“Key”
Thirty pieces of silver.
That ancient story of betrayal
sits shining next to thee,
It flips poetic meaning supernaturally.
We wonder how We came
to this Synchronicity.
The upturned face,
a legacy.
Seeking answers
listening to silence, unanswered.
The questions evade.
The mind lifts,
the sharp point drops its messages
into the grooves of other dimensions played out
like a child’s game where we wave in lyrics,
where the music silver lines the terra firma roads
along the landscape of Life’s turntable.
Inside you something turns, burning
a flame inside a Memory
presents a key.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
“In the sharp gust of love
My memory stirred
When time wreathed a rose
A garland of shame
Its thorn my only delight
War torn, afraid to speak
We dare to breathe
Majestic
Imperial
A bridge of sighs
Solitude sails
In a wave of forgiveness
On angels' wings…”
(Siouxsie & The Banshees)
Matthew 26 NIV
In the cool, white
fluorescent light
a scalpel rasps, whispering,
insisting on detail.
A chisel flicks,
deft and sure,
snicking, razing,
in the clean steam
of icebreath.
Formless, frosty
bulbous ice
has pattern
punched into it.
An awl starts clattering,
keen steel stabbing
shards of crystal free
to shower down
as glassy shrapnel.
Ruth Amid the Corn
takes form,
growing
as matter falls away.
Final flurries of fussing,
flowers wreathed around,
and the beauty is inched
into the fug
of the banquet,
sweating.
Ruth weeps unseen,
pristine for now,
but already warming.
The shimmering rill stones
The clear babbling waters
The yellow meadow flowers
Dancing in the breezy dawn
He passed this way, he passed away
As thus, the bearded years pass on
The buried bones
The grieving daughters
Passing years fade like hours
On the grassy knoll, a memorial stone
Wreathed with yellow flowers
Below the hill
Lay his daughters still
In everlasting silent repose
The passing years fade like hours
Upon their graves, each; a yellow rose
None to hear them sing
None to marvel their glittered wing
As they’d lay midst, the meadow flowers
The passing years fade like hours
But they still remember
The morning dove, flying
And mortal love, undying
It whispers low on midnight’s breath,
A shadow wreathed in mist and death.
Not born of grace, but spectral might,
It haunts the veil 'tween dark and light.
It stirs the winds, it bends the flame,
A nameless force none dare to name.
Through hollow halls, its echoes creep,
Disturbing souls that once could sleep.
A ghostly hymn, a mournful wail,
It rattles chains that time made frail.
A shrouded guide, a cursed friend,
To those who stray where sorrows end.
Its eyes, unseen—yet ever near,
It feeds upon the breath of fear.
With spectral touch, it marks the air,
A lingering chill of pure despair.
Yet some would call upon its hand,
To guard their steps through haunted land.
A force unknown, its wisdom deep,
Though bound within the night’s cold keep.
So heed the whispers in the night,
When lanterns flicker, dim with fright.
The Haunted Spirit waits below,
In mist and moonlight’s spectral glow.
The sky never complains about the storms,
but homes clusters of things we’ve lost~
to form a canopy of comfort,
amidst electric threads, suffocating in silence.
When cold is the air ~ tender and crisp,
cradling the gold within jinxed jasmines,
aching for a rosier rise of the sun,
as clouds sigh reveries, tinged with tears,
wreathed in memories,
of how love was once an orchid in summer,
now this heart trembles, frozen in numbness,
like a vine breathing in winter,
seeking tendrils of truth from soils of promises~
a quiet verse in a permafrost sonnet,
sealed with thistles ~ settling into nothingness,
but will the snow moon,
ever taste the hope within solitude,
that rests upon my tongue?
Or am I to remain a paradox of petals,
floating through flurry lakes of space and time?
Mulled Cider Memories
Santa Claus sees what we
are doing.
We rejoice in grandly...
snow-shoeing.
And, oh we do love our hot,
mulled cider.
Especially next to a warm, cozy,
fire!
Christmas tunes joyfully fill many
a home.
Friends an relatives here, who do
Love us ..and do not roam.
We love each other for who we, as
individuals, truly are.
Freedom lovers, we, one and all,who
sing beneath silver, Christmas stars.
Speaking our truths, behind wreathed
ribboned, decorated doors
Bright eyes that sparkle, arms that hold.
True love carved, in poetic, holiday gold.
12/10/2024
madhouse of a ménage à trois —
the bawdy chamber of the blitz,
where three depraved darlings conspired in pagan rituals,
their lover's lament a discordant dirge amidst,
detritus of a bygone era,
a winter's eve of wreathed blossoms and withered dreams,
in this sterile hothouse of sentiments,
tender shoots of succulents twisted in grotesque abandon,
vault where love and decay convened in diseased romance,
till the one dawn ecstasy rose like cold air,
and winter's chill singed the hard prickles of their passion,
now vacant bloom, fossil of wounds,
trailing anguished bellflowers in mournful amusement.
I slept and then October with stealth crept in.
