O fall, let this lore of love be the last...
as your tight, chaotic grip holds me hostage.
Don't count against me my downfalls,
but the endeavors that have stitched the fabric of my days.
Still, this mask of anguish shapes its heavy cry,
wrapped tightly against the core of myself—
absent of mercy, mocking that pure moment in time
that allows us mortals to be human.
Yet, neither dusk nor dawn can delude me.
They try to imprison me, and hate may fill me with sorrow,
but the flame carried within shall never be dismissed—
a hunger not easily satisfied, refusing to die.
Discarded, a silent alchemy works in the dark.
I am the fire the shadows could not smother;
I turn the leaf, rewriting every page,
rising far above the ashes of my pain.
Last standing—strong,
amidst the dust and foliage of farewell!
Neither dusk nor dawn can delude me,
says the leaves that fall in the autumn.
Everywhere they are feeling the earth and the soil.
All these days, from a height, they have seen it.
It’s now the time to touch,
feel,
and be part of the earth
with their skin upon it.
The leaves of the trees
happy to be with the soil,
but a longing and a miss—
its mother-like tree
and its caring branches.
But nearing its roots
is like strength gained.
Though dried its colour,
the coarse nature of texture,
and the experience of being green all round,
and now the season of autumn—
the evening in their life.
And these leaves
always add life to our lives.
As humans,
we enjoy watching the leaves change colour,
turn different from the way they sprouted—
still they serve us humans.
And neither dusk nor dawn can delude them.
They are from nature
and always remain as one—
though autumn or spring.
Gazing up, with head spinning
Blown through, euphoric
Brings what to the mind again
As does 'ring a bell'?
Whilst through each sensation, awe's
Feeling, that's divine
True self to true home responds
Needless for to tell.
Looking back on reflection
Still l am trying to compare
If l could make the connection
l have lost myself some where
Yet again another introspection
Something for which l now share
Always these feelings of rejection
With love ,loss ,anger and dispare
And now though the apprehension
When at one time l had so much flair
Seems l've lost sense of direction
As l am neither here nor there
Afollow up to poem where do l go from
Here just another introspection written 2019
Between neither here nor there
an entire life holds its breath.
as I straddle the inevitable,
marking time between life's lines.
Caught in transition,
Almost here, yet almost there,
living in the footnotes
of an ending hard to bear.
My shadow crosses the line;
the rest of me hesitates.
Time gathers its coat,
weary of waiting at the gate.
Almost this and almost that,
in-between here and there,
the parallel lines at last converge;
there becomes here; then becomes now.
When all horizons disappear
and distance dissolves,
every elsewhere becomes an arrival.
Here and there intertwine at last,
and every therewith discovers
it's been a herewith all along.
Lone left Earth: "would you deny
A fancied one
That look of admiration
Deserving of?"
Again; more perplexed than sad:
"No more please you?
Who, vowing it, has stayed true
Beauty for love".
Please, I beg, with this teared rain
Through swirled gusts quit.
Believe, here what's glassed, smile-lit
None can remove.
Close the door on yesterday
Make a new start today
Don’t fret about tomorrow
It's neither lent nor borrowed
A return to yesterday, painstakingly,
empties creativity
Anticipating tomorrow’s result
Today does insult
What if I write you an 8 page sonnet
And when I see you
We talk about the weather
The burdens of bureaucracy, and the colors of fall
You love the orange and I love that the piles of leaves are pillows of the living dead that I plow into
And puddles are piles of recycled tears that I cry into
But I’ll say I love orange
Because neither boys nor teachers like running sentences
I feel best in nature far from city blocks.
Peace comes from viewing God's beautiful stages.
Medicinal are streams, trees and even rocks.
On natural land every sense engages.
I so love all of outdoors genuine sounds,
my happy inner child playfully abounds.
All earthly vistas mankind has not tainted
are heavenly views and feels that God painted.
Gray, gloomy and cold are the steel and concrete
of large, sprawling cities built to fulfill greed.
Clustered strangers press buttons to cross a street
and are dwarfed by buildings for which land did bleed.
There are blocks of humans from rich to homeless
where trauma and apathy leave hearts boneless.
Even in June, I loathe how cold cities feel.
I have no guess why to many they appeal.
not new nor novel no more
See some sights, see some more
But now I am standing at my door
The room the same as before
not new nor novel no more
Still, I can't be bothered to make a change
Yet I'm longing to turn the page
standing still at center stage
not new nor novel no more
But I could change the game
If I could only bother to
But it's the same as it was
not new nor novel
If five sons so well can live
In father’s one-room-- a palace,
But no one in their five-room space
Of each can find enough place
For their aged parents,
O blame not the spirit of time,
Nor even irony of time,
Ought we not blame our heart’s
Shrunken space within, not in house?
Not widely wafting Westerly Wind
In place of Purbee breeze.
A lot there’s to learn from West,
But what and what-not be the test.
_________________
Free verse | 16.08.2025 | father son, time, irony
Painted in grey
no colours nor lilies
there's hope there's pain
amidst the wind and storm
"Life" pinned me in blue.
One month passed.
The new walk in
like a gentle guest,
hopes on it
worries cast aside,
I take a step and stride;
my boulders are too immense
to shoulder,
beyond my strength,
beyond my vision
'like a dream.
In glimmer of hope
I embrace my path,
a fate so neatly designed,
to pace forward wayward front.
A rare crescent when comes to be,
Moon’s silver so scant comes to be.
No fragrance from some comes to be,
From some a foul scent comes to be.
No use digging into the past,
The same old repent comes to be.
Break mirrors nor try to look in,
Image nigh but bent comes to be.
If ye look in a long closed heart,
The same old scar, dent comes to be.
No matter how backward man bends,
Seldom the past spent comes to be.
Scratch life, it is foul nor fragrant,
Only life in lent comes to be.
_________________________
Ghazal |11.07.2025| love, past, moon, mirror, heart
I don't desire mountains,
Nor do I desire coasts
But I hope when I knock your door, Death,
You would be a gracious host.
When I come to meet you Death,
I hope you would be kind.
And shoulder to carry me,
None I'd need to find.
I hope when I lay there,
There would be people who would listen,
And there would be some titles,
With which I would be christened.
I hope there would be someone,
To whom our separation would cause swan-like despair.
But I hope there would be enough memories,
To ease the pain they would have to bear.
And when I sleep forevermore,
There would be millions of days to cherish,
I hope there would be heights I had soared,
Making my name impossible to perish.
Then when I come to knock your door, Death,
You would be so kind,
That departing from my world, and greeting you
I wouldn't mind.
I don't desire mountains,
Nor do I desire coasts
But when I knock your door, Death
You would be a gracious host.
a door creaks inward,
the sky folds in, saying not leave
nor enter
not lost, not quite returned
my hands forget their kedge,
stillness 'neath the murmur
somewhere between blur and flame
a yes dissolves into never,
I mistake the hush for an answer
Tesla 3-6-9
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