You are my Seine...
unchanging through winter and summer.
You are my wise Amu Darya, knowing
both the desert’s heat and the melting ice.
You are my faithful Ganges – a river of lotuses
and burning pyres.
You are my gleaming Yangtze from the land of ginseng.
You are my wild, swirling Ucayali…
You are my wistful Mississippi,
drawing me ever closer to the sea.
I am but a raft swaying on the waves of your dreams.
I drift downstream, past islands of solitude,
to cast anchor in the harbor of your
Passion…
History debunks entire mystery of satires
Deniers just liars building gilding empires
Tech Messiahs no dire high flier pariahs
From evangelical spires inspire the fires
Never tires of vicious avaricious desires
With hateful hobbies from lobbies it hires
Town criers as we drown in quagmires
Gerontocracy which never ever retires
Every protest pest laid to rest on pyres
I’ll burn the bridges—yes, ignite the night~
a blazing, dramatic opera staged in firelight.
Let sparks go swirling like betrayed desires,
each plank a martyr to my mighty pyres.
I rise victorious as the embers rise,
a tragic heroine with smoke-filled eyes.
Let smoke proclaim my bold, rebellious creed~
No looking back, no bridge shall I ever need.
And when I’m stranded on my lonely, self-righteous shore,
I shall sigh, “How noble to return no more.”
Then whisper to the ashes at my feet,
“Perhaps I overdid the whole retreat.”
Celeste the star dealer, shan't see thy stones while hidden amongst them, that which can't quite compare, and so the par Ra blooddrop stone withers and moans and groans for old irons that beat beets into gnashed up fire-up pyres, and lends that teardrop once in time, the par for the course, the greensward vine.
"VIII ..."
I wrote a poem
on my way home,
the fragile halo broke into sharp pieces
of foolsgold, like shattered mirror glass
I scattered as breadcrumbs,
to feed the murder of crows;
I wrote a poem
on my way home,
my wings broken in a bent passage, clipped,
by the gaslight, reading too much into everything,
the feathers fell into the path of strange foraging creatures,
in their labyrinths, and within their tears like ocean pools, I scried
the essence of each one, found and lost,
their charms enchanted me, to no end,
in this removed place of the unexplored obscure;
from their laments, I wrote a poem.
I saw my jaded windows reflect amber fires,
lit high like funeral pyres, and from their reigning ash I built
new alters to warm the frozen void I felt within;
on my heart their tap dancing fingers like light progressed
the lessons forgotten - and amidst them all, a silent echo did imprint:
Love.
Eternal.
Strength.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
Explosions tear the midnight sky apart,
Mothers clutch their children , terror in their heart.
Washington thunders, "We own the dark!"
Tehran vows vengeance with a funeral spark.
Blood rains on ancient streets of stone,
Fathers vanish, leaving empty thrones.
Eagles scream while black flags are flown,
Yet both titans tremble when the reaper's blade is shown.
Ceasefire! they bellow through smoke and flame,
Victors' lies mask the widows' endless pain .
"Glory eternal!" both leaders claim.
While orphans whisper broken prayers in vain.
Oil burns black like souls turned to ash,
Markets laugh as the funeral pyres flash.
" Peace in our time!" they trumpet with a flash-
Then sharpen blades for the next blood-soaked clash.
Two empires dance on a graveyard and grand,
Clenched fists raised over a dying land.
They sign the truce with trembling guilty hands,
And tomorrow..... the screams begin again.
