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
an ailing soul bereft of starlight's superb glimmer and woollen warmth. Mayhap, stellate glow in the stillness of tranquil flight, their counsel, console. Humbly, we plea-- hymn of the night, come and tarry awhile.* _ _ __ ✏ ○● °
Were it not for one to play buffoon
or to say of none we're way too soon involved in peddling mass hysteria when it's been held in each posterior consciousness - makers of peace are blessed. So ever to be near or far we at our disposal have in hand a power to write upon our sand.
Once prismatic brilliance;
brilliant only through borrowed light; alone again in darkness, glum; gleams, instant companion of night -- blind to grief and deaf to joy, save by pristine thought, on lonely height: a lone, canine howl reports and echoes, as nocturnal critters hide, out of sight.* ✒ _ ●○ °