Craven cupidity, contemptible crow
Your talking is squawking as black as your soul
If birds of a feather would gather your hem
A collection of seamstresses darker than them
Would weave from hole cloth a pattern of lies
From a harvest of calumny dark'ning the skies
Who rates this performance, whose benefit there
With bait this enormous just fit for a bear
Who else in the forest could relish this feast
Galumphing, triumphing, it must be a beast
Wallowing, swallowing, swampy at best
Content to recline there and dine on the rest
Immobile as a trophy, stuffed for display
On future repast, blackened feather filet
Blow hard and bellow with yellowing cries
Gather like fellows who feast on these lies
If chapels had been churches, your cathedral would loom
'stead of gathering shadows in this canyon of gloom
With your bins full of blight and your gather of smut
We hasten to bid you not good night but... what?
We wonder still under quick'ning despair
In search of escape, it must be here but... where?
There must be some light lest this darkness o'erwhelm
We must brave the night til the Good take the helm
Ghosts that haunt empty spaces
Like objects in cabinets
that drift on window pains
As light out places the things
left in the corners of
attics and In-between
the walls and hidden faces,
memories like objects
that linger as bookmarks
to someone's history,
yellowing pages,
trinkets and toys,
old books and broken vases
sit like old photos faded,
memories of something
best left untouched or forgotten,
never stated, between the moments of memory
Like things left in shadows last and fated,
ghosts linger here and there,
pale movements in the Either,
objects of history,
a fall of light, a twist of shadow,
objects that haunt
like old souls in empty spaces…
They take the powder then leave
they circle back around for the wings
They've stripped you of flight
turned you back into an insect
no hope to reach the yellowing light
Before your last breath
they've already slanted the epitaph.
In the aftermath there's no empathy
no chance to speak or weave an alibi,
all good deeds downplayed or forgotten,
A nameless moth in the back of the family album.
Coal-brown smoke smudged lightly
with hesitant fingers
into the wet grey sky at the edges,
a yellowing of dried grass
scattered with copper berries
fallen from their vines,
a leaf spinning crazily on a breeze,
a tentative parting of fingertips
and a face turned slightly from mine –
a profile obscured by dark hair –
and eyes scan and count the pylons
for something to do.
The match flares, hissing in the silence,
and a cigarette is shared quietly
to still the noise inside
over this,
our goodbye
"Every enigmatic environment enlists enlightened emotions" Quote by The Poet
Spectacular silvery spangled, star studded sky, so serene.
Under universal utterances uniquely unabashed, unseen.
Wildest wind wails when weakened, was welcomed warm weather.
Trees towering, trying to triumphantly touch together.
Serendipitous splendor soothes soulful scenes.
Gracefully groomed, growing greens.
Lustrous light looms, lasting like lingering lanterns.
Youthful yellowing, yet yesterday yearns.
Moonbeams meander, mesmerized midst melting moments.
Extraterrestrial elements enlist exponents.
Frenzied fireflies flutter, fulfilling fanciful florescent flashes.
Sparkling, swishing splashes.
Sycamores sway sweetly, so subdued, sounds softly sweep.
Calm clarity closely causes comfort, combinations creep.
Sporadically straying, sadly sets sorrow so steep.
yellowing grass
under shade trees
blooms
of
vibrant hues
Springtime has arrived,
And so has her yellowing;
Shading everything:-
And when her rains have fallen,
Yellow puddles spring up; achoo!
Like late eve of a slowly dying year,
Yellowing leaves await when falling down,
Soon to get trodden when dried to dull brown,
A few still hanging on, life lived in fear,
I too, on late life's tentative twilight—
The age awaiting the sunset of life
With forebodings of a long prowling night,
I too dream of no path sun’s bright-light rife,
But much rather that I see the amber
Of glowing fire that flickers in my heart,
See past the Fall followed by November,
All through till chilly weathers fully part…
If you, my love, can wait till Spring and more,
Let winter do her worse upon my door.
