The Passion FruitTease the heart in little doses,
A dash of red, not all the roses,
Fan the flame that's frail and dying,
Cull the bird that's fit and flying,
Win the sight of every pleasure,
Yet forfeit the sunken treasure,
Pull one step short of simple ration,
Hoard the enshrined conversation,
Speak in words that betray ire,
Prepare the untimely pyre,
Call out the rites in gleeful voices,
Portray a faux lack of choices,
Then leap before the burning fervor,
Await the sorrowful preserver,
Raise the stakes to hold your bearing,
Stretch the tender till it's tearing,
What is broken, makes one stronger,
What doesn't end is meant for longer,
What is pined for is not what is
And longed for neither hers nor his,
A dearth, a lack, a want we savour
And THAT lends the passion fruit its flavour.
The Artist's PleaThe fingerprints of mankind among each hillThe Artist's Plea1 year ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
Does the artist's eyes with melancholy fill,
A meadow unseen, untouched by time
Lends the poor poet his timeless rhyme,
The song of a lark, the scent of a rose
Bears in its womb, the birth of sweet prose,
And though man will pillage and nature abuse
Where from will he find tomorrow's muse?
Sonnet XIIIMistress Fortune, thou art every man's queen,Sonnet XIII1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Princes and paupers take thou for a bride
And upon thy smile mankind rests keen;
I pray to no God, yet bow 'neath thy pride.
Each reward of creation is thy gift;
Sweet fruits of laborious seeds unsowed,
And how fickle the man, who in thy rift
Laments lost harvests on fields unploughed.
Yet, thy nature reflects the untamed sky,
Sullen, silent, sunny; a fiend and friend,
And though weathered I, still this eye be dry,
On thou, my dearer tears, I shall not spend.
Miss Fortune! Fair Fortune! A fare thee well!
All thy winds of chance shall not toll my bell.
In MemoriamThe guardian ghosts, ghosts of our great men goneIn Memoriam11 months ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
await above, await your advent's song,
The skylark's cry has vexed this vivid morn;
her notes denote in notes that know no wrong.
The ample ale of amber allium art
is milked by million minions of her shine,
Her radiance reigned, rained ray drops dart by dart
on fallowed fields, fields flood with floral wine.
Lie you now, now lie you near no night;
The calling candles clear collected scars,
The sun still sates the sweat of sheltered sight;
You belong, belong by better stars.
By the StrandI still breathe your name by the wavering shoreBy the Strand1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
And cast away to the sail winds a song
And close my eyes and evermore belong
To the unfed brine and its yearning roar.
The distant lamps polish the incensed green,
A flock of fallen stars upon the bay
Alights a dream of a submerged day
And strokes in feud a mind's browbeaten scene.
And standing by the strand I pace and skew
In hope a rising crest will fell or hide
Your voice; yet each raw spate, each rippling tide
Borrows to bestow an echo of you.
War Woundthere's a war wound in my chestWar Wound1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
that I cradle in my heart
and nurse it with parables
never grows up.
sometimes I feed it vanities,
a glass of Scotch or two
but in the morning's residue
it reflects no summer truths.
there's a war wound in my chest
which sought shelter in my soul
now it lies as an attic masterpiece
for the years to unfold
the colours have aged with me
rubric to rust to puce
and this work of art upon my heart
for the artist's eyes.
there's a war wound in my chest
which fell our company
but I who saw the shot and shell,
know it well indeed.
for he assigned us nameless,
no rank, no class or creed,
but then the lance of simple chance
wiped out our battery.
and I who fell for our comradery
did no favours for thee
I beheld the appetite of infancy
and lived for mortality.
GoodbyesA shy hello begins the tale,Goodbyes1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Two strangers in a play,
A quiet word, a moment's care
Brings back the mirth of May,
And then a smile, a borrowed laugh,
Perhaps a happy tear,
Life's woes are few, its gifts renew,
But they don't last, my dear.
Such weeping I have often seen;
So many fruitless tears,
And yet a question I have asked
Met silence through the years.
Alone the crave, alone the grave;
All pain is pleasure's loan,
We come with naught, and thus depart,
Tell me, what do we own?
We are wildflowers in the breeze
A breath of father time,
And in the hue, in wanton dew
Perhaps there is some rhyme,
And for a spell, we briefly brush
And love and live in vain,
But one by one we must wave on
To never meet again.
InnocenceAs these dry creases cleave your cloakInnocence1 year ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
And seasons past rebate your yolk,
To time, do not look forth and ask
For time; another velvet mask,
Instead applaud his youthful face
In every child; his peace returns
Astute that brimful, lively vase
Reserves its brew for marble urns.
Yet for a spell she hid your eyes
From mirrors, winters and disguise;
Such days were spent in ceaseless toil
To purge her blindfold and each coil
Which did protect you from tort sights,
Uneven senses, ample dearth,
But what her purpose truly cites
Gave everything its waning worth.
The ticking clock, a trifle thence:
A deafness we call innocence.
Sonnet XXIWho can bemoan these barren, bitter daysSonnet XXI1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
When he who loved once spoke and heard her vows
Which were but words upon which passion preys
Until the breast from a dream does arouse.
