In the shadows of stone mountains
Down a fragile ancient road,
Past streams and dreams of glory
Lays a leader bathed in gold.
Haunted by the battlefields of his youth
The forgotten weight of halos old.
A poltergeist of progress
Found downed outside the zone.
Cast off by players unknown
Pretenders covet the Apex throne,
Where Aculites fight like demons
Exorcising respawn beacons
Necromancers in the Thunderdome.
While Tom seems indisposed,
Locked up and throwing rocks
Mocked by the gulag and the snow.
Though we really should have known
The esteemed leader was on his own,
His chute just would not open
Slowmotion to the sound of Chopin,
Commander falls just like a Stone.
The evening seems to sing,
Choirs composed by currents
In obscure keys of humidity.
A lone songbird takes the lead,
Percussion provides ensemble trees.
While the very air we need to breathe
Suffocates, stifles, tries, and succeeds
To bleed the breath from laden lungs.
Throat pleads, begs, and bargains
To demi-gods and heathens,
Deities and demons,
Every creature beneath this sun.
Let this molten grip
If just for a note,
A pause from the pressure.
Silence is a treasure
To be savoured not measured.
Sweet cadence of relief.
There was something in the air that night
That lent itself to magic let the stars shine bright.
While the light of ageing suns fight to be
The one that might ensnare our sight.
Midnight binds the heart to minds
As minds forge constellations
Carved slight upon the evening sky.
Those lines cast in stone
By worn hands long ago,
Tempered in the crucible of time.
Before we reach those warring stars
Or trespass on a wandering Mars.
Before we waken Saturn's rings
Or question Jupiter's reason to be.
Before we knock on Neptune's door
Or wonder if Pluto is rock or more?
The Moon seems to have taken flight,
Conspicuous by its absence
It slipped out of sight
Assured of its command
The master of the night.
From the depths of chaos we departed
Chartered passage to unknown shores,
Past forests and deserts of solitude
To the walls of an ancient war.
Though those walls would crumble,
Rumble, as if of thunders roar.
The silence served would deafen,
Beckons all towards fate's door.
As our feet grow ever weary
From eerie path trod cobbled floor
And souls succumb to violence,
Tyrants of terror but nothing more.
Our shoulders bear the burden
Of verdant lands long lost to time.
The sun-scorched pastures rotten,
Forgotten laws and untold crime.
The serf shall not suffer the baron,
Talons shall pierce their skin no more.
Enwrought by the breath of dragons,
Falcons are born to soar.
Just ten years old
You're smoking that indo.
Kicked your dad in the shin
Jumped out the window.
Didn't know which way to go
Down the street.
You took a left but you left
With no shoes on your feet.
Franky do you remember?
All the cracks in September
Amsterdam's not far away.
Franky do you remember?
All that's left is the embers
And a sense of slow decay.
Carry no fear in your heart
Nor on your shoulders, shame
For the end is nothing more
Than the start by another name.
It is strange how we yearn
For what we have never known.
Nostalgic for a time long past
Before our seeds were sown.
Homesick for a feeling lost,
For a land so green and sure.
For a shore we have never seen,
For waters that have never graced
Nor lapped our weary feet.
For a space we thought was ours
For the darkness that hangs in waiting
Between the gaps among the stars.
For the peace we have never found
For the war we have always sought
For the feelings we seldom caught,
The love of all unbound.
Carry no fear in your heart
Nor on your shoulders, shame
For the end is nothing more
Than the start by another name.
Would that the windswept blooms
Played soft through a valley's morning dew,
A while rested by sun scorched dunes
Embarked on path neither old nor new.
The wind shall choose what it will do,
Which leaves it leaves and those it shall use.
From forrest dark to desert twilight view
An acorn lays a haunting tune.
Song shines bright modicum of truth,
That we are but sand, swept away anew.
The rage is real, I think.
Bruised lip, clenched fists.
A Portrait of a *******.
Ink slipped and left to fade,
A visage that only we create.
Born from all we know,
All we feel, All that pains,
Every manifested sorrow.
We would do well not to dwell
Upon that which we can't control.
But as the years age and grow
The certain turns into the unknown.
Curtains close yet start the show
As the actor dies off stage,
The rains were late this year
Plains barren and parched.
