FADING LIGHT OF HISTORY*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mysterious monuments,
magnificent monoliths,
ancient ruins
capture our imagination.
Wandering through them,
we become seekers,
finding mystery and beauty
in the decay.
The air surrounding them
thick with the scent of history.
forces us to tread lightly,
our hearts attuned to whispers of the past.
We wander purposively,
sifting through the grains of time
listening to the ruins speak
of the fading light of history.
*Note:Poem written for and submitted to Creative Ramblings weekly prompt in response to the picture below.
“The Monumental Arch, also called the Arch of Triumph or the Arch of Septimius Severus, was an ornamental archway in Palmyra, Syria. It was built in the 3rd century during the reign of Emperor Septimius Severus. Its ruins later became one of the main attractions of Palmyra until it was officially destroyed by ISIS in 2015. Most of its stonework survived, and there are plans to rebuild it.”(Cendrine Marrouat)
NINE ELEVEN
That fateful day when the news came in
Grim indeed, but seemed a world away
The two tall pinnacles of a modern city
It took some time to really feel the pity
All colour disappeared, leaving only grey
And in that moment chaos would begin
Services were scrambled to reach the site
One soon after the other, crashing down
Crumbling stonework, and twisted iron
All due to the human version of a prion
Penetrating the very nucleus of downtown
And a rapid spreading of fear and fright
There was also a third attack later that day
At the very heart of military intelligence
Back at the collapsed World Trade Center
Clouds hung in the air, like dirty polenta
For such a wound, there was little defence
And dusty survivors stumbled to get away
A nation that never imagined such an event
It was a most painful strike on body and mind
Perhaps the warning signs were never heeded
Some serious readjustment certainly needed
Into the psyche, new determination enshrined
And a message of war was packaged and sent
Paris was built gray, though in summer,
the trees and the umbrellas upload color.
The architecture spills over
into gay shades of silver and pewter.
Edinburgh is gray, gray are the plastic rainhats.
Damp kilts gamely fly a little color.
The stonework is granite gained,
and in late arriving Spring
color creeps up the hilly streets.
Shanghai flakes away in gray
a lacquered gray
that gilts the Huangpu river.
The skyscrapers are creamy
and blush in the sunlight.
The girls are silk flowers
in gray designer Nike’s.
Nowadays,
those who world-travel no more,
and those stuck in their own mud,
spin a grey alchemy into colorful words
which they then send
to places
worth writing to.
Neon lights outlined stalls
in braids of red and green
in the dim cavernous hall
of the railway station.
Muted drum taps of passing feet
and crisscross talk were pierced
by stabbing announcements
of departing trains.
A stairway tunneled upwards
to the street
where a wall of daylight
met squinting eyes.
Stonework still wore the soot
of steam trains long silenced
from impatient panting,
their age had passed.
My age was diesel with its fumes
pumping out incessantly
without pausing for a breath.
Guttural piston beats
pulsed the air with shudder.
Some of us still left home
riding dreams on train tracks
or else sailed them to England on P&O.
Most stayed at home
and waited for the ballot.
Out of step with the sixties
the railway station languished
in its nostalgic façade.
Newspaper banners headlined protests
and the Vietnam war.
Through its ageing concourse
young men moved in haste or haze
towards uncertain destinations
Collapsing inwards,
Been someone else outwards,
That’s who he desires to be,
Someone he wants others to see,
He’s fame-hunger stricken,
His coast he intends to widen,
He craves to be the cynosure of all eyes,
Life out of the limelight he deems unwise.
The charlatan's song,
A song of hope on wheels,
The charlatan's gong,
Loud it sounds but none he feels,
An emptiness resides within,
A journey with no destination in sight,
His unheroic acts are sitting,
Taking a place on an ivory tower height.
He’s revisiting his handiwork,
Pulling out the unfired bricks from his stonework.
The ancient anguish of a hurting heart
Bequeaths no beauteous scene to me today.
It’s just a jagged chasm gashed apart,
A stream with boulders strewn in disarray.