And tacit, tamed truth sends forth honest odds,
Still he uncovers that twinge trickle spring,
Still she does worship her twice fallen Gods
To find tonic herbs in winged Cupid's sting.
How trite, how vain my liege it is to keep
High pearls of eyes bereft the sheen of cheer
In dungeons deep, or thorny towers steep
On lambent clouds that rove the drifting sphere?
For rue remembers joys, charms, bonds of air
And forgets years of mirth once lay elsewhere.
Sonnet VDear latent poet of this lifeless ageSonnet V2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
You are truth's last infallible device,
Though your work may remain an unseen page
Verity requires your watchful eyes.
Alas! Your life may never shelter peace,
Nay, peace seeks harborage in ignorance,
But your days so filled with candid release
Are truer than truth's own truthful penance.
Imagine no wreaths, for you shall receive none,
Save laurels of slander as truth's sole squire,
And in life, none shall know of things you have done,
Only to read your name 'neath the skyward spire.
Yet that enemy time, will be your friend
And past infinity truth will transcend.
Sonnet XXIINight and day I have yearned for day and night;Sonnet XXII9 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Now two apostles greet my early eye,
Awakens dawn with charms of evening's sprite
And eve will dawn with dawn's serrated spy;
The wily weed will ornament the leaf,
The prideful leaf will grace each petal bare
And though a jennelise plays envy's thief,
A weed devised measure for beauty's share.
Where dwells a prize in priceless thoughts and mull?
What joys allow repose once left behind?
Is that gray partridge spiritless and dull
Flat meat before it meets the meaty mind?
All happiness of man can only sway
In tides of tomorrow and yesterday.
Behind Closed Doorsbehind closed doors,Behind Closed Doors1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
past padlocks old,
confined latch bolts,
and deadlocks cold;
the hooks still hold
and stick the hole
and often house
your naked soul.
Sonnet VIOh precious love sworn to passionate painSonnet VI2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Care not for losing Love's seasonal grace,
For it is fitful Love's to love again
And Love shall later love another face,
And of faithful love, Love loves to speak,
A love which lasts till Love's closing day,
Yet, Love loves to imprint every spare cheek
With more love than what one Love can pay,
Unsettled, the scales of love do shake,
Though Love's love for compromise is known,
Still Love from tenure will in time break,
For only love, not Love, is a man's own.
And on every morrow, Love tells a tale
Of merry things upon love's vagrant trail.
Sonnet IVOh conceded Lover I write to thee,Sonnet IV2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Though to thou in words I shall be no more.
What I lost in love, thou hast lost in me,
For I lost thine act, and thou, my adore.
While thou hast gained another's love, anon,
And cast away thine hollow yesterdays,
Mine love, sworn to the yonder morrows-- gone!--
Still looks thither with False Hope's hopeful gaze.
Alas! Albeit these incomplete dreams
I thank thee for its wondrous prelude,
Now my quill covets for other themes
Which upon thy coming grew accrued.
Had our love endured, I'd remove thy guise,
And thou, in my sonnet, immortalize.
The Joy of SorrowWeep gently, for perchance you weepThe Joy of Sorrow3 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Cull not the season’s ample rain;
Few ills so slight in sorrows sleep-
-The wise joys in exalting pain.
Weep gently, in passionate silence weep
Bleak tears for form and symmetry,
In nature’s want of balance, weep
And welcome: what must be, must be.
Weep gently, if you have to weep:
Limn crystal woe on a bare face;
What’s lost in loss, in loss do keep
Till Hector is brought home in grace.
Weep gently, weep the mortal’s weep,
Exile old winter from your breast,
Weep gently, in rueful joy do weep,
Till tears bequeath each epoch’s best.
A Slice of EntropyLife is not form or symmetry or a stack of hoursA Slice of Entropy2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
on a dustless shelf
falling, hovering, floating, flailing
feeling comfortably numb
in a lover’s grasp
is the autumn of an ancient anarchy
knowing all these affections are temporary
and as they cease, so shall I
from a star to a star
streaks the dye of the unending night
shedding colour on what is alive
basking in the ambivalence of creation
wondering what is the great purpose
of existence, survival, procreation;
Why must life go on?
life goes on
fantasy, excess, poverty
of objective, of reason
naught lasts a season,
gravity is the do all end all
in the cosmos, time rules god.
Wishes and wills, thoughts, sentiments, impulses,
cannot slow that unforgiving arm,
or plug that black hole of impendence,
victory and defeat
will meet at square 1;
the cheers and the jeers will die away
in the violence of that
Life – 0. Death – 0.
Vita incerta, mors certissima.
Sonnet XIXIf I could write the treasure of her eyesSonnet XIX1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Or yet connote the music in her voice
And still descry scents of each season's prize
In her acute abode of nature's choice,
My years may yet bear me another name,
My days might yet find my purpose once more,
For in her bloom lies a lost poet's fame
And her lithe aspect provokes timeless lore.
If what be truth, exists in mortal art
Then mankind's jewel is in human birth
And to behold the work of one more heart
Resolves each question facing human worth.
