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Tryst May 2019
I am — You are — He is — She is — We are —
A populace of conjugated verbs,
All congregated like a bunch of herbs
Wrapped up in twine, with never thyme to spare —

And Basil is too busy now to care —
He roots around the meters at the kerbs
For fumbled coins lost by “them from the burbs”,
And on a lucky day he looks to share

With Rosemary a coffee and a cake,
Always a takeaway, they daren’t go in
For though their coins are welcome, not so they,
And so, like king and queen, they leave the din
And hold their court in subways to partake
Of feasting on their banquet, out the rain.
Tryst May 2014
A lonesome voice began a mournful air,
As bowing low, it moved amongst the trees;
Its booming tones exuding sad despair,
Disseminating, on a wistful breeze --
A soft sweet voice came drifting down from high,
As bowing swift, it moved with fluent grace;
Its ringing song effusing endless joy,
As two lost voices shared a first embrace --
Their unity, a ringing pack of bells,
And canon drawn midst Ursa's watchful gaze;
Their song a tune that nothing ever quells,
Its tempo strong until their end of days;
        Oft’ times, the canon booms, the bells will ring,
        As two more lonely voices learn to sing
Tryst Aug 2014
How green the grass beneath my feet,
A vibrant gown with verdant strands
Of earthly fabric, grown replete
With woven blades from nature's hands;

Yet envied eyes look from this scene
To distant hills in far off vales,
And dare to dream of fairer greens
In secret glades down hidden trails;

Yet still my eyes do strain to pry
O'er oceans and the briny seas
Where jaded mountains clamber high
Above the glistened emerald leas;

Yet here beneath my weary feet,
This green green grass is where I'll stay,
And when my days are all complete,
Beneath this grass is where I'll lay.
Tryst Nov 2015
Beneath Parisian skies she lies
In slumber, dreaming in her bed
Of yore gold leaves burned autumn red,
As cobbled streets cold rumors spread
Reciting her demise.

As summer hides from prying eyes
And winter looms to take her stead,
A fallen queen will raise her head
And cobbled streets rejoice to tread
Beneath Parisian skies.
Tryst Oct 2016
If it were I, a hunkered mass
Of unkempt hair and tangled rags,
Lain prone beneath the underpass,
Enclaved in chattel bulked-out bags,

If it were I, alone, afraid,
Tight-bitten lips in silent prayer,
And listless eyes, all hope decayed,
And slumped, oppressed, done by despair,

And if you cast my shadowed shape,
Would you come seek my name?
Or look as I for quick escape,
And thence to bear my shame.
Tryst May 2014
My genteel shepherd,
                                                      F­ondly I recall
The beauty of your Lignon, where we'd share
Neath monuments around your stately hall,
A fleeting moment free from any care.

Embracing midst that noble rustic arch
With marble stone emblazed with bas relief,
Where Poussin's likeness captivates the heart
To tell the tale of Arcadia's grief,

Those shepherds and their shepherdesses gaze
Upon the tomb, Utopia's demise;
Their faces full of woe for darker days,
As humbly now, your servant bids goodbye.

        Yours always, in memoriam and so,

        Adieu,

                Et in Arcadia ego.
In memory of Lady Elizabeth Anson, nee Yorke (1725 -1760).
On researching the Shepherds monument at Shugborough Hall, I discovered a letter (written in French) from Elizabeth to Thomas Anson, describing with fondness her recent visit to the stately home.  Elizabeth went on to wed George Anson, First Lord of the Admiralty.  The monument features a copy of "Les Bergers d'Arcadie" (The Arcadian Shepherds), a painting by Nicolas Poussin.  The inscription on a tomb within the painting reads "Et In Arcadia Ego" (Even in Arcadia, I am), meaning that even in a place as utopian as Arcadia, Death cannot be avoided.  The monument also features the letters "O.U.O.S.V.A.V.V", which have never been successfully explained, and which ignited my interest in this fascinating story.  This sonnet is a tribute to the Lady, written in the style of a letter, which seemed somehow appropriate.
Tryst Apr 2015
When I am gone will these words still remain?
Pure thought without a voice or merriment;
What if my life was all for this refrain?

An angel sifted neurons in my brain,
To seek for aught of which I should repent;
When I am gone will these words still remain?

My demons tunnelled through me like a train,
Cajoling me to do their ill portent;
What if my life was all for this refrain?

