Many things are not explained.
I fell asleep in a sepulchre of words
in my quest for further understanding.
I gathered their meanings one by one
arranging them in patterns
according to colour;
aligning them in rows
according to size.
Some comforted, some injured;
they all tasted different.
Not all of them meant well
and many were ambiguous.
I was bewildered by their variety,
their complex duplicity
and singular simplicity.
Some were sharp and well defined,
others dubious and unrefined.
Although not native to them,
I felt at home in their midst;
and from the time they started
to visit my dreams, I felt accepted
and became one with them,
almost.
You can tell I’m not the real McCoy,
not from the words themselves
but from the way they are strung together:
Byzantine pearls from the Near East
held together by
a Hellenic twist.
My heart is in a sepulchre
My soul rests upon silent flowers
Waves crash upon the dreams I dream
A hush reigns over my gay spirit
That the simple not perish in his folly
That the just not die unwholly
Let the wits of the wise search me out
Let the elders of the earth be precise
Where do I find that which stays hidden?
How do I revive that which stays dead?
When will the culprit of delayed destiny be apprehended?
?Must life be dead before it is comprehended?
Until the stars bear witness to my pain,
And heaven answers what the earth concealed,
The God who watches o'er the restless deep
Shall speak, and call to life what once seemed dead.
You are what's so seem
In my forbidden dream
Gentler and splendor in you
A cloud fluffing in stretching hue
Hunger forgets it's sorrow
In an earliest sweet-morrow
I hearken melody in hushing sepulchre-
Your grin in laurel blossoms of ochre
I see no luna,in tenebrous sky-
But In your,in your kosmos eye
Strewed the lycaenids upon the swelling dell
For descry of you,my mere Danielle
Might envy; the resentful angel above
You are the all,the laudable in all love
While I misstep in chasm of your stare
O' I arouse before sunshine in morns fair
Now I missed what's so seem
In my forbidden dream
My lady,the sweven lady
She entrapped me to this malady
Thro' the naked lady,she appear
Came nigher mine sweven dear-
A journey rendered, framed, and set
as plaster comic book panels.
Flip through the Way of Sorrows.
Peruse condemnation to sepulchre.
No matter the church, I found and compared
each episode through ten-year-old eyes
that scrutinized every detail.
Digested the mechanics of suffering.
These fourteen were my first gallery.
A restated traffic jam of nudity and frozen
sadism that floated above me as priests spoke
of love, faith and doing unto others.
I recognized violence when I saw it, the cruel
slapstick in the mortification of the flesh.
Thorn in brow, nail in palm, scourge on back.
Gladiatorial voyeurism. Masked in reflection.
42 Mirrors
By Lucien Quincy Senna
Mirror, mirror
tell me all,
Who I am
Who I was,
painted seagreen with vanity
or socketed modesty.
Pride and pain
my old pretenders.
I am full of dead men's bones,
their advance over me.
I trashed and trotted
other people's causes,
statecraft of the most
sinister skull-duggery.
Mirror, mirror
see me now,
my strawberry leaves
for I am no longer twenty-four.
Pinking the raw edge of silk,
trusting it all.
Then that Ramshackle Empire
came clattering for me
a penal code
institutions for troubled women
"Pull your bellies between your knees!" said the nurse.
The hours pass upon the eastern turn
my faith anew while I was interred there,
until I somersaulted
out of the deep waters.
An ocean greyhound
who was simply considered
a whited sepulchre.
A mask for women over forty.
sequestered in a
somber sepulchre
where I relinquish
dead memories
and iced nightmares
upon resting ivy,
twisted
with rotting thistle
I'm no longer
able to breathe
pulverized pain
as I shed this
stitched-on hollow skin
resuscitation under
Jupiter's moon
A tenebrous void occupies my soul
like a queasy, dark, wintry cloud
hanging low and heavy with sleet and frost.
No gelid wind blows it away
and I despair. I cannot forget the dead.
An empty, lonely chapel still beacons.
It stands alone
amongst the tall dark pines
of an abandoned forest.
Inside, the dim light filters poorly
through dirty broken stained glass.
There's nothing inside but dust.
No chairs, no pews
for the weary traveller.
I sit on the cold slab tomb,
wonder who was laid to rest
inside the sepulchre.
Then did I realise I was alive.
All memories stored deep inside me.
The waking of empathy
especially to the self, is painful.
How oft had I tried to erase
my thoughts on you?
I leave the disused chapel
and return to my empty home.
I still think of you.
I miss every bit of my childhood;
memories in a sepulchre
buried too deep to exhume
with my rusty shovel.
should I keep digging
or let those fond
days of old
simply
be?
We Are All the Same
Listen to the reeds as they sway apart;
Hear them speak of lost friends.
At birth, you were cut from your bed,
Crying and grasping in separation.
Everyone listens, knowing your song.
You yearn for others who know your name,
And the words to your lament.
We are all the same, all the same,
Longing to find our way back;
Back to the one, back to the only one.