Where my senses mate and perceptions meet
There my poem ends and all is complete.
Ode to BoredomThe timeless ticking angels sing tonight:Ode to Boredom9 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
A passe void vacancy in my soul;
The harboured scow seduced the lusty night
And oceans shall midwife its mournful foal,
That bastard child of joy, credence and love
Has pierced my fruitful clouds of scanty woe,
Now pours this blankness bleak into a cleft
That nurses the moments that close the clove;
And life; it happened such a long time ago
With blueprints of balance trite and bereft.
An aging day emerges from the dark;
Its hollowness numbs every conscious sense;
There is no pecking on the sodden bark
And the kinglets have found another fence;
The wind has carried a young maiden's voice,
Who once whispered to me,'Remember me?';
I could not then, oh comely faithful muse!
In times of cheer how quiet our rejoice
And grains of grief we save for poetry
And spare nothing for time's timely recluse.
The spheres still walk the selfsame path of stars,
The mist still blinds the beggared stanger's road
The fire still frolics between blushing
A Walk through Burleigh Wood on a Spring EveningTwo wanderers pursued a lonely trailA Walk through Burleigh Wood on a Spring Evening10 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Beneath a truss of banished tears;
Avast! A distant hazel pale
Endured the evening's mewling gale:
A welcome sight for Eden's exiled peers.
A sprightly saunter down the virgin pass
Brought forth a sea of lorn bluebells,
The heavens weaved through earthly grass
Where silent vespers did amass
To worship springtide's sudden winsome spells.
A timeless tinkling of bereft azure
Withdrew the curtain of decline,
And once two rovers stood demure,
Now children, elegant and pure
Walked side by side in that secluded shrine.
In that wild ever eclipsed winding wood
Was heard the bluebell's soothing knell:
It tolled for time one understood,
In that slight glade of each childhood
A star espoused the season's first bluebell.
That Doorthat door;That Door1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
plain, mahogany plywood,
stood sentry all summer
by the rapture
in my heart.
with watchful eyes
overlooking the battlements
here a flicker,
there a clutter
and wicked Eris
what drew my mind
away from Lenz,
and all the laws
could not tell me
if this was normal.
there I wasted away July;
the ripened fruit,
the riband teal
bestowed upon that door:
an ode; a rispetto
or merely a love
for physics and math
and withdrew three weeks before
I discerned she had left,
and returned once more
in the facade of a dream.
I acknowledge now,
at some point that year,
I fell in love with a door.
Sonnet XVAs prized grow the seconds, I long for home,Sonnet XV1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
My mind craves old and familiar things,
Of distant horizons and clouds to come
I can not think, but of these ancient strings,
And though my infant sights were of elsewhere
Yet, native I have called no other land,
I am the will of this impassioned air,
I am the soul of this nomadic sand.
Alas! Like the fumes of a spectral flame
For a love greater than love I must part,
But if I triumph, be it in your name
Which in faraway lands will warm my heart.
And when I die and my last breath is spent
To this heaven let my soul be twice sent.
Fri-end-ship.Fri-end-ship.Fri-end-ship.1 year ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
When I talk, you don’t listen.
You’re just waiting for your turn to speak.
You view every conversation as a competition.
All I can see is the unstoppable movement of your cheeks.
The flow of communication is always re directed back to you.
Almost as if everyone must hear what you have to say.
I’m not denying that half of what you say could actually be true.
But how can so much happen to a person in just one mere day.
What makes it worse is that your stories get recycled and repeated.
I zone in and out of your speeches and know exactly what happens next.
My place in the conversation is to respond and nod when needed.
If you can’t tell me in person, you incessantly try to call me or even text.
I can feel my tolerance and patience gradually wearing thin.
I am not even sure how much longer I can hold it in.
I want to tell you the truth but I don’t know how to phrase it.
Because I know once it is delivered, it is impossible to erase it.
So I have
IndomitusIn this ocean of pen and pageIndomitus9 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I row my skiff till gentle dawn,
And though in paddle I will age;
What pleasure lies in knowledge yon!
What murky seas ravage my oars!
What callous rocks undo my sails!
But oh, past these the sea gull soars!
And so blast these the stalwart whales!
And all be wanting of that light
Of distant gods that line the sky,
And all ye virgins of the night
In drowning you will learn to die.
No leash my Cerberus can tame;
The more I learn, the less I know,
With waxen wings, I fly aflame
And blind the sun before I go.
Sonnet XVIIThis fault be mine, and I alone to blameSonnet XVII1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
'Neath the shadow of my nocturnal deed,
I am sinfully yours, a prince of shame,
O Themis, if you are truth, make me bleed!
Yet, if my lapse in darker hues are found
Seal forth each gash with resin acrid wrap,
My damnation no pain of flesh can wound,
My devil no Christened reverend trap.
I tell you dear friend, leave my soul to be;
Your prayers, your curses shall fall to waste,
From rancor, this satyr heart is free,
Yet bitterness, this rimy tongue shall taste.
Futile the frown or poor Atlas' grudge,
Before heaven or hell; I, I will judge.