these glass vessels that you see,
no longer appertain to me,
no longer feigning to make part
what was the mainstay of my art,
my skills no more appreciated,
as if I were some rusticated
old fool, living like a recluse,
who’s mind has become “ loose “.
people do not comprehend
the powers which I can bend,
conferred to Man by nature,
developed patiently through nurture.
earth, fire, wind and water,
are the elements where I wander,
they’re the mirror of the soul,
through which Man is made whole;
mortar, pestle, alembics my tools,
books of ancient wisdom my rules,
herbs, spices, base and precious metals,
potions, magic formulas and crystals;
not mere science with which I deal,
but the science of Man; one must feel!
now alas, this is not fashionable,
everything has to be “ rational “.
yes, M.Lavoisier your visit is auspicious,
take what you will, alembics, tools,
glass, books, formulas, take the lot,
for what happens now, I care not a jot.
Categories:
rusticated, age, farewell, irony, love,
Form: Quatrain
wet wits worn
perforating pulpy pawn
pestered passion puked
cremating clipped cruise
hoisted hankering drooled
felon fate bruised
meagre metamorphoses moaned
spurring sassy sow
gullible gifts grown
dark diminuendo birthed
dribbling crescendos fitted
rusty rhythm rusticated
felon ambiguity flown
by blitzkrieg blown.
'20:04:17:19:26
Note: Of airy ambiguity.
Categories:
rusticated, political,
Form: Sonnet
The day life was given to a boy.
His eyes had been enveloped over the skyline.
Small boy, large hope, small boy, large home.
Before he had a chance to flourish,
He had been given a different purpose.
Nervous with courage to cherish.
He had been moved to another accommodation.
Rusticated to a new isolation.
Stationed upon different temptations.
Where he had no identification, but all surprises.
While in a stationary motive.
His mind became erosive.
Devoted to death, coated with no emotive.
He became an addict through rusticating.
The quiet and silence of his mind dictating.
His mind refused to fixate.
In the end he was a boy with no choice.
Rusticate to oblivion, a bowl of mistrust.
Until you drop dead into earth’s crust.
We all must move on without fuss.
Travel back to the boy’s first home, in tune.
Recovering the move, collecting his runes.
Categories:
rusticated, age, change, childhood, lost,
Form: Free verse
Lingering languages, lovely lies
Morality murdered, mistakes modernized
Words of woes, wooed by the wise
Flavored flowers falling: frailty fraternized.
Mean and mighty men moving…
Tempted to touch the thrones traumatized
Best bows, brains and brawns bending
Inertia institutionalized, iniquity immortalized.
Goats giving grafts, giants gaining grounds
Mean men’s monies monopolized
Righteousness rusticated, robbery rubber-stamped
Cronyisms in control, corruption customized.
Categories:
rusticated, inspirational
Form: Verse
Rusticated granite Great staircase
Mistress of a vast wintry country estate
Drew in a breath brilliant jewelry poodles
Soft wooly sun warmth wash over her body
Mahogany gold mouldings red flocked walls
One sausage two small potatoes green peas
Borche pears in brandy dollop of kahlua cream
Tall windows green upon green of countryside
Double storeyed space balustraded gallery level
Full length portrait carved peir glasses fireplace
Eat the flesh and throw the stem into the fire
Smell his aroma eminating from her body
Radiating like a slow tide on a flat beach
Pronounced flush rush of heat building
Hand on her knee Waggling a finger
Smartly pared the fruit humming
Categories:
rusticated, food, imagination, passion, places,
Form: Rhyme
Some times as I sit in a city diner.....people watching
I wonder how they can live like this
Then I laugh at myself
Born and raised in the bomb ruined port of Liverpool
With the run of the city from the age of ten
As were we all who attended inner city schools
I had seen in fact studied the whoring ways
Learned to run, learned to stand, learned to live
and enjoy it all. From the filth, to the beauty of smoked carved stone
None of it compares to the rusticated life on the South Shore
Above Cape Cod and its tourists
Away from Plymouth’s visitations
And Brockton’s citied limitations
Where deer can yet be seen browsing on the main road through town
And the lake still gives up a largemouth or two to an eager fisherman
Where a groundhog munches and enjoys a sunset beside our old Volvo
How can they live like that?
I finish, tip the waitress, pay, and walk across the street to lay brick
Boston’s North End....history to taste.. and another nursing home rising
Categories:
rusticated, history, on work and
Form: Free verse