I knew it when a breeze blew in. Crisp and clean,
it softly breathed and wreathed the trees and kissed my skin.
Hues of passion now show fall fashion for its trees.
Birds loudly call. When winds blow hard, leaves of fall careen.
Coolness drops by some degrees. Please let there be no early freeze.
Spiced pies have enticed me. Pumpkins look like silly saps.
On porches, their eyes- bright by night- welcome Halloween.
October then takes its leave – with a heave of wind perhaps.
How pure the joy in this man's life
How mighty till the end
His greatest work - his girl, his boy
Their father and their friend.
Yet sweeter still their children brought
Such laughter with their wiles
And Granddad rocked and shook his head
His visage wreathed in smiles
He truly was a friend to all
His watchword to be kind
No fancy talk from Yorkshire's son
Nor malice in his mind
And steadfast still the marriage made
His lady and her beau
Whose life we celebrate today
Dear heart we'll miss you so.
Adored, Revered, Unforgettable
Irreplaceable.
This is what the wicked are like— always free of care, they go on amassing wealth. Surely in vain I have kept my heart pure and have washed my hands in innocence ~ Psalm 73:12-13
A wise man long ago bemoaned the thought
that those who seek the paths of righteousness
so often struggle mightily. Their lot
seems only to be wreathed in hopelessness.
Meanwhile, the wicked reap rich dividends
while disregarding others' poverty -
they'll use whatever means may suit their ends,
neglecting justice, love, humility.
Believers know "these three remain" to guide
up peaks appearing insurmountable:
Faith is that trust in Him who walks beside;
Hope is that blessed wealth uncountable;
and Love, which guides us to eternity -
For "God is love", the greatest of the three.
My heart may break, wreathed in somber silence.
Yet I care, I search for valleys of peace,
where rare black orchids bloom through violence,
for fallen leaves too shall caramelize,
and kindness too will be what the wind sees.
Time is a traitor only truth can stain.
Are we lost, hiding behind masks of pain?
Is my rhythm of speech, now a song of shame?
Whilst I'm weaving hope amidst woes in vain,
deaf to your hate that burns strength of my name.
Strange, after living so long apart
the things that resurrect the memory of your touch;
a vanilla-scented candle, the taste of Turkish coffee;
or the way flower petals graze my skin so softly;
the feel of waves beneath my feet,
the light of a parking garage…
the aching’s almost too much.
Sometimes I think I see you and set my eyes to follow after;
but it’s just ardor’s chimera, just a cruel mirage,
summoned by someone else’s laughter,
sounding from someone else’s street.
When I close my eyes the hundreds
of miles melt in my mind
to a single point in time.
We can’t see the water lap around us
but we hear its suggestions,
and sighing fold in on each other
like a glowing paper crane
nesting in the waters of the sky.
Once again I think I see your face--
the moon wreathed in penumbra--
And numbly grab a pen,
recording your ghost’s fading trace
in journals of sinew and cartilage.
Yesterday as I sat in the Mall having a cup of coffee
Two young ladies came and sat next to me.
Both were well-dressed, and I thought they were friends.
The oldest one of them had bought two cream cakes
A coffee and a green smoothie.
The younger of them started to clap her hands and laugh loudly,
She looked deliriously happy and kept on laughing and clapping her hands.
Then I noticed a badge on her jacket that said she lived in a special
care home and was shopping in the Mall with her carer for the day.
She was carrying a neatly folded plastic bag full of
different coloured flower heads she had picked herself
before shopping. When I finished my coffee, I said bye-bye and said
it looked like she was having a lovely day.
Wreathed in smiles and pure joy, she opened the plastic bag and
presented me with one of her lovely flower heads.
A simple gesture that melted my heart, filling it with joy and
happiness.
I am fortunate to have encountered such a sweet, innocent soul who
shared her joy and flowers with everyone she met.
From side to side;
the smile of the morning sun,
and the cool of the midnight moon,
amidst the sparky stars.
I grin like a Cheshire cat.
as I seat underneath Divinity’s love for the globe;
the Soft breezes blow from odorous meadows
I get filled up with
nostalgic memories,
Oh! the good old days.
my dark brown eyes,
the dark youthful skin,
my frizzy youthful hair.
Everything retreated from me.
Oh! the good sweet old days,
Am now ancient,
My never ending epistemophilia and
wish to give the young people optimism.
my adaptability be exhume,
and live among the folk.
Change cannot be paused,
it’s an automatic,
it needs not your consent to transpire.
Wreathed in smiles,
about my then and now;
I go to slumber like
a bird singing on the tree.
I’ve tasted of life’s sweet wine.
Light dawns outside and yet the clock
delays its morning squawk. Of late,
my furry mate and I would walk,
but balk she does till nearly eight.
It’s great that she can stay asleep;
I leap from bed at hours strange.
Deranged to most, I wish they’d keep
on saving, stop the bleeping change.
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A 'Wreathed Octave', ababcdcd where lines 2-8 have an internal rhyme with the previous line's end rhyme. (e.g., clock/squawk, late/mate, etc.)
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