh with gloom:
but, I make war, fight!
to defeat my rising doom,
and defend my haunted tomb.
The small bowl sits in the corner
Ceramic, lopsided, and beige
Small fingers impressed in the clay
Snake curled in the bottom awaits
Made for her momma in art class
Wee age of seven or eight
Initials inscribed at the bottom
A determined look on her face
Not really meant for her momma
Never liked her too much even then
But she did what her teacher told her
And offered it up mournfully
Mementos and pictures torn down
Sweet face and blonde pigtails a dream
The small bowl still sits in the corner
Snake curled at the bottom stares through
It catches the ashes that burn
From the incense she lights every night
Snake lurking below the embers
Of the fire that’s burning her heart
Distanced from source, earth’s ego falls to winter’s
death clutch, with life exhaling mournfully,
hibernating, hoping for God graced reprieve …
dark night of the soul.
Fortunately gravity corrects orbits,
with Spring promised, provided heart holds steady,
through the trials caused by soul’s choice to rebel …
God waits for His son.
Designed to teach, refrains repeat until we
see the beauty displayed by fleeting shimmers
emanating from the motionless fulcrum …
known when we so see.
Fading stars cloak the blistered midnight skyline,
whilst burning embers of a whistling fire swirl mournfully
in the impending winter winds.
Alabaster flakes drift, creating dunes along the receding shoreline.
I lay between long-forgotten beach bones,
memento mori.
Breath catches in my throat,
and all the while, I press my cyanotic fingers against the crumbling relics,
tracing what was once porcelain life,
now abandoned, left to decay with the sands of time,
as soon I, too, will become lost in this bleached necropolis.
Tears fall heavy today
As the angels takes you away
We lay you to rest with a soldiers grace
And the world continues on in it's fast pace
You left us way too soon
While we sit in an empty room
You go to join the heavenly fun
As the smoke clears from the 21 guns
Soldiers salute one of their own
As the good lord brings him home
We hear the sound of Angels sing
As the bells mournfully ring
You left peacefully in your sleep
While the family continues to sleep
We will miss you greatly dear brother
Your place won't be filled by another
With September’s tenure over, October takes charge.
Leaves turn yellow, red, and ochre in colourful surge.
As autumn breeze strongly veers round and blows,
Leaves fall and lie in heaps, rows upon rows.
They go into the making of autumn’s mosaic quilt.
Before they, under our feet, mournfully wilt,
Autumn leaves float and fly like flowers,
Twirling and whirling in the air on breezy hours.
As the air grows crisp and cold day by day,
Autumn is all set to have its powerful sway.
Birds by the riverside one by one will fly away,
Fearing the golden autumn days will never stay.
With so much of beauty and variety in the trees
And an endearing whisper in the blowing breeze,
Autumn is the one season I wholeheartedly hail,
And wish to breathe its air as my last inhale.
Empty carousels, windswept,
Echoes of pattering feet fading away in the dirge-like wind, mourning like doves.
Empty swings in the park, a waning sun looks mournfully at the little eddies of sand here and there:
All lacking the soft peals of laughter, the chuckles of the innocent...
Where have all the children gone?
The yolk-coloured sun, sour tasting,
signalling the end of a long, dreary day. The fluttering, whimpering,
weary limbs creaking,
the end of an era, only reminiscences of vigour
when hoary white was inky black...
Why, have all the children gone?
January’s snow flows stealthfully through my fifth-floor apartment window, flung wide open to welcome in the new year. The half-drawn curtains bellow with brisk salt air blowing in from the North Sea. A distant foghorn groans in a resigned, forlorn resonance, guiding ships braving the churning, ice-slushy waters as church bells strike twelve stately brassy tones.
This night I stand alone and content, a rich cup of espresso in my hand. Eschewing nostalgia and perhaps too sober of thought, I prefer my pleasures to be of the vicarious variety. Beneath me I take in the muted ambers and oranges spread out from the four cafes, out past the cobblestone road, glistening as snowflakes alite. Young couples drinking, glasses clinking, hug, kiss and revel, strolling out from the cafes. Some indulge in a traditional waltz, before the speaker blares more modern fare. Waves of laughter and singing ebb and flow as I turn and head toward my bed and blessed sleep.
Again the foghorn blares mournfully, like a tuba vainly pleading to be united with a long-lost orchestra.
There’s a whisper in the grasses
As the emerald sea divides
Through which my lover passes
To come and join my side
Between the lightning flashes
The summer rains break free
Nourishing the grasses
As your love does to me
There’s a whisper in the grasses
As the narrow path grows wide
That leads to meadows placid
Where I’ll find you by my side
A cold wind stirs the ashes
And the dry reeds mournfully
But silent are the grasses
When you don’t come to me.
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