Stoke, stoke, stoke the fire
‘til it blazes like a furnace
heats up every waking moment
‘til it’s consumed you
‘til you must start
in anew
(after a painting by John Constable)
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
And ravens, weathering wild thermals, glint
blue-black beneath these clouds of graphite grey.
The strong, squat tower, formed of ancient flint,
has settled in the landscape, like the bole
of some decaying oak. The long-dead lie,
obscured by nettles. Nestling on its knoll,
the tiny temple shoulders out the sky.
What is compact is beautiful, to me.
Design with deftness guarantees a grace
that grander gewgaws lack: economy
is elegant, sublime in straitened space.
The more I practise, play and ponder on it,
The more I love the stature of the sonnet.
Somewhere over the mountain, hidden away,
There’s a land that is calling; I must not delay.
Somewhere over the mountain, that’s where she’ll be,
In the alpenglow, Mary's waiting for me.
They said I'd never recover from my stroke
A nightmare from which I never woke
A big chunk of me gone, a lower plateau
But I left the home, and off I did go.
It's our lot to grow old, not due to our sins
Trails go cold and entropy wins
But I'll boat down the waterfall where snowmelt flows,
I’ll find Mary in the place that nobody knows.
The terrain is forbidding, the ridge like a knife
Can't undo time, can't crash the afterlife
No country for old men, no breaking the rule
But I have to attempt, to give up is so cruel
Somewhere over the mountain, I wish it were so,
Mary is singing where wildflowers grow.
The starling will guide me, the meteor will show
The path to the valley where lost rivers go.
I went over the mountain, then took a fall
a thousand foot down off a sheer valley wall.
They buried my story, because no one must know.
They say I died then, but I died long ago.
Consumed by their anger, the flames they stoke.
They blame and defame, label others as "woke".
The pugnacious pen only aims to provoke..
In winters coldness
I awake chilled by the thought
that my fire went out
I still recall, unfolding before me,
The scene awash with silvery moonlight,
The night that blessed our love of a first sight,
How fateful was the night that helped us be,
The moon when seemed super, superb its light,
And still can make no one’s life just as bright.
Like moon’s phase we changed, oft to disagree—
More often than the tides at the seashore,
Agreed, not a thing stands as firm as tree,
Change is life’s nature born from very core,
So, let us rekindle our early flame,
No fire burns bright without stoking the same.
Why, nothing burns at all without fuel
And fresh fuel comes from stoking gone dull.
__________________________________________
Sonnet (Musings) |05.08.2014| love, moon
fire we must stoke
until became badly broke
out from sand head poke
they elicited
what is to be conflicted
became afflicted
when we have been good
was God who would make us good
making me feel good
Jesus in crib laid
God wind and waves had obeyed
great world for me He made
had been notified
that her death was verified
the I cried and cried
God gave gift to girl
a pretty and perfect pearl
was out of this world
ingrained idiocy
actual validity
pure stupidity
Streetlight buttercups
Cluster in the big city cloud.
Morning hungry bear, a great grey sloucher,
Frowning at the houses, scratches at the walls.
A plague of raindrops plunges down,
Cruel and malevolent, pecking at people and cars.
Out of the misty dampness, umbrellas grow quickly,
And small children float by.
Trump Fire Stoke
Found that Trump another fire did stoke;
Burned up things until people were broke;
Then died;
They cried;
In swamp, he had caused frogs to croak.
Jim Horn
Tis so sweet to slip the bonds of Earth
to race on back of foam and spray,
to glide in stride on crafted board,
to run out the bestial fray!
stir the ash
breathe life unto the glowing ember
tend and stoke this heart
come closer to warm
stretch your hands to the heat
stoke the embers to this heart
breathe life into this love
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