Rumi
When songs are sung in tandem
Ambience of speech is smooth
Devoted eyes dote your voice
Obsessed puppy love
When words echo tender tones
Glowing like sapphire gemstones
Not veiled behind metaphors
Tranquil tongue sounds calm
As triggers summon demons
Vivid verses turn vicious
Rage screams like a million crows
Heart shudders with fear
Soul struggles to beat and breathe
Pain feels like paper in rain
Silence is your only guide
Lonely sepulchre
Eruptions begin to ease
An anthem of angels chant
Rainbows colour fading greys
Lovebirds serenade
Bells summoned as they tolled the sad departure
Of my poor mother’s sudden demise.
I led the short funeral procession
Towards her eternal resting sepulchre.
Before her black ebony casket was closed,
I looked intently down at her, still beautiful.
Her dress, her favourite, all lace in black.
That was her last and final wish.
They laid her in a damp black tomb
Surrounded by tall dark cypress trees,
A breeze sighed and soughed softly in sorrow
While I stood head bowed down in grief.
Lifeless leaves fell in yellow-red bunches
And covered up her ghostly grave
No tears streamed down my face, heartbroken,
Strewed instead black roses, fragrant and sweet.
SEQUEL: Sebastian Jnr Ft Poet Em Em
On the other side, lies
Blind heart: swimming in his sweat
Heading to verge of nowhere in eve
To dredge his sepulchre
For who knows? He said
Of what rain the fountain would pour
On the other side, stuck
Half-closed effete eyes,
Fueling by fountain of "at least",
to sleep not.
But to rubberneck life in reverse
So tell the snake
To not walk his path.
This is a rock with pebbles
For legs with no nails walks not
Sip not with him
From the gloomy tears
He seeks in night..
Oh!..Sit on the other side of terrace,
Is a prisoner of war: whose eyes might not catch 'morrow
(2)
Where chicks are entitlement
to wild eagles - daily meal,
and the latter are carcasses
to sky hunters for fat belly
Where eye-catching dreams
could only come true
at times the nose grunts
and during every moment
all bodies strike poses
for clear and clean shot
Yes, this very side
we value sewerages over beverages
open skies over thatched roofs
and whenever the moon visits
our lips widen their coast
I stayed on this famous island for a little while,
fortress, prison and avant-garde Bonaparte style.
Rigged charm with antiquities slow train,
governors constitution keeping royal patriots vain.
200 years after the mysterious death of the king,
at his grave, I was wondering, ‘You poor little thing’.
Another sort of great Alexander that loves to conquer,
taken on the establishments in crisis that ponder.
Ideals of restless doomed heroes celebrated,
taken war to higher constitution elevated.
St. Helena the wife of Emperor Constantine,
went on to pilgrimage to find the sacred terrain.
Building the church of the Holy Sepulchre,
the place of Christ crucifixions culture.
Priestess of Avalon and patron saint of discoveries,
island of sacred through Christ self recoveries.
Total sovereignty and its dying destiny,
luring fatal admirations penalty.
No escaping from repeating history.
Unseen but ubiquitous,
Savage and surreal,
If not curated but contagious,
Annihilative and aerial,
Then lurking, now loose,
You are the silent stone sepulchre,
Tangling, tormenting; transient truce,
An asphyxiating, aggravating and apocalyptic aperture,
You might among countless thriving throng induce fear,
Cause bountiful bouts of darkness and despair,
You might perhaps possess lives of mankind in multitudes,
Cripple economies and ravage revenues.
Say, can you cease the blowing of wildly winds?
Say, can you banish a bridal blush or a child’s caprice?
Say, can you hold the hanker of a koel for its lilting lyrics, while it sings?
Say, can you shackle the Sun, or rob its rays with your bitter malice?
You are nothing but an atomic annihilator, a sombre spree,
In vain you strive to rule over our spirits free,
We would surmount all sufferings and decimate your derisive decree.
Saptarshi Mukherjee
Day of Silence
A shredded temple curtain lies
Upon a shattered floor;
Silent Sabbath,
Daylight weeps before a stone,
Birds withhold their songs,
Dawn - undecided -
Rain - holding its breath -
Sunlight pacing -
Flowers fragrance -
Wandering in the shadows -
Jeers and taunts
Run from their echoes -
Earth's quaking - stilled
Broken palms - quiet dirges -
Whispers tiptoeing past
Stunned dreams - broken -
While midnight stands watch
At a tomb
Yet in the dawn
Guards an empty sepulchre
When "Alleluia" -
Thundering joy -
Rings out
For this was no ordinary man
Shouted from Heaven's rooftops!
*****This repost went almost unnoticed, but I always was proud of its message: every artist that has an influence also has a responsibilty to his/her audience or reader****
The poet and the lonely road, betwixt his netherworld abode,
in canyons deep, and in seldom trodden creeps,
Always secrets, secrets....
too kept ----
he has made his humble abode, in the dark alone,
he sleeps ----
with vipers and white (sepulchre) tombs
(alone)
He does not see the meadow, and daisies,
(rising sun)
nor words of wisdom on his tongue;
fall away, to dark netherworld abodes....
Poet be he not, 'til fellowship and gratitude
be his home, and grace in word be his love;
of good cheer to all concerned and more ----
should even shadow knocketh,
of this he writes
Written in 2012
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