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Wind walks
a tremble walled stalk
apparition
affliction
shed formless
agate mist
drift
shadowless
of grief
Honey candles
rolled of comb
held in the cup
in stone hands
hearth
the peat soothes
dulled light of
lantern yearns
Flight of the winter
ruffles
The feathers to
its precious muzzle
It's night; the day has shut its wilder eyes
and moon descends with stretching silver rays,
it crept where crystal gems in tiny size
are out in wait for lovers' fawning praise.
The hours would slowly go, the rhythm's down,
no flattering, or words of praise expressed,
no laughs, or songs , the sky's about to frown,
the Earth becomes a hell, no one's impressed.
However dim, the dark shall also pass
when dawn in colours show its aureate thread;
extracted tresses of a charming lass
Lin-o-types faster than hand-set
Clickety-click
En's and em's flying
Punctuation imperious!
A shove to start the counter-weight wheel
Push the button to on
Grease the fittings and wipe your hands
Whir of the wheel, faint click of the bearings
Raven-purple ink rollers over the type face
Subdued noise, a cross of crunch and clunk
These old machines had beauty and grace
Deceptive though... NEVER put your hands in there
Faster than you think
She stands there waiting on the sand
Just staring out to sea
With silent murmurings on her lips
She hasn't noticed me
The salt tinged breeze sweeps back her hair
Her clothes mere tattered rags
The tide creeps closer, ever near
Her eyes look lost and sad
Clutched tightly to her pitiful chest
A tiny bundle squalls
Its weakened cry drowned out by waves
My baby for me calls
My master after reading this said
I was a CRAP poet .
You bless my confidence
I admire positive folks like you
have read some of your works too
Beautiful
Hardly a poet.
hoping to be one
some day
one day
if not today
Let my Master say
what he may
by now all know
he condemns more
than one count
on ones fingers
Still we pray for his
invaluable criticism
rainwater
slips into the
underworlds abyss
the little glimmer
colds touch damp shiver
running lean
on rotten brakes
a shoulder ravaged
with nerves all damaged
cars hiss prowling shapes
an echo music in my
head makes
wonderland voodoo
of here and there
puddles like a giants
wake
fest of sleeping dripping
winter drowned
beneath the florid dreams
aground
a raven wears a glistening
crown
...
"Black dog begins to dream"
When black dog begins to dream
of chasing butterflies around the yard
he seems to think they’re real
Exhausted, panting, comes to rest
from this form of vocation,
this chasing of beauty-
His teasing phantoms float up
to the canopies of tree and sky
and there emboldened by air
simply flee
And on they fly as dreams depart
as dreams themselves depart
the garden,
dresses, make up, bras & cigarette
humanities heaviest of cost
one must learn to put self on a shelf
to surrender to unconditional acceptance
love is the essence of one's existence
it extends between both time and space
when I look deep into her eyes
it is then I see a future
filled with hope for a better tomorrow
amidst the sadness and sorrow
still I have become cumbersome with this world
left in peril as if some terror
disturbed
These roses
open up like the flower
we always love to see
we admire ere we fire
and
the fragrance
gives away our desires
what we always admire
what are those
hopefully by now
all know
Be happy
these are always lovely
in books years hence
they remind us
of that incident when
t'were the only witness
when one was being
deflowered
By now all
ought to know
Belaboring semantics overmuch
can deaden souls to rhythms they should heed,
explaining why some poets never touch
the music of the cadence sonnets need.
To hear that inward sound, a grand huzza --
dispense with any tricks you might employ:
tap out a beat and sing, la LA la LA --
then write the way that gives you greatest joy.
While poring over poems we adore
we take to heart the lessons masters teach,
so pick up those loose iambs from the floor
and use them for sweet melodies of speech.