My haunted past still lingered like the rain
And soaked me in a wave of malcontent;
When I am gone will these words still remain?

My soul was but a solitary grain,
That bloomed to grow until it's time was spent;
What if my life was all for this refrain?

Beyond my years, when long my bones have lain
Past living years of those who may lament,
When I am gone will these words still remain?
What if my life was all for this refrain?
Tryst Jun 2015
Abandoning Medusa,
Four hundred boarded boat and raft
As angry storms abused her,
The sandbank held her firm and fast
And each fresh wave might be her last,
So each man went unto his craft
And headed out to sea

I watched her mass still gleaming
In moon's spotlight upon the rocks
And fading as to dreaming,
As oarsmen pulled with cursèd tongues
To take the strain and drag our throngs
That clung to life on floating stocks
Imprisoned by the sea

oh what a sight, to see our raft as laden down as she,
with little boats and fastened ropes to tow her o'er the sea


Men watched for signs of treason,
In fear of those who may decline
To see the light of reason,
And climbing off our haven perch
To strike toward the bobbing lurch
Of boats connected to the line
That towed us o'er the sea

A silver streak went flashing
As blade reflected of the moon
To hew the mooring's lashing;
No longer bound by fetid weight
The oarsmen pulled and with a great
Relief they moved away, and soon
Our raft was lost at sea

with cold dismay, we watched horizon swallow boats with glee,
when all were gone, we stood as one, abandoned to the sea


Clinging to the single mast
And each to each were firmly gripped
As sinking neath the living mass
The makeshift raft that floated free
Was covered by the foaming sea
And each man feared lest if he slipped
He's lost unto the sea

Water covered o'er our waists
And each with barely room to stand,
One hundred fifty doomed to fates
That ne'er a one could yet foresee
As each looked onwards helplessly
To glimpse the hope of promised land
Beyond the raging sea

has any scene more wretchèd been observed I ask of thee?
behold our sight and awful plight, held captive by the sea


For food one barrel only
Of biscuits that was tossed and thrown
Into the frigid roiling sea
And when we pulled it from the waves
Wet biscuits soaked to salted paste
Were swift devoured, and left with none
Our hunger cursed the sea

Our thirst became a torment
With only casks of wine to drink
And all the time to lament
The petty fight that caused the loss
Of all the water sadly tossed
Towards the edge and o'er the brink
Into the vasty sea

our sunburnt skins were blistered, we were hopeless as could be,
we prayed for night until the fright of darkness on the sea


Men turned upon their brothers,
Each fighting for an inch of space
And men screamed for their mothers,
As clubs were swung and axes heaved,
As bones were smashed and heads were cleaved,
And so began our human race
Surviving on the sea

The stench of early morning
Brought retching from the strongest tar
As light from a new dawning
Unveiled the carnage of the scene,
Men dead and dying, limbs hacked clean,
No time would heal the mental scar
Of those still trapped at sea

if you would listen further, I implore your eyes to see
the vision of our hopelessness upon the endless sea


One day passed to another
And every day more men were lost
To hunger or their brother,
And as our numbers swift declined
Starvation ruled most ev'ry mind,
And saw the thing we craved the most
Right there upon the sea

At first it started slowly,
One haggard man with wildling eyes
Took up a blade and boldly,
He carved a piece of rotting flesh
And to a man we held our breath
And watched as he devoured his prize
Upon the ghastly sea

With little hesitation
Some other men took up the lead
And with some trepidation,
I eyed the corpse and followed suit,
Slicing his leg above the boot,
And wolfed it down such was my need
Upon that evil sea

I ask not for forgiveness friend, I offer thee no plea,
You cannot know, you were not there upon that dreadful sea


Yet still my tale has sorrow,
That I have not the heart to tell
So courage I must borrow,
For all should know the tragic deeds
That show the truth, how man succeeds
When placed within the living hell
Of endless days at sea

One quarter turned to madness,
Where midnight waits with bloodied hands
To strike the screaming masses
And feast upon the sick and lame
With flesh prized higher than a name,
We turned with eyes like burning brands
And stared unto the sea

the weak were dead who still drew breath, they knew as well as we,
their lives were owed to pay our debt in homage to the sea


Some thirteen days we lived there
Before we caught the sight of sails
And rescued from our nightmare,
We crept away to wander home
But never can we be alone
Forever watched by wretchèd souls
We left upon the sea

So here my tale is ended,
One hundred fifty went aboard
And fifteen men descended,
Our raft was left to float away
And maybe still it floats today
With hungry souls forever moored
Upon the raging sea
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Raft_of_the_Medusa
Tryst Apr 2015
Beyond the realm of ev'ry living thing,
If testaments of old have any sway,
Therein resides a man born to be king.

