I look the last this land I leave behind —
Timeless as water, bountiful as sorrow,
Abode today, a memory tomorrow;
Her contours etched untarnished in my mind —
How sweet our first encounter; how unkind
That time which man is wont to beg and borrow
Brought forth this bitter twilight ere a morrow
When all our self-same sunsets will have shined —
    Henceforth sunrise shall tarry ere it greets me;
    The midday sun shall cast a sterner gaze
    As paths unknown reveal their hidden troves;
    Home is the sacrifice for those who journey
    Without return;  We venture through the groves
    Of doubt and fear to set our lives ablaze.

Wake me not from solitude
To tell me I am alone;
Place no cup of kindness here
Beneath my silent throne;
Lift your gaze not heavenward,
Look not unto the sky,
For I am one lost to this world,
For I was born to die

Break no stone, nor cut no bough,
And trouble not the soil;
Make no mark to why or how
Suspended was my toil;
Bring no breath, no uttered word,
No sentiment of joy,
For I am one lost to this world,
For I was born to die

Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Frisky horses in the glade—
Variegated flowers there grow
In pulchritude never to vade.

Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Beauteous soaring olden trees
Whose leaves wherever you go
Whisper Monroe in the breeze.

Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Chirping birds in the vales
That sing merry notes not sorrow
Whilst reeling off olden tales.

Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Opalescent clouds there waltz
In splendiferous coats all aglow
In hues of mulberry and topaz.

Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Whisperin’ enchanted glassy rills
Without care like the hunter’s arrow
Peregrinate beneath rolling hills.

Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Many a sequestered strange bush
Whose hinds in fresh numbers as roe
Gallivant to churring of many a Thrush.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros.
May/14th/2021. Evergreen State.

Eons ago in many a vanished day,
There once stood a Hut by The Grey Hill
Twixt trees by no wind stirred didst sway.
Her floor of silvery shine like a sun-kissed rill—

Of all bird's feathers was her roof,
Her door of burnished gold hewn,
Of chalcedony her walls. Beneath her roof
A vase of all hues of a mulberry moon.

And In that Hut dwelt an aged aged man
Whose strange and novelty curly beard
Kissed the ground, and as white as a swan.
No string of hair beheld upon his head.

His fiery eyes were as steady as forever,
His voice akin to a roaring thunder's tapestry,
He who was the last of dwarves of Nineva,
That now wherever they dwell is but a mystery.

One perfectly glorious noontide, so they say;
He took to hidden paths of an enchanted moor,
And as a wind surreptitiously vanished away
To be beheld by mortals nevermore—nevermore.

So vanished that novelty Hut of The Grey Hill,
And now, peregrinators who peregrinate in that land
Hear mellifluous music like whispers of a rill,
And at eventide behold a vase in a colorful band

With no strings attached—but pendulous in air
Like as a motionless cloud hanging upon the sky
Whilst gazing about mountains in robes so fair,
So it hangs in opalescent hues unto any naked eye.

Alas! Though extramundane the vase—none canst remove,
For when thou dare gravitate, sweet music no more,
But discordant melodies like as a hateful wave
Beating against a galleon, & thou art spirited evermore.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros.
Tacoma, Evergreen State, 03/02/21.

One red rose stays blushing in my garden
I caught a glimpse of it in the early dawn
On the carpet of green, as a lovely dame it does sway
Flashing hues of contrast on a dull monsoon day

A flower with petals of such delicate contours
Yet sheltered by sharp stinging thorns that pierce
Rain drops dripping off its soft ruddy face
As blood rushing from a wound’s open surface

Fairer far than anything, one can envision
Its petals, woven and spun by angels of heaven
Oh symbol of grace, you rock me in delight,
And in me a thousand poetic fancies ignite!