Starved with an awful thirst.
Mouthfuls of sand,
Handfuls of dirt.
Months of hardship
Sow seasons of hurt.
As worship converts to clouds
The Sun bows out,
Proud but yet usurped.
Vulture circles bold and undeterred.
Gaze beholden to a crack torn earth.
I will never believe in your God
But I will always have faith in You.
I care not for what you preach.
I care only for what you do.
What have we become?
When poetry resides
In two lines, then we're done?
Have you nothing more to say?
Pretending to be profound,
Applause all around.
Nothing more than a passing thought.
If thought was required at all?
You call this poetry?
Perhaps I'm just old fashioned,
Believing in meaning
And the power of words.
Yet on occasion i have heard
Voices of angels and demons
Faint but undeterred,
Laughing in the face of mediocrity.
A virus fed by popularity,
So what have we learned?
From your instagram friendly
We realise you have said
Absolutely nothing at all.
This is directed more at me than anyone else.
The storm has much to say,
Ranting through rain
Morse code on window pane.
Triple dots dash to convey,
Glass lashed words
Traced light upon the day.
The wind will have its way,
Whistling through canopies
Leading leaves astray.
Melodies of catastrophe
And cacophonics on display.
He thought he may have caught
Among the snares and creeping vines,
A whisper of a thought
From the leaves and air entwined.
On the savage jungle floor,
The corpse of those that come before,
Testament to an ancient war
Lay bloodied and forlorn.
A trap that's set a hundred times or more.
The words were always just!
The words were just in his mind,
A caricature of conscience
What he wished for he would find.
Yet in the echoes of the moon,
He stood before the snare
And knew it to be bare.
Why then does the forest sing this mournful tune?
A girl knelt shy by shaded riverside
Asking the shadows what they knew.
They told tales of light once spoken by the moon,
A prophecy come true of a girl named Blue
Whose eyes would tame the wild.
Don't worry mum.
I'm worse than you think
But no way near as bad as you fear.
We are savage and we are cruel
And we know well what we do.
The imprints of sycophants
Echoes in blood red rooms.
The certainty of colour
Washed white and hung too soon.
A memory of light,
A bloom of deja vu.
Rewritten and then renewed.
Still we know not what we do.
The past is a sombre portrait,
Watercolour hung askew.
Dust and skin belie the truth
Stroke sure yet misconstrued.
In the maelstrom of intent
Will is broken before it is bent.
A promise spoken, never meant.
Still we know not what we do.
Clouds converge, bow,
Weep for the world below.
A watercoloured grey,
A smeared conglomerate of colour
Traced light upon the day.
A metaphor, I thought,
For where we had lost our way.
One once fought with passion
But with a penchant for decay.
I saw my fundamentals melt.
Hands dealt I would never draw,
A shore so sure it had no law
But an ancient hound with a lazy eye,
A gammy paw and a mangy hide.
Yawned while clouds wept on high,
Snored as silence passed him by.
Dear good friend,
To the masses we pass on a daily basis,
The worn out souls and weary faces
Painted in towers of glass.
Ladies and Gentlemen,
To those indisposed
By inexorable quests.
To the ones that were left
To search for what was right
Till there was nothing left
But memories of light
Blindfolds applied at night.
To the torn shoes,
The poverty we choose to greet.
It is pain, vain,
Somewhat plain to mention
That conversation's become outdated.
Sedated, restrained and correlated
To the denizens of a distant past.
We pass the world in silence.
Ignoring blatant acts of violence
Then claim that it is art.
Our body was well worn,
Born, bled then ill informed.
Dust to adorn a once pristene floor.
Bred to provide countless lives, more.
Martyr to a form it shall never see.
The water flows but cannot know
The extent of its captivity.
A wise man raised his hand,
Declares intent to speak.
A crowd begins to think.
I will turn today to yesterday!
So we can repeat the same mistakes;
In the bound loops of fires fury
Futile fight, hands cuffed by fate.
Beat the horizon of tomorrow today!
Sorrows washed and cast away,
Burning cleanse of sun's fell rays
Cast shadows on sun scorched glades.
Something lurks within the haze
Delays surrender of the sun,
The dark begins to march,
Parched earth drinks the night.