Upon a lowly path, he sought to bring
Goods news to those who seek a better way
Beyond the realm of ev'ry living thing.

His guiding star, an angel on the wing,
Beckoned the wise unto the place he lay:
"Therein resides a man born to be king!"

He healed the weak, he helped the lame to spring!
And led the blind to see the coming day
Beyond the realm of ev'ry living thing.

His life betrayed, he felt the mortal sting
Of death; And of his tomb the wise would say:
"Therein resides a man born to be king."

Arisen by his father, angels sing
To preach the gospel, routing out dismay:
"Beyond the realm of ev'ry living thing,
Therein resides a man born to be king!"
Easter wishes to one and all! x
Tryst Jan 2015
Oh father dear, petrarchan patriarch,
Thy gifted words of thy divinity
Portray the depth of thine own trinity,
And blessed are we who know thy craftsman's mark

And Blessed Are Thee, Thy Daughter Marian,
Who Walks In Beauty Like The Bright Sunlight
Where Flowers Grow And Faeries Do Delight
To Dance In Summer Glade and Autumn Glen

And Hilda, blessed are thee and all that's thine,
The gloom of shadowed valley thou has known
Yet love and life shall ever be thine own,
Oh blessed are thee and all thou holds divine

For thee, thy Hilda and thy Marian,
My blessings always and anon,

                         Amen.
A humble response to "Tribute Sundry: Tryst"
By Timothy: http://hellopoetry.com/timothy/
Tryst Jan 2020
One hundred and seventy six
Were murdered within a few ticks —
Now to hide from a war,
We’ll pretend we’re quite sure,
Their missile was launched just for kicks
Tryst Jul 2023
Bluebells, chimeless cups --
Scented veils o'er hills and dales
Whence the dew-bird sups

Bluebells 'neath the moon --
Velvet rugs for slugs and bugs
In the gloaming gloom

Bluebells in the woods --
Bobbing seas beneath tall trees,
Lovely little buds
Tryst Apr 2015
The peace and goodwill
Of Christmas -- Pitch invasion
At final whistle.
Tryst Mar 2015
Beside the boarded windows,
A faded painted sign:

STOP!
No sinners welcome here!

*Come in if you're divine
Tryst Aug 2018
How poor votes are sold —
Dreams of rainbow unicorns
And a *** of gold
Tryst Apr 2015
Ill-gotten knave!  Thy witless candle burns
Bright as a baboon's ****!  Thy gnarlèd brows
Greet, meet and mingle like the wildling ferns
And thy breath turns and churns insides of cows!
Thou stompest me? Ha! Bring thy brothers all,
Beneath my steely boot thou shall be trod!
Dust be thy supper, feast upon thy fall,
Eat hearty of thy just deserted sod!
Thou comest hither with thy merry folk,
Thou japes a merry jest upon my kin?
Thy bandy leggèd jiggery a joke,
To spilleth of mine cup is thine own sin!
        If thou be not afraid, let thee not hide,
        My gauntlet speaks! Will thou comest outside?
I may have been drinking when I wrote this...(hic!)
Tryst May 2014
Such joy a day can bring to hearts of men,
The trees bedecked, in finest autumn hue;
A throng of merriment upon the heath,
The glistened lilac, wrought in morning dew.

The drummer boys, a-beating on their drums,
Old peddlers pushing carts, piled high with wares;
Beggars, worn and haggard, as their clothes,
And women, in their finest, catching stares.

The roaring cheers as horse parades go by,
Delivering up the bounty of the feast;
The VIPs a-riding in fine style,
Their open carriage, drawn behind the beast.

As one by one, they climb above the crowd,
Their speeches cheered, with jeers and playful boos;
Then swiftly swinging, onwards with their tour,
The crowds go jostling, chasing better views.

The butcher greets the VIPs with glee,
And demonstrates his mastery of meat;
With sharpened knives, a-gleaming in the sun,
His chopping rhythym keeps a steady beat.

