Hanging almost angelically.
Praying for a breeze at the perfect pace.
Too soft, and it risks being exposed for being too fragile.
Too hard, and it risks being labelled too harsh and too cold.
The wind chime is singing so softly today.
It has mastered the art of veiling grief.
A bird on the blue bush tilting a beak is listening closely.
A brief reprieve from its nest of ever-hungry beaks.
Here comes that hurricane again, tangling the wood and strings.
Whisking sanity away. Strays gather in clusters of desperation,
Where children are told not to play, they rarely listen.
Then comes that prolonged lull.
Jagged thoughts gather themselves in spectacular futility.
The stillness is framed in a rugged mud,
An endless procession of pallbearers' deep gray.
Cherubs are trained to wade into hopelessness,
At the risk of getting graffitied. They always listen.
Then bumble home with wings sprayed in blood and a harsh lesson.
Yesterday everybody quietly slipped away.
Searching for a fresh melody of optimism.
Nobody fancies being swallowed up by the gray.
Nothing is salvaged from a wind chime after a hurricane
Trails before me
The guiding light of all who look
The veiling dark betwixt each star
The crumbled rook
The waning breath of who we are
Or whom we mistook ourselves to be
In sleepless fantasy
Fades as voiceless memory
Gazes upon a faceless sea
Turning, we weep
As silent ends the dream.
Pierces, the waking
The heart stirs once more
Beating with fierce unknown fear
We stept once more thro' trouble's door
We make our way in lonely dreare
If happiness greets us,
We'll away from here,
But no eyes dare we cross, or meet
We watch the ground 'neath our feet
Lest it fall away on some nameless street
And we fall double lost
To the waves of defeat.
Stare up toward the star that blinds
Know that nothing in the null binds
That the rush of life
Are the flowers of the eye
Frail and intricate beautiful
But ultimately a lie
Dream bears more weight
Than you or I
And the hour is late,
I’m afraid.
—The Ancient Address—
All suddenly creation lost its tongue,
and streams, repudiating law, climbed high
toward hills whose ancient thirst had long been sung,
whilst astral fires came trembling from the sky
to rest within my hands; the clouds hung down,
their inverted bosoms veiling earth;
the trees relinquished green, and every crown
assumed strange hues no mortal bloom had birthed.
The oceans kindled with an inward flame,
and fishes, burning, breached the firmament,
their scales inscribing stars no chart could name,
whilst distances drew breath where none was meant;
the road remembered feet not yet made flesh—
yet thou didst come, and being knew thy breath.
Shadows befalling
a dark afternoon
And veiling destruction
the end coming soon
A boy and his dog
in the rubble at play
The body’s — toy soldiers
in silence they lay
Then one plane approaches
flying lower than most
Its bomb bay doors open
its payload to roast
A target that’s cross-haired
with ordnance bound
As a boy and dog play
— where death will impound
(To All Children Of War: April, 2026)
In nights deepest ebb she rained her tears
She thrashed and crashed along the piers
In fits or rage she smote the tall trees
Her galing winds splintering with ease
Though they prayed she so forbade the day
Veiling the skies in dark clouds of gray
But loudest storm never howls for long
And soon she dispersed her cloudy throng
In gleams of light the sun’s calming ray
Soothed her fury, ringing forth the day
‘Shamed, she drifted back atop the wave
Hoping in time to be forgave
Our gunas or attributes are threefold,
inertia, purity and desire,
orbiting which life stories are retold,
veiling the truth of soul’s eternal fire,
known when from play of illusions we tire.
Upon realising life is a dream,
drenched in bliss mists, we float on love’s moonbeam.
The crystal perfume bottle still remains,
the one he gifted her so long ago,
upon the dressing table veiling pains
of life’s uncaring, unrelenting blow.
The soft gardenia scent still takes him there
to moments shared when loving seemed complete;
unending nights beneath the stars they’d share,
and every sunrise was a joy to greet.
But then one winter day the angels came
to lead another soul to heaven’s keep;
extinguishing the woman’s earthly flame,
and here, behind, her husband’s left to weep.
So now this crystal perfume bottle’s scent,
a fragrant echo of the life they spent.
September 8, 2025
Across the great plain with sun-sprinkled path,
They frolicked with the golden buffalo clan.
Dodging black powder chaps along the way.
They moved about strong, wise, and steady.
Like a necklace of runaway slaves.
They were cornered at a trickster's cliff.
Guardian angels were on permanent hiatus.
I guess it just wasn't a prosperous gig.
Many leapt to their misty valley fate.
A few dug in deeper into a sacred place.
Black powder veiling proud- painted faces.
Within the last drumbeat of a Capricorn rain.
CHANDELIER PRINCESS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She smiles, for she is the Chandelier Princess;
A young queen sitting on an ivory throne
with her golden crown glittering when light falls upon it.
She smiles, for she is a fair lady;
wears dress of ruffles and exquisite satin,
Her cinnamon hair neatly fashioned in a meticulous bun.