A pounding of the feet
Lets drink Guinness and eat red meat.
Blood flows freely in the streets,
Concrete dreams and broken teeth.
A token for the city
A token for the priest.
The least of all our sins
Wept, confessed, absolved.
Whispers born again in
The hollows of the walls.
The knife feels kind of nice.
Despite the fact it intrudes,
Protrudes from a wounded back.
The price we pay, I guess,
Closeness never quite manifests.
But it's good to know, you know?
Those who feign familiarity
Friendships staged and put on show,
Critics acclaim, shamed curtains close.
Characters who grew into the role
Far fetched with hyperbole.
Lines they speak with finesse
Lies smooth the noose of regret.
Confused they peruse part two.
I think therefore I forget.
The sea is swept in mystery
She confides in me no more.
No whispers in the shells
Or echoes from the shore.
You do not argue with the wind,
You can not bargain with the sky.
Standing back to back with mountains
We watch and weep as angels die.
For the face of life is fleeting,
Tweeting, tapping at your door,
Ravens that won't relent,
Yet ones you can't ignore.
But I'm boring you I'm sure.
I was talking about the ocean,
How we dont speak no more.
It's not that we don't get on
We still have much to say.
But words are made of water
Written in the waves.
Now the tide is out,
The sea seems
We wage wars with words,
Whetstoned sharpened wit.
Wounds win rounds of applause.
While metaphors are mustered,
Rusted dictionaries dusted,
Cobwebs shed from unread shelves.
Pikes of pronunciation
Portraits of ourselves.
While poetry parries,
Prepares and rallies,
Stares down violet valley below.
The violence of lavender
Shines like silver in the snow.
A scent sentenced to silence,
Flowers on death row.
Ocean spray flays ancient cloisters,
Darkening already withered stone.
Moonlit towers crumble, humbled
By the weight of stolen thrones.
Sound proclaimed in hollow domes
Found shallow, wanting and alone.
While wind rips down forgotten walls
Tapestries tap out in hallowed halls.
Memories shed shadows in the fall.
The call of rust, echoes of war.
Ruin and dust for now and evermore.
We cling to dead air
Holding on to broken promises
And feelings that are not there.
We dwell on the scars
Carved with care across our heart.
Trying to place our finger on
The beginning of the end
Or the end of the start.
Our dearest departed
Left us used and disheartened.
While the sins of the father
Gave birth to disaster
Born in the shape of a man.
The harder we cling to shadows
The more we long for shade.
The more our grip shall weaken
As those we love slip far away.
We float on unkown oceans
In boats more made for land.
The sails have ceased to function,
And our boots are laced with sand.
The rudder is unresponsive,
The first mate seems quiet too.
The ship has started leaking,
Weakend wood and stale stew.
The course was never charted,
This was known among the crew.
A passage for the faint of heart,
The bard and the jester too.
These denizens of darkness
Embark with the morning dew.
Depart with mist horizons
To find the start of something new.
For months we sailed
Through winter times,
On waters cold yet still serene.
The memories of warmer climes
Seem like nothing but a dream.
Cannons fire, deckhands scream,
Ship splintered by the sea.
Driftwood caught in ocean's sway
Swept up then cast away.
I miss finding your hair
On jumpers you had never worn,
I miss the way our chargers
Plugged in together at the wall.
I miss the way you looked at me
When now all I see is scorn
I miss the way you seemed to care
The way we stood against the storm.
I miss feeling as if I had worth,
Finally, I wasn't alone on this earth.
I miss huddling for warmth,
Cuddling, chocolate and the hearth.
I miss you when we had heart
The days I would drive you home in the dark.
I miss the days I was by your side
Shoulder there every time you cried.
I miss not being miserable,
I miss wanting to be alive.
Mostly I miss being missed by you,
That sweet lie of I love you to.
We are worn like winter coats
Held close while wild winds rage.
The scarf that suffocates the throat
The cloak that provokes the rain.
While the weather waits and wonders
Whether it will weep or thunder,
What we wear seems outnumbered,
Cotton caught out in the rain.
The coat now hangs forgotten,
Left to rot with wet socks,
Winter frocks and all things sodden.
