Category: Poems

Neither as a dreamer,
Nor drifter in time,
I speak as a specter
In prophetic rhyme:
I am sinking through now,
Deep in the past,
Where today shall be a future,
That will forever last.

How the shade without sunlight feel,
Will the time ever in stillness heal
The dream of the dying day,
Of the beloved for which the living pray.

How I wish to whisper to the end of seas,
And hear it whisper back at me.

Let us just lie there,
Deep in the honeysuckle hardness,
Burning souls in cigarette smoke,
In banshee fervor, that wild frenzy
Common to inhuman things,
Of which human sings, with eyes tossed into the sun.

Let us paint this pale world,
In color of our kisses,
Half stygian, half transparent,
Ashen; cinereal,
To mourn and cherish,
Each moment that perish,
Waiting to open the eye,
For the rhythm of our love,
Is no weeping butterfly,
It is the thunder of the pain, the echo of the end,
That aches, shudders, and passes,
Heavy and heartless; as magma under waves.

The shore sits silver,
Ocean dyed with nightfall,
And the bangle of moon, waiting upon the wall,
Whilst we of champagne wings,
We rise, flesh afire,
To melt into the wind,
And as rain inspire.

We are the progeny,
Of loose worms,
Sowing poisoned seed,
Letting monsters breed,
In the backyard green,
Where once lilac bloomed,
As asterisk heads,
And the rainbow rose from the flowerbed,
Like heavens slide,
Where kingdoms hide,
Between perse and red.

But now no more,
The song is seen,
Just an endless repine,
Drawn and thin,
As strings that keep men on their toes,
Each phrase a gasp for passing woes.

We have lost the skill of silent charm,
And fire burns that cannot keep us warm,
For the wood is hollow, as dead inside
As the source of our secret pride.
The night is dark, and long and cold,
And we with fetal soul, and bodies old,
May never see tomorrow’s sun,
If we sit afar, than hold as one,
For we are the progeny,
Of drifting times,
With versed sentences for these modern crimes,
For we are the progeny,
Of dreadful crimes,
Weighing cost of breaths, against weight of dimes.

O man of thought,
And forward time,
You walk away,
For endless days,
Only to come back and see,
That all you had left behind,
Is now not as it should be.
Your steps they had taken,
A part of it with you,
And the old once touched, O Augur,
Shall never be new.

When I am old,
With no control,
Take me away, far from home,
To all valleys I forgot to roam,
Near sea and it’s sapphire calm,
Along roads, threading amber farm,
Atop mountains, deep in thoughtful cloud,
Within cities and its forgotten crowd,
When I am old,
With no control,
Take my body, yes,
But free my soul.

When I am old,
With no control.

When the days are done,
And never for naught,
And dead are all those who fought,
What answers could your questions incite;
O jury who never witnessed the fight.

Came raising ,came rising,
Upon carpets of gold,
Elders with children,
And the young with the old,
Each with a blade thrust in their heart,
All heroes untold,
Lost in this play, without a part .

How can you gather,
Proof of their choice,
Only ashes as victory,
And wind as their voice.
Will the earth with her face, be far too afraid,
Won’t she remember how dark and deep ran the red;
River upon river of perishing men,
Eternal fire, unending rain.

They dreamed of no tomb, nor temple when gone,
They hoped of no praise, nor aria to mourn,
The Gods that they prayed,
Were friends that lay dead,
Who had asked them to brave,
One more step ahead.

What faith can you claim,
O Judge of lost cause,
Which ask you to act,
And not to applause;
Like puppet with strings tied to the soul,
Like scarecrow with straw, to fill all the holes.

When the days are done,
And never for naught,
And dead are all those who fought,
What answers could your questions incite;
O Jury who never witnessed the fight.

I had a coat on my shoulders,
A cigar between my lips,
An eternity of interval,
And a thousand half planned trips.

They were the last logs of winter,
And first sprouts of spring,
Nights, as the one I wandered,
With a handful of nothing.

I took a two pence loaf,
From a baker I knew well,
Well enough to gift a smile,
Even when the bread was stale.
One half I kept in my pocket,
The other I nibbled dry;
Leaning by the lake,
Watching lovers lay goodbye.

At midnight the great clock tolled,
For the world walking on wire,
It was time for some to wake,
And for some to warily retire,
But not me, never me, as I
Was alone without a cause,
Against this shelf laid life,
Above the men with laws.

So I took a dark left turn,
In an alley deep and damp,
Where the walls were two arms stretching,
Where I could not light my lamp,
Ever and ever I walked,
Without a halt or stay,
Ever and ever I walked,
Till I found the Lost Man’s way.

There against the sky,
Like a firefly in the night,
Stood a four spired Villa,
As bright as seashell white.
Its steps sang with my feet,
An arpeggio from broken strings,
Took me to a door that was Cobalt blue,
With handles of floating wings.

I knocked twice upon the wood,
And twice did laughter came,
The third worked as a charm,
And someone asked my name.
I said I was a wanderer,
With a bit of mud on my boot,
A lover, a vagabond, a sailor,
A gentleman, a conquerer, a brute.

I was ushered in the rousing gathering,
In that Hall of mirrors vast,
Where every face resembled,
Someone from my past.
But they knew me as a stranger,
So as a stranger did I try,
To love those who had laughed at me,
And to amuse all who I had once made cry.

Till morning did I dance,
Till the first drop of dew did I drink,
Till the silence made me lie,
Till the madness made me think,
So I wore my peaked cap,
And left the remaining bread,
Paid farewell to those smiling phantoms;
To their memory that never fade.

I had a coat on my shoulders,
A cigar between my lips,
An eternity of interval,
And a thousand half planned trips.

They took me to a street,
Stood me there bare,
They said I was precious,
And would be priced fair.

They took me to a river,
Clothed me in grey,
They said I was a slave,
And should walk their holy way.

They took me to a lake,
Clothed me in blue,
They said I was a woman,
And they will tell me what to do.

They took me to a valley,
Clothed me in green,
They said I was a witch,
And to burn me wasn’t a sin.

They took me to a town,
Clothed me in red,
They said I was a lass,
And to warm all gilded beds.

They took to me a table,
Clothed me in black,
They said I was a victim,
And thus never answer back.

They took me to a desert,
Clothed me in gold,
They said I was a Saint,
And to suffer for young and old.

They took me to a temple,
Clothed me in white,
They said I was a Goddess,
And my blessing was this night.

They took me to a home, Clothed me in flower, They said I was to love, And that was all my power.

She is on the doorstep,
I upon the floor,
Her eyes are pleading to follow,
My hands motion; No more.
The horizon has come home,
And now the birds perch,
Not in a galore of bright calls, hidden under crests of deep colors,
But in dead nods of grey heads, as
Timeless pendulums, mocking
This synergy, of false prophecies.
I have tasted the nectar,
Pulsing and bright,
Like forged frost; wilted white,
And the copper shore,
Breathing against the lifeless flow,
Of envy, turned dust, turned rust,
Now turn once again,
To me, to you,
And everything true.