droplets of honey--
your words varnish my waking mind, coaxing me to leave all, behind gone, but ever remaining never learning held, ever close but never belonging cradled light - metaphed demise on a spring morning melting, paraffin wax; now a shadow of a hand, held tight in the deep of night
an orange sat contentedly
or so it seemed to a quick eye its skin glowed invitingly reflected table top sheen only to bring a belated sigh when all at once it rolled and rushed and crashed on a cold polished marble floor
Is remorse a prison to the soul
the sole utterance of reproach that if not to myself be True the possible best in life accrue what if regret creeps on the morning a thief stalking the shadow of dawn (re)fresh from bare motive drawing crystal arteries of a day that is new or shall we allow the mind meander let it's "work" find itself crowning there in its core uncover simplicity strip away a mournful state of heart ?
previously entitle 'restless'
revolutions of the second hand innumerable to the watchful eye has not comforted this bruising nor can this heart run far enough away from the pulsing gangrene when off the darkest mile it tread in the cooling of a fading day that gentle crushing fixed completely drowning in despondent smiles wafting wavelets forlorn, wailing, whispering affections now silent wanting a happier, more innocent time .
In this lifetime of striving childhood's tentative bumbling, youth's arrogant impertinence, middle-aged regimented conceit, in old age, encrusted intolerance; when will we likely ever win? .
filled with melancholy
mood lit by lampshade names and faces dissipate weathered post it sticks if only the memory did
some time, somewhere out there
someone had said that one part of poetry is a reservoir that holds all the sadness of this world What then does this say of a poet? it is not seen how that portion poets bear bare on virginal leaves all their flight and fears are tears morphed in pressed ink
as soon as it's spoken
as soon as it's heard words e v a p o r a t e words depreciate so we try to keep them frozen and chisel them onto poems with a hope, come melt-time a fossilised facsimile resides
How poetry can be seen as mining for gems, cutting, polishing, presenting... perhaps develops a good attitude toward the 'fashioning' of poems.
When your winter breaks into spring
think of new and wonderful things while autumn creeps passed your window break this winter free of sorrow wait upon seasons - wait on life live each day loving - escaping weave each day's new strands - engaging one day looking back - mem'ries rife.
his tears used to wake him
from an unduly prolonged delay her smiles used to hurt him for their beauty his heart, dismay: their love had locked them up and threw away the only key and mile upon mile of wishful thinking pushed them further away, though free he looked into a well-used mirror to find the devil he danced with was himself and the fireflies that once lit their canopy have also lost their former glee