Like rusted leaves that bleakly canvas fall
Or barren trees that bear the winter snow,
Its listlessness conceals a stonework wall
That bars the beggar from his bungalow.
A long-abandoned barn where pigeons flock
Beside three worn-out crosses marking graves,
It’s lonely as a lighthouse on a rock
Forever battered by the crashing waves.
Their ceaseless song may soothe a sleepless soul,
But how, I sigh, can sad be beautiful?
---
Date Written: January 3, 2019
Contest: Beautiful Sadness, sponsored by John Hamilton
The Life of a Breakwater
A walk on the sharp shingle led to where
The dry, smooth surface felt warm to our feet,
The pale grey stonework embedded in the beach.
Those steps so broad and long led down into
The calm sea. We paused, luxuriating
Where the Summer sun caressed the concrete
And the water washed languidly over
The next step, a shallow paddling pool
Of sun-warmed water. But then, the cold sea
Brought a shiver as the sun hid its face
With dark clouds predicting a future state.
After long years, seen only at low tide,
There are jagged teeth covered in green slime;
This monument, discarded by progress
When the old beach was sculpted and renewed,
Lies hidden under the restless waves.
High tide splashes along the shoreline and
The smell of the sea air never changes.
Ashes to transcendence mid infested holy waters
naught bearing ascertained compassionate divinity,
mad puppet masters fleecing wings in lieu of
ceremoniously exorcised influential malignancy
at the right hand of almightily held hallucinations
strapped over barrels & sanctimoniously flogged,
no show of mercy notwithstanding devoted defenses,
residing within sacredly inventive corrupt corporations
embezzling enterprising riches' dutiful abstractions,
bless them Father for they woefully neglected
the word of all gods' intent and persuasions, serving
no higher purpose than to gild collective repositories
of sinfully en-massed wealth in the name of religion
and the sacrificed blood of Jesus' crucified convictions
written upon coveted covenants' ingrained biblical bluffs,
struck settling false witnesses' far-side excised stonework
The waters crash against the rocks
with the foaming lather running down
upon the stonework so glistening
as if speaking with a frown
There's such force among the ocean
coming in with power fast and free
anything sitting there taken in a moment
no time to dispute just to agree
High up growing behind the coastline
there is woodland showing many a tree
what splendid colour shines forth
such greenery among blossoms so free
The attraction the beach brings forth
such temptations to enjoy the sun
love walking with sand between your toes
all the family enjoy all this fun
This is a picture filling your mind
one that encaptures every thought
making you enraptured to full bloom
so make this your camera's best shot
An ancient castle’s rowdy crowds were thinned
By war and famine. Once its fortress fell
To fire, its people left it to the wind.
In time, the spirit of its aging well
Perceived the surging danger of decay
Which mired his quiet will to live within
The lonesome corner where his stonework lay.
Soon, shadows stretched between him and his kin
Along the merry valleys. Then, one day,
The winds of long ago began to fade
And many birds began to run away
From winter’s frozen curse, and gladly made
Their nests in trees that quenched their silent thirst
Around the dying well, which gladly gave
His breath of life and cradled up the first
Bright hopes in generations. Thus, the wave
Of solitude began to cede its space
To greener leaves of future joy and, soon,
The castle’s walls—now donned in ivied lace—
Became an altar to a rare and sweet perfume
Which spread its scent afar beyond the sea.
On sensing this, the spirit blessed the ways
Of his ancestral home and, glad to see
Such joy, he breathed away his final days.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
king of the castle
master of all I survey
my territory
panoramic view
rough stonework castellation
fresh breeze, muffled sounds
see people below
most will not/cannot see me:
ancient castle’s ghost
Jack Horne
Wild land ambitious new world
Silver frost lay on fields +hedges
adding fresh color to their faces.
Yellow sky caked shoe stamping
Steep and winding path to house
Fading daylight tidy little cottage
Old oak and smooth stonework
Progression through the house..
Fine china lace-edged tablecloth
Tiny pattern of dark blue flowers
Jammed decks fresh rolls butter
Golden chain locket red curly hair
Mahogany table orange oil lamps
Smell the Autumn rain sweetness