The magic lies in
The memorableness.
Place and face, unfrequented. *
Soft lit, shy-shaded.
The outcome of life's
Unexpected turns.
Off both roads, long and dreary.
Eye nor heart, soothed me
* marriners falls
miss k.
Like a shaft I fly,
a beam of glorious luminance,
I travel right into your bedroom
at the break of dawn.
"Wake up my friend,
my brothers are coming
to illuminate your day."
Minute follows minute
my duties I perform,
I peep through gaps
of a Venetian blind,
as someone on a bed
lies lazily supine.
I am his wake up call,
dazzle straight
into his heavy sleepy eyes.
"Get up my friend,
work beckons."
'Tis busy at the crèche
Where babies bare their hearts.
I breathe some warmth
upon their frail frames,
paint rosy their cheeks
in the faint hope
that some kind beings
would adopt
these poor unsettled souls.
Through a windowpane,
glass stained with holy men,
I filter hopefully and in stealth,
on a cold spotlight on a marble slab
of someone long forgotten
in an unfrequented church.
Would you consider night
as my immortal enemy?
Oh no, my friend, oh no,
for in the darkness of the gloom,
over choppy and rough seas
I travel happily over peril
and show the way to safety
to mariners lost at sea,
I am a beacon of hope.
He stood still against the rails
of an unfrequented country passage
overlooking a deep valley,
now engulfed in inky darkness.
It was his little world,
a world he did not relish,
a chaos he was trapped in.
The wind wailed though he heard it not
nor felt the cold it blew into his face,
nor smelled the lavish lavender from the vale below.
In his quintessence of non-feeling,
his body trembled like an aspen leaf,
yet like a bleak icicle, he moved not.
His vacant mind never bothered to count
the minutes he stood there,
staring blankly at the deep vale,
never wondered how long
he had been motionless, a wasted time.
How many hours it has been.
As precious moments flew,
as sloth dulled his mind except for one fact.
She was no more; her death had been quick.
The future mattered not for him,
time flew, time was finite.
He had become as dark as a dead light bulb.
Till he looked up the hillside.
There was a cabin there.
Light poured out of the windows.
He knew a fire was roaring,
Inside a comely woman went about her chores.
He felt hungry.
Would she accept him?
And a welcome written on the mat outside
Inviting him in.
He did not hesitate.
A short cut through the tunnel led me home,
a route I'd taken many times before
but on that misty, cold October night
along its path a nightmare lay in store.
An unfrequented disused railway line
its tracks and sleepers long since cast aside,
pitch black and narrow,weathered through the years,
a glint of distant light its only guide.
I started on my way without a qualm
my crunching footsteps echoed all around
but halfway through,with dread, stood petrified
my heart pulsated wildly at the sound.
A haunting scream rang out and pierced the soul
its echo adding tenor to the plea
I froze, against the dank and frigid wall
for what seemed like a vast eternity.
Sideways and softly feeling my way back
I reached the tunnel entrance and then fled.
Next day the headlines screamed the grievous news:
'At the old track a girl has been found dead.'
31.01.21
Murder In The Tunnel Poetry Contest
Sponsor : Kai Michael Neumann
Listen in the silence and you may hear
Songs playing from yesteryear.
It could well be the Midnight Organ.
Those lyrics could have been Shakespeare’s or Shelley’s
The music Lennon or McCartney’s.
They speak of heartbreak and unfrequented love
And sometimes just plain old fashioned love.
Was he a soothsayer or did he just know
As he told us all he would save it for another year.
That year came and he set sail
He left behind a musical trail.
His songs are still sung, his words still spoke.
He deserves his fame, but his names not Jesus.
He certainly left foot prints on our hearts.
and to me they count as tiny changes to earth.
Octobers Kiss
The summer that had past I wanted it to stay.
-----------------------------------------------------
I see a man with a heart that has broken
His yesterday's forsaken him, left no word spoken
Looking back over his shoulder to what it had been
Afraid to face forward, his pain is too keen
Misses the warmth of living with summers love
Now his life is like an October day, needing hat and glove
The cold of winter has pierced through to his soul
Bleeding the enamoured love, no longer a whole.
Winter will pass followed by a spring's treasure trove
Chirping birds, natures flower, and unfrequented love
The sun will warm your beliefs no longer need the heat of a fire
Your inner self will combust with natures love you so desire.
Contest : Richard Lamoureux : Who do you think I am.
Poem chosen Octobers Kiss
Penned 13 September 2015.
Discolored meadow
overtaken by swollen clouds,
comfort the wild tree...
Are there blue mountains
beyond the unfrequented prairie?
Find the horizon...
No cowboys on horses;
no coffee brewing on logs,
while they are singing...
Late Fall scenery,
not yet conquered by deep snow,
make this day dazzle...
Hungry spiders crawl
with a despised, changeless pace;
the coyotes howl...
Frightened by those sounds,
I feed more logs to the fire,
to shun strange vibes...
Seeing that sun blaze
over the landscape's stillness,
I begin to dream...
(c ) Copyright 2014 by Andrew Crisci
We are delicate flowers withering away,
blown far over the tree-tops,
to fall apart like falling stars...
and land in unfrequented places,
where no human ever lives;
only falling rain can give us that new life!
Planets and stars were made
for Humankind alone...to endure forever,
and our Earth is the jewel of this Universe;
timeless from the day of creation, with rare
colors so vivid and admirable, it was endowed
with majestic oceans and misty mountains:
and we feel the need to exalt its Creator!
At night, we stare at it with astonishing silence,
wishing to be immortal...to gaze into it evermore!
We are delicate flowers withering away,
lamenting an unfair fate without any delight in tomorrow;
hoping to outlive every season...seasons
that quickly come and go
with an inexplicable haste!
These lives are delicate flowers
that offer youth a brief beauty,
then they lose their freshness...to become non-existent!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
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