Time, the tranquil tyrant, takes its toll,
Tearing truth, transcending all control.
The prideful, pompous, prancing high,
Pale beneath the passing sky.
Walls that once stood, wide and strong,
Whisper weakly, "We don’t belong."
Wealth that once waved with windfall’s grace,
Withers, vanishes, leaves no trace.
Beauty, bold, begins to bend,
Fading fast, an endless end.
Bodies break and bones betray,
In time’s tight grip, we decay.
Fools who fought with fervent fire,
Find their flames have long expired.
Battles born of boastful pride,
Buried, forgotten, cast aside.
Silent, steady, time surveys,
Its silent strength steals life away.
No kingdom, no king, no land, no name,
Escapes the endless, eternal claim.
Towers topple, treasures turn,
All things tremble, all things burn.
Yet still, it speaks without a sound,
Time’s true triumph coming ‘round.
So heed the hour, heed the day,
For time will take your crown away.
Let not your soul be swept by fear,
But let it know, the end is near.
Under the streetlamps, yellowed leaves
drift in ill-fated pairs,
spiralling through the brittle air-
a slow reluctant dance.
Their shadows, stamped on the Earth,
flutter like startled birds,
seeking a phantom escape
from winter's deadly hands.
They brush against a stranger's coat,
clinging for a heartbeat
before the wind wrenches them away-
a cruel puppeteer
that watches them pirouette and writhe helplessly,
carrying them, one by one
into the cold, dying cradle of the Earth.
There they rest
in the borrowed warmth
of a bonfire's reflection
and the sporadic firework
that sputters too weakly
before collapsing into empty embers.
And when all light fades,
and only the sound remains-
they hear
the ominous, melancholy murmur
of leaves crushed
beneath passing feet.
Laughter creased my face
With the wideness of joy in a darling
Hallooing loudly, Hawaii!
Making me younger with weakly wrinkles,
It warmed my heart with a flaming ring of mirth.
And I liked it.
I watched the waves as they rose and fell,
Like the big flattered locks of a comely
Landlady combing her tresses on a windy, snoopy
Sunday morning.
And I loved it.
Who are next to be loved?
Lucy & Lucille.
One laughs
The other winces with laughter
When cold fleeting winds blow over
Our inchoate sensibilities.
And we love it —
Like we loved Lucy.
When the land was smooth, life brand-new
In Eden, there lived one, then two
Since the Earth's dawn, man walked as youth
Life brand-new, when the land was smooth
In the garden were two sweet blooms
Under the care of watchful grooms
Viscous phrases made ears harden
Two sweet blooms were in the garden
Between grapevines, our foe hid
Still in great ruling halls amid
Presents his wrath like mocking wines
Our foe hid between grapevines
Broken cisterns marking his path
Like mocking wines presents his wrath
The cast of youth weakly discerns
Marking his path, broken cisterns
Though the carpet teemed with costumes, toys and figures, laid orderlessly, it was barren.
Distant echoes of the battery powered monkey clapped naively through the still air, and its dim LED eyes softly flickered.
A thread of light shifted through the overcast clouds and chipped window pane, placing itself where someone had once been. Each step creaked the empty yellowed racecar bedstead which ached in loneliness, weakly reminiscing.
Nothing is said, as superheroes lean against the bedframe and villains lay beside them. They keep their place, perhaps waiting for an end to the silence. I lay beside them, another still figure. Silent. Static. Hoping, foolishly, to escape this hollow world.
I gaze upon an opaque silver sky,
Descending dewdrops, developing above the mustache maw.
Ascending the nape to taste cherubim cry,
Permeating petrichor, pervade the nasal in auspicious awe.
Palpable pain of tactile taps
Kissing canker sores and rainstorm rush.
Radically rampaging, for its rapid relapse
Rain, it's infinite, swirling fervor flush
To drown by an inundated impound,
A vehement, vicious, void that immersed,
Wandering weakly on the ocean gored ground,
Drowning, isolated lungs; bellowing burst.
The tyrant tsunami my miracle world-wide flood,
Exploding existence, imploding insistence, ichor pools; blackened blood.