It vexes me
I toss and turn
I cannot find the words to describe the beauty in sight
For I am a humble man of ink
New words have to be created to describe the fraction of the beauty that you are
But alas I do not hold such power
For I would have created a whole library
Just to describe your beauty, my love
Forgive me my love
For I cannot describe your beauty to the unfortunate who didn't see you
Else the Emperors would have cried and gave you their empires
Just for you to be at their funeral pyres
Some say Aphrodite cried the day the Titan made you
It broke her, it made her irate
She punished the Titan severe
But the Titan was rhapsodic for he knew he bested her
And so you came into this world
Amongst the quarrel of the Gods
Like a ray of light
In my empty life
we knew at dusk that the day of the dead was officially on fire
a skeleton couple rose up from two different pyres
the audience was startled in place as they began to dance
they were soon surrounded by lookers, Old Emma and Lance
They had been married over sixty-two years, one onlooker said
It was a fine evening to watch them, on the Day of the Dead
They did the tango, the Watutsi, and a chicken dance too
Their keen dancing did not stop until a quarter after two
They were best friends in life, we knew they’d be back
This was said by Lance’s best man, he called himself Mack
My wife is gone too, but she does not dance any more.
We felt sorry for him, we could see he was sad at his core.
she planned her escape in a methodical way
determined to leave by the following Sunday
I am going to set the castle on fire, she said
after they leave, I don’t want anyone dead
when they left for church, she began her pyres
by the time they would return, there would be seven fires
she put on a ball gown and danced as she lit them up
her dress was frothy and fine, fit her like a loving cup
the fires began in earnest, there were orange flames
when the king returned, he would know it was one of her games
she had taken the lead, she was powerful once again.
He will never find me; she laughed. Let the leaving begin.
Sea of dead bodies,
Revenge-fuelled fire on pyres --
A sapling in bloom.
star children
seeds of sacred flames
vermillion jewel
keeper of the amber torch
blaze starfire
mint eyes beams
vision quest searing
electron illumes
Phoenix rise scores sanguine pyres
everglow
Tawny curls cloak warm sapphire eyes
Sapphire eyes stoke my lonely hearth fires
Splendor shines from warm sapphire skies
Sapphire dreams stoke my hidden desires
Sapphire eyes outshine the moon and stars
On sapphire seas, neath sapphire pyres
Oh, lend me thine eyes, lest I suffer the scars
Sapphire dreams stoke my raging hearth fires
When End of Days marked every soul,
The Bells from Hell, as well, would toll.
This mad prophesy, sadly written,
Had the Devil badly smitten.
We had to face the flames and fires,
Thick with smoke and funeral pyres.
Fought on the beach and desert sand,
Well, at least, it wasn't hand to hand.
All the beasts were barking for blood,
It was feast, famine, and flood.
Still, the Bells continued to chime,
Dogs from Hell, ate two at a time.
Amen, for now, our sin would end,
And a reign of pain would now begin.
Was it all by some grand design?
No matter now, I'm in that line.
The Earth isn't dying—no, she's screaming, a sound you've stopped hearing.
she cried when girls walked miles for rusted, tainted water,
when ancient forests become forgotten, ash–filled pyres,
no worn map ever dared to mark.
In my homeland,
we don't fear the tempest's furious might.
We fear the silence –
The hollow echo of empty, cracked wells,
the desolate stretch of barren, parched fields,
The early,unforgiving digging of our graves.
They label us “developing,”
yet we are always the very first to drown,
The very first to wither from hunger's bite,
The very first to forfeit a future
we never, ever sought to destroy.
They peddle green, plastic-wrapped illusions.
“Eco.” “Clean.”
As if mere words could somehow
unscorch the blazes from the sky.
But behold, we stand–
girls with bare hands, replanting the struggling forests,
boys coding, fighting against the swift collapse,
children marching, with fierce fire in their lungs.
I continue to write.
Because even now,
The Earth, in her enduring wisdom, still believes in us.
A flag draped box on titanium stand
Bears all that remains of a noble man
A father’s pride, a mother’s grief
A widow’s tears without relief
A son whose memories begin to fade
As the soldier is solemnly laid
The torment a brief eternity
Brought by war infernally
Driven by other men’s desires
We raise yet more funeral pyres
And watch again our young men go
Though some may not return we know
How long shall we pay this bloody toll
With tokens made from our own soul
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