aromatic coffee awakens senses
   midst the gestured warmth of radiant
      smiles's 'tween morning brew,
reverently paused to catch
    the awe inspiring  poignancy
               of sunrise's exhilaration,
whilst cozily wrapped in the delightful unfurl
   of captivating poetry's skillful delectation
    a rising ritual begun many blue moons afore,
  tempting consciousness, feeding soulfulness
    enlightening sensibilities as it
        enriches the day's appreciation
               'pon the keen awareness of poets,
tempests from all niches of the world
   coming together amid upheavals and serenity,
ceremoniously dubbed fierce confirmations
      of words expressly borne, communing the
         artfully spirited of resourceful artisans,
     procuring special collective bonds that
               only poesy can wholly dictate,
they look upon us as enigmas
  rather strange breed of puzzling characters,
     as this inexplicable endeavor
        escapes their stifled perceptions
         of conduit's musing reasonable facsimile,
we're merely cognitive passages for
    experiences on common ground
       in realizations of all-too-human foibles
          eccentricities, yearnings and fortitude,
released deliverance of  potpourri
   serving up inky joy beyond expression,
    intention's distinction deciphering
      reflections in meditative affirmations,
breadth of unrestrained beholden visions
   conjured notions of paramount significance
       wherein lies evidence of life's burnt offerings,
beginnings and endings of hearts' indulgences
     wept in resolute  celebrations of existence

                *as only a poet could discernibly translate

he's a much sobered man
when he's drunk

words then flow with elan
he's a jolly hunk.

he's a much sweeter pal
tipsy when he is

nice and warmly liberal
he puts you at ease.

does it so smooth
each inspiring peg

no more uncouth
he's no more a dreg.

when drunk he's at his best
never was a kind sweeter man

unburdened of his heavy breast
he kisses long ignored woman.

when boozed he's passionate no doubt
the hidden emotions are in spate

his heart freely speaks out
opens his secret's floodgate.

next morn he can't just recall
why stands an empty goblet

he lies in smell of alcohol
worries aren't light on his chest.

1

Suddenly, out of its stale and drowsy lair, the lair of slaves,
Like lightning it le’pt forth, half startled at itself,
Its feet upon the ashes and the rags—its hands tight to the throats of kings.

O hope and faith!
O aching close of exiled patriots’ lives!
O many a sicken’d heart!
Turn back unto this day, and make yourselves afresh.

And you, paid to defile the People! you liars, mark!
Not for numberless agonies, murders, lusts,
For court thieving in its manifold mean forms, worming from his simplicity the poor man’s wages,
For many a promise sworn by royal lips, and broken, and laugh’d at in the breaking,
Then in their power, not for all these, did the blows strike revenge, or the heads of the nobles fall;
The People scorn’d the ferocity of kings.

2

But the sweetness of mercy brew’d bitter destruction, and the frighten’d monarchs come back;
Each comes in state, with his train—hangman, priest, tax-gatherer,
Soldier, lawyer, lord, jailer, and sycophant.

Yet behind all, lowering, stealing—lo, a Shape,
Vague as the night, draped interminably, head, front and form, in scarlet folds,
Whose face and eyes none may see,
Out of its robes only this—the red robes, lifted by the arm,
One finger, crook’d, pointed high over the top, like the head of a snake appears.

3

Meanwhile, corpses lie in new-made graves—****** corpses of young men;
The rope of the gibbet hangs heavily, the bullets of princes are flying, the creatures of power laugh aloud,
And all these things bear fruits—and they are good.

Those corpses of young men,
Those martyrs that hang from the gibbets—those hearts pierc’d by the gray lead,
Cold and motionless as they seem, live elsewhere with unslaughter’d vitality.

They live in other young men, O kings!
They live in brothers, again ready to defy you!
They were purified by death—they were taught and exalted.

Not a grave of the ******’d for freedom, but grows seed for freedom, in its turn to bear seed,
Which the winds carry afar and re-sow, and the rains and the snows nourish.

Not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose,
But it stalks invisibly over the earth, whispering, counseling, cautioning.

4

Liberty! let others despair of you! I never despair of you.

Is the house shut? Is the master away?
Nevertheless, be ready—be not weary of watching;
He will soon return—his messengers come anon.