Dawn
Weakly
Tweaks the curve
Its chilly yawn
Turns off the street lights
As darkness returns home
Sparrows sing morning vespers
A coffee scented mist rises
Silently swirling atop the mug
Daybreaks pheromonal invitation
Let the words of my mouth have backbone
Buoyed by the sinew of thoughtless thoughts
May they be freely formed and fashioned
On the smooth surface of an unyielding anvil
Hammered in the heat of passion’s angst
Molded in the flame of sightless vision
Nurtured by the touch of unfelt hands
Polished in the innocence of love’s longings
For how else will they be my words
If stolen, reshaped, reworked, weakly rekindled
Would I not be but a chirping echo
Scratching at a stained-glass soul
Would that my words and meditations
Be the reflection of my heart’s belief
Set free within the moments calm
To stir a gently passing breeze
What inspires me are the trees that surround me,
how they green in the Spring, how starlings
become leaves in the Winter, and the melodies
of sparrows, bluebirds and robins tug at my heart.
What inspires me is watching my grandkids,
they’re verve, vigor, and nerve make me float;
me and my muse amused by their mischief,
compassion and funny business.
What inspires me is my belief, my hope, my unwavering,
spirit-filled field of vision. I’m inspired by every whisper,
every word, every mystery, truth of the living God; by
the cross that brings me to my knees, and I find no words
to convey my salvation and relationship in Christ, yet
I do my best, dance around, meditate, pray, trust I
will say something weakly profound.
What inspires me is all around - nature, my family,
silly and serious things, aging, moods, night and day.
I could go on. I write. I write. It is right. Don’t stop me now.
I preach, teach, grieve, fall down, get up. You, dear reader
inspire me. Forms and other writers inspire me. I’m inspired.
Death constantly begs for a bit of you,
for just another small bite.
From the crib to the grave
death begs for morsels.
It is a house dog
its purpose
is to guard the larder.
Patched up limbs
get stronger then weaker,
bones get adjusted
to a back-and-forth
dismantling.
When life has drooled
out of its brain,
when the larder is almost empty,
then does it come
for one last can of worms.
It tastes awful,
but it loves you.
Death would be only a shadow
on an X-Ray
if it did not love you.
All that begging,
until at last, loyal death,
(your trustworthy companion),
clings weakly to its
selfless hunger.
In a city of crippled angels,
young boys laugh
as they throw stones
at a starving cur.
“Age merely shows what children we remain.”
- Quote by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
---------------------------------------------------
charmingly weak, weakly charming
begins life, begins cessation
toothless smile, baby breath, wobbling
charmingly weak, weakly charming
true babyhood, true senescence
depending, needy, demanding
charmingly weak, weakly charming
begins begin, begins ending
anticipating this deluge
I hold weakly to protection
only to find this ray of joy
as sunshine lights the rain
your love blazes through my tears
Somewhere in the closet of my mind
Reside the many thoughts I left behind
The one’s I put aside without a care
The one’s I lacked the courage, then, to share
For in my youth I feared the ruler’s sting
Responses to the song I dared not sing
As silence weakly battled my despair
I slowly crept to where I didn’t care
T’was then, I heard a voice that startled me
Shout: "it is your voice, go now - set it free"
This voice, this tone, this echo of your being
Echoes but the truth of what you’re seeing
So speak those thoughts of now and then and when
Rethink them and release them once again
A shadow crossed the room
in the corner of my awareness
A cloud outside somewhere, probably,
but for an instant, I thought that motion was you.
Thoughts of you are casually intrusive.
Maybe you’d crawled into my luggage - and hidden.
There’s a complex birthday candle wish.
Desire owes no deference to logic
When I think of you, my tummy becomes warm satin and I know,
that in your hands, I could be boneless and lusciously obedient.
For a while, anyway.
I remember us at the beach, lounging in deep parasol shade,
how your tanned skin glistened with tiny beads of sweat
and your endless legs stretched out like a centerfold’s.
Or you pulling me up out of the pool, one-handed, effortlessly,
with enough force that I briefly flew, and how you’d gently guide me down.
“What are you doing?” I’m virtually slapped out of my erotic fantasy, by Lisa, who’s standing, exasperated, sandaled toes tapping, purse in hand.
“Daydreaming,” I answered weakly, as I jumped up to get myself ready.
Has it only been four days since I left you?
I already feel tragically underheld.
.
.
A song for this:
Ain't it a shame by The B-52s
Locked Inside by Janelle Monáe
Their sacrifice for country's sake
No hero does a coward make
Sleeps safe in bed throughout the night
While better men will stand and fight
Those few who rush when nations call
Are there to breach the rampart's wall
Dodging bullets while bombs explode
No man left behind is their code
Relying on one another
Side by side, brother to brother
The brave is strengthened by their will
The coward weakly whimpers still
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