______________________
Sonnet |13.11.2008, revised March 2025| life, love, winter, old age
Note: Eve of a dying year alludes to autumn or fall of the year, its parallel being old age. Northern Path: According to Hindu belief the soul leaves mortal remains and proceeds on to Northern/Southern Path. North is the path of no-return (Liberation), and south for returning to earth. Of course this depends on karma.
If ever we needed to ventilate,
it is now…the thickening tragedy
of lies have become too heavy
for the respiration of living truth…
Indeed…the dire situation
has reached lunging capacity
and the alveoli of reality
are sparking gut-wrenching
diarrheic retribution…
Breathe people…breathe…
check the yellowing mane…
strings of manipulation pulling
thin loose-lips of a sinking ship…
Breathe people…breathe…
the corona of truth shines
its bright light of truth…glowing
around the dark moon of deceit
of Americanism’s tragic turn…
Be mindful… people …scapegoats
come and go…in God, we must trust…
rather than loaning our sacred lives
to ill-fated government iniquities…
As believers—in the Lenten resurrection—
let us be about the business of resuscitation
of our beloved dying nation—yes …ours—built
by the blood-brick masonry of our Ancestors…
On the way to brother's funeral
I prayed not for the seeds of his soul
to root in the merciful soil of heaven
Mostly I prayed not to get a flat tire
it would have killed me to not arrive on time.
A five-mile drive from a yellowing motel
to the foot of a flat stone,
An angel swept both nail and glass
away from my salted path
and on to a slab called alone.
Aside his grave I played Bob Seger songs
I played them until recognizable arrived.
We don’t craft and send no more
Penned words residing in my draw
Those dated thoughts and gone events
Scrapbook of yore it represents
Handwritten mood, pain and regrets
Once sunny days, audacious bets
One young at heart, the choices made
Mundane events still on parade
Creased paper, yellowing in time
Cute fading stamps, once worth a dime
Ideas frozen, saved and kept
And people, places somehow trapped
For boys and girls, for moms and dads
Grandmas and wives of spouse-nomads
How stay in touch, to share crave
To savor love and send the wave
The way we were, like photo framed
Re-read those words, yourself reclaim
A little pile, ribbon-tied
Link to the past it hides inside
The world has changed, days flew by
We type, not write, and say ‘goodbye’
To letters, pushed aside by chats
So glued to screens in our flats
I have regrets, as letters gone
The dialog to act upon
Mailbox flag’s up, lagged outcome
And glory, when the letter comes!
September 11, 2024
To weave a word, a fabric of thought,
Each stroke on dreary image caught :
Pale tinge of citrusy note, half drawn
Written in bleak ,yellowing song--
Old letters soar now in ashen white,
Where muted language of angst
takes flight.
Dream-like is she, gleaming softly
through gauze of faded moon
Auroral her flame imbued with wings so
regal
Yellowing sky's revue through wisps
of haloed dew--
Somehow, she guides me through
deep prayer,
To exalt her for baptism of new
awakenings, promises made holy
And how she , Dawn, unveils what is
pure in my sacred world
Reflecting her timeless morn...
angel of first sun, daystar!
I write
There for I …. Write
Unknowingly
Of things
Hidden
In the fractured folds
Of life
Of moments
Forgotten
Yet lingering
On the tip of the pen
Yellowing
The edges
Of ivory pages.
I write therefore
Of truths
Encased in pain
Joys denied
Darkness hidden
Of a soul
Unknown to me
Until
I wrote
The flesh sashays... so slowly... in time.
Live long enough you'll become orphaned.
Pray. the orphan is filled with chimes of sweet memories.
The soul will certainly release from the chains of flesh...
weave within the silky seams of timelessness.
Travelling well beyond the speed of light
to acquaint with beings in the highest light.
The heart of the ultimate sacrifice is with the orphan
both young and old.
Whether it be through tragedy, circumstance or attrition
God is with them...forever with them.
Harm an orphan or a stray and within a fraction of an instant,,,
God will arrive at the foyer of your arrogance,
to rub your nose in your cold-hearted piss.
Related Poems