The ghosts of colder days
Locked up and tucked away,
Moth eaten and decayed.
Waiting for the weather,
Wondering if whether
We will ever be worn again.
Earth has lost an angel,
Heaven has gained one hell of a man.
Clear skies are often coldest,
Tempests' temper seems subdued.
Sunlight skims the tiles of rooftops,
Admires the view.
The sky was never blue.
Obsidian haze and gunmetal days
Light the life we choose.
Broken yet not dismayed.
Too long we have been walking,
Proud in our shroud of the grey.
My brother, my teacher,
My foe and my friend.
Our ghosts shall speak
Once more at the end.
What kind of magician are you?
One who would carve a heart in two.
Offered as truth, the audience view
Miraged oceans made of sand.
Light retracts, distracts,
Sight fights sleight of hand.
The eyes will see what you will show,
The mind will always think it knows.
The heart will lie, cheat and steal.
While smiles conceal, frowns reveal
That still we can't say what is real.
I am folly, I am fury.
I am ruin and I am rage.
I am every time that you have faltered,
Every time you were afraid.
I am pestilence and I am plague.
I am every roar of faded glory,
I am every cry of shame.
I am war, I am worship,
I am hunter and I am boar.
I am every lash of slavers whip,
Every chain cast to the floor.
We were poets,
Hearts etched upon our sleeve
The lords of our intent,
Words bloomed for all to see.
Each branch of thought considered,
Whittled to express.
Carving the forest in our likeness
We paved the landscape with our breath.
Woods would sway in idle days
Sunkissed glades lay bathed in gold.
Nights waylaid by dancing maids
Cheap ale and tales of old.
Fires burn, flames unfold.
Tender clutch of the cold.
We tend to forget the bargained,
Up rivers and creeks
Paddles, disowned by the meek,
Cast away to distant shores.
Fade to grey.
We become poets once more.
Days are dark, nights lay long,
Burning bridges keep us warm.
Wearily walking this road again
We bare the weight of the tinder,
The whispers and the flame.
What was once,
Shall never be the same.
The past floats as ash
Shadows cast on fallen rain.
While the willows weep in vain
The canopies confer in koans
The wind is passing wisdom,
Through leaves and seeds unsown.
Among the days of December
A new member joins the fold.
Born of love and melodies
A song sung once and then retold.
Hope wrapped close in silence,
Cotten swathed defiance,
Far from the tyrants of this world.
For a moment there is peace,
Time catches breath,
Young prince lays sound asleep.
Counting the bleats of passing sheep
Your parents guard the door.
For when you wake from slumber
And satisfy your hunger,
Opened eyes shall discover,
That all this world is yours.
For Ronnie Sharma 11/12/16
An Iron Sky, sighs.
Provides the rusted
Rhythm of the night.
Wisps of winter light
Smitten by the smile of night.
That obelisk of shade,
That monolith of shadow,
Wounds carved shallow onto skin,
Flesh lays fallow
Till iron breaths again.
Banished to the grey.
A conglomerate of clouds
Surround and shroud the day.
A world found still
Shrill sound of silence.
Echoes of shadows
Grace violence on our walls.
The blood of our compatriots
Our lovers, our fools.
Ours, not yours.
Potential and not a tool.
"Too little, too late"
Muttered the lips of fate,
For the ending is well overdue.
The wind speaks in warnings
Passed fast from leaf to leaf.
The rustle of the undergrow
Stirs firm in disbelief.
Pitters and patters scatter
The fallen pain.
The last acorn of the season
A final act of treason.
A beacon among the coming rain.
Time sits slouched,
Whisky supped from a shoe.
Space takes his place,
Beard smothered in brew.
Hope sprawls eternal,
Smiles, on the face of the few.
The night is masked,
Casked honey dew.
Distorts the view.
Glazed by a hazy
Feint green plume.
Time takes a sip from
Weathered worn out shoe.
As space wipes his face
Hope yawns on que.
The night is released,
At least for now, until
The fall of the morning dew.
Again the fist unfolds.
Fingers unfurl red
Petal blossom of a rose.
Scent of a broken nose,
Stain shed on shaven heads.
Kings with no crown nor throne
Lay prone in whitewashed beds.