She smiles, upon her throne; yet, I see utopian-like happiness;
a symbol of her hidden pangs,
which bitter autumn brought upon the bud of her heart.
She smiles; yet, I see tales concealed suffering and pain;
a ribbon of her ever-flowing tears,
that her mind transfers to her soul.
She smiles; yet, her silent screams can't be hidden
not even from her being - where emotions flow,
nagging her thoughts roaring like thunder.
She smiles yet finds no solace
in the mask covering her real face
veiling where her true self lies.
She smiles yet dies gradually in silence;
her pain feeds her shame,
crying silent tears for imperfections, disguised with lies.
She long lives these feelings,
letting them drain the life out of her.
I beg you, Chandelier Princess, remove thy shield, thy mask!
Your true self awaits.
SUNLIT CROWN
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dawn brings a sunlit crown, smiling upward at the black, star-studded heavens. The dawn is the invitation to the day, a the gift of the present.
the world awakens slow
from slumber's heavy veiling
morning's gentle touch
silent darkness fades
morning's warmth begins to seep
into the heart's core
feet tracing ruts
softened by the weight of others
the path was worn
polished
not by insight
but by generations
unquestioning the same direction
a weed split the sidewalk
where my foot hesitated
they handed us maps
already marked, folded
creased at the routes
they wanted us to traverse
walls hung with heirlooms
no one claimed
shadows
longer than the rooms
classrooms’ chalkboards of certainty
offices pressed flat with protocol
we learned the art
of veiling the eye behind the eye
we drank from vessels
lips like waiting mouths
etched with forgotten crests
believing the shape of the cup
taught us thirst
air rehearsed its return
like a tethered animal pacing
the same invisible circle
inscribed with grace
shaped like a cage
narrowing the limit
of knowledge
of wisdom
altars made from repetition
shaped our days
to fit the mold
filed down the splinters of doubt
until only smooth compliance remained
tell me—
what is awakening
if not the moment
your hand reaches
for a handle
no one told you was there
and the quiet moment after waking
my heart
uncertain
unshod
hesitates…
Destiny any, there’s a common thread
in the unique journey of every soul,
going through life, playing their ordained role,
attachments gripping fickle heart in dread.
False is the narrative which we’ve been fed,
ego the villain, who inner light stole,
veiling soul’s sheen with thoughts as black as coal,
negating heart’s love by living in head.
Melding head with heart, we exit the maze,
making in staid silence, our eye single,
whereupon by shifting into the void,
our inner presence wakes up from its daze,
rapture heightening as bliss spasms tingle,
revealing our Self, pure and unalloyed.
JERICHO AWAKENING
Deception has always been
A strategy and ally of injustice;
Veiling its ruthless deeds,
And shifting attention
From aged-old atrocities,
While living and percolating
Behind invisible Jericho walls:-
Let not the reality
Of new Jericho borders
Blind and deceive us:-
Legislative freedom and unity
For so-called refugees,
Remain at hand, and
Our struggle to be masters
Of ourselves continues;
We being caged and considered
Refugees in this, our homeland!
Wake up, my people!
Wake up!
It’s here again!
Deception has always been
A strategy and ally of injustice;
Veiling its ruthless deeds,
And shifting attention
From age-old atrocities,
While living and percolating
Behind invisible Jericho walls:-
In today’s political drought,
Drying out justice and equity,
We are in as much profound need
Of raining clouds of liberty, as would be
Nature in times of drying pandemic drought:
Hey!
Wake up, my people!
Wake up!
It’s here again!
Images from a cogged box.
A camera reveals
hips and ankles, ribbons
decorously draped
over a contrived modesty.
An artist has added a color tint,
their cheeks are rosy,
their lips red,
a patchwork of painted glow.
Half revealed bosoms flush and bloom.
Pauses in an upper room.
A warm lamp licks,
feathers and brocade are adjusted.
The girls choreograph
next moves.
A gentleman photographer
toggles knurled brass knobs
throws a veiling drape over
his head and mind.
The models are beyond
this moments capture,
they are sealed by silence,
yet their images,
their one-act legacy,
is an amber inclusion
raised up as a photograph
for all to admire in secret.
Deception has always been
A strategy and ally of injustice;
Veiling its ruthless deeds,
And shifting attention
From aged-old atrocities,
While living and percolating
Behind invisible Jericho walls:-
Let not the reality
Of new Jericho borders
Blind and deceive us;
Legislative freedom and unity
For so-called refugees
Remain at hand and
Our struggle to be masters
Of ourselves continues,
Lease we be caged and considered
Refugees in this, our homeland!
Wake up, my people!
Wake up!
It’s here again!
Deception has always been
A strategy and ally of injustice;
Veiling its ruthless deeds,
And shifting attention
From age-old atrocities,
While living and percolating
Behind invisible Jericho walls:-
In today’s political drought,
Drying out justice and equity,
We are in as much profound need
Of raining clouds of liberty, as would be
Nature in times of drying pandemic drought:
Hey!
Wake up, my people!
Wake up!
It’s here again!
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