Thorns in their own sides,
****** in their own right.
These manicured monsters
Cry a challenge unto the night.
Marching on through kebab dreams,
Weeks 'for we speak of Halloween.
The wise are always troubled
And the troubled seldom sleep.
For the path is dark with
The past imparts pressure,
Weary woe marked feet.
The pillow lays drenched.
Sweat beads billow flames of fear.
The sound of all our choices
Rung clear for all to hear.
The cries of countless voices
Found close to passing ears
But ghosts talk most in whispers,
Lest the living hear their tears.
Her eyes, Belie,
The darkness deep inside.
Her smile, Defiles,
Laws of nature running wild.
Her hair, It don't care,
If it's right or fair.
She'll take you by your soul,
Eat your heart in just one go.
Her tongue, it runs,
This city of the sun.
In her mind, you'll find,
A piece of the divine
Lost within her thighs.
Don't fight the coming tide,
Embrace the genocide.
Sand proscribed, a bandaid tried
And weary from repeat.
Lost to the waves, sweat and sleet.
Ocean licks brine from
Timeless, restless feet.
What is the promise of a stranger worth?
Lavender smiles and honeyed words,
Submerged in the sound of hope disturbed.
Usurped and flayed for misbehavior
Hung from a tree, sacrificial favour.
The flavour was sweet, at least for a while.
A taste of haste fried ripe in denial.
Smothered in smiles and candyfloss
Lightly glazed glances, a dusting of loss.
A promise made pays a heavy cost.
We greet life with idle sighs,
Slowly satisfied by sightful eyes.
Glancing at wrists handcuffed to time.
Bound to age rusting, cast iron cage
Displayed by fine wrought bars of rage.
Captivited by captivity,
Tied to lies scrawled bold on fading page.
Decieved by beliefs and words that saved.
Yet don't dismay.
Pay no toll for the hole
You carve within your soul.
That debt is paid in full,
Through sweat and toil
Blood set ripe to boil,
Shed countless lives ago.
They never gave a ****.
A silhouetted master plan,
A shadow of a man,
Summons a feeble grasping hand.
A grip that's none too tight,
Sand slips through fickle fingers' sight.
Hour glasses and tricks of the light.
The hand of time, immovable might.
Rivers and oceans in our minds
Defy, turn the tide, divide.
Ox bow truths and eroded lies.
Mountain streams serenade the blind.
And those unwilling to see.
Blinkered to the plight of man.
Banned from the light of eternity.
Echoes run amok.
Shadows of sound
Then drown in rock.
The bleating of a flock,
Lost on familiar ground.
A shepherd led to slaughter
By his daughter he was found,
Eyes locked on long lost clouds,
The shroud that might hide his shame.
A mind made of marble
And pristene granite walls.
Oak carved skirting boards.
Prize their ivory pawns.
On unto the fight,
Iron locks with horn.
Sweet Mother of pearl,
Stern Father of pride,
Find a place called home,
Stand sentry for the night.
Fountains maintain order
The force of flowing water,
Both violent and yet serene.
Soothing currents of the sea
Slaying dragons in our dreams.
Due laden leaves.
Fog spun in webs
Draped loose on
A Forrest on it's knees
Bleeds honest tears of autumn,
Pleads solace from the slaughter,
Screaming "Is this all that we can be?"
The wisps of white washed memories
Haunt the glade for those that see.
Conscripts of the ancient mist,
Souls called forth then cast to sea.
Faces reflected in glass
Images of beauty,
Fleeting, never last.
Give way to those most lost.
But every road has its cost.
Gold or service rendered,
Time and emotion tendered.
Pass the host a glass!
Something which sparkles,
Distracts from this debacle
And farcical display.
She necks the glass,
Walks off into the night
Yet not afraid.
A bleak horizon. No sign of life
Save weak paw prints,
Etched light upon the white
Expanse of silence.
Boreal moon rising belies the violence
That had ensued.
One set of prints where once there were two.
Fallen prince among wolves
Arctic Gods have had their due.
As the wind howled, cried and blew
The hunter stopped and shuddered.
Wondered, about the beast he slew.
The wind cries once more.
The wind or the wolves?
He is no longer so sure.