As shadows lengthen, slowly crowds disperse,
With pondrous looks, a day to e'er remember;
And every year, its carnival once more,
Lest we forget, the fifth day of November.
Guy Fawkes and his fellow conspirators attempted to blow up the Houses of Parliament.  They were sentenced to be hung, drawn and quartered.  In theory, this meant you were hung until dead, your body was dragged through the streets tied behind a horse, and then your body was hacked to pieces and scattered, so your soul could never rest.  Of course, there are always loopholes in the law.  They were instead, hung (momentarily), just enough to feel the noose tighten.  They were dragged (on a carriage) behind a horse, and thus were delivered in relatively good health to the quartering block.  Guy Fawkes was fortunate; so weak from torture, his neck broke during the hanging, killing him instantly.  His companions weren't so lucky.
Tryst Nov 2018
A *** of earl grey             -- Clay container (3)
Is the *****, they say,       -- Inclined lea (5)
From unrighteous ***     -- Turf retainer (3)
To the hand of ***.          -- Deity (3)
Tryst Sep 2014
"Let's dance!"* she cried, her hair swept back
Her golden trailing hair
Her arm moved swift as lightning and
She darted forth a slender hand
To force an unprovoked attack
That forced him from his chair

"What's this?" he said, his eyes were keen
His striking blue-green eyes
He watched her moves unfolding and
He countered with a steady hand
A move that she had never seen
Denying her the prize

Now back and forth, they whirled and twirled
Each pushing for a chance
Her golden hair hung loose and free
His striking eyes shone bright with glee
Their colored banners both unfurled
As each took up the dance

As he bore down upon her front
She left herself exposed
He ****** in deep into the gap
And fell into her subtle trap
Encircling him, she heard him grunt
And saw his eyes were closed

"So soon?" she grinned, her lips upturned
"A shame you couldn't wait!"
He smiled and then he held her tight
And in the flickered candlelight
He looked into her eyes that yearned
And said, *"You win! Checkmate!"
First published Monday 29th September 2014, 12:00am AEST.
Tryst Apr 2015
This child of mine is falling
And the future looks quite grim,
Down steep-sided ramps, where hooks and clamps
Will try to fit it in

This heart of mine is calling
And is pleading for a chance,
When the sorting stops, and the baby drops,
Let it be in safe hands

The boxes wait, all made of glass,
With see-through lids and golden clasps
And they each rest on a table,
With a neatly written label

This child of mine is rolling
Through the whirring clicks and clanks,
And it passes by with a muffled cry,
Towards the waiting banks

This heart of mine consoling
For the future yet foretold,
When the baby drops and the glass lid locks
Beneath the clasps of gold

The boxes wait, all made of glass,
With see-through lids and golden clasps
And they each rest on a table,
With a neatly written label
Tryst Jun 2014
I believe the children are our future
Give them guns and teach them how to fight
Show them how to defend our nations pride
Tell them of those who died
Fighting for freedom
Let our childrens blood run dry
As we stand aside and watch them die

I decided long ago
Never to **** in the name of freedom
If I live, or if I die
At least I've asked the questions why
When will the war-mongers ever cease?
How many have to die in the name of peace?

We follow leaders, blindly
As they lead us into war
Should we not question
Just what it is we're fighting for?
Based on the tune of a well known song.
Tryst Dec 2016
I walked the streets of Dundalk, Maryland
In Baltimore, when winters shiver shook
Bright festive baubles clung in every nook
And flickering lights from windows gaily spanned
And by Papapsco Church I paused to stand
And gazed upon a host of the good book
And open-mouthed I felt compelled to look
Upon a scene obscene to understand
As ragged folk on benches tried to sleep
And county folk with badges moved them on
And pinned a blunt citation to church door
That shamed the reverend that tried to keep
Poor homeless folk from freezing evermore
At Christmas in a land most Christian
https://www.yahoo.com/news/maryland-church-ordered-to-evict-homeless-or-pay-12000-fine-101323402.html
Tryst Dec 2014
She walks on duty, through the night
Of coughing calls and sleepless sighs
And in the dim and pallid light
She stalks the ward with drooping eyes;
Thus patients rest within her sight
Which keeps them safe from their demise

One patient more, one break the less,
As frantic hands prepare the space
Which someone left in such a mess
So now she works at twice the pace
Whilst hiding signs of inner stress
With grimaced smile upon her face

And on that bed, and in the throe,
A deathly pale old patient went;
She held his hand and mopped his brow
His weary angel, heaven sent;
His vital signs began to grow
As she collapsed, her goodness spent.
Based on Lord Byron's superb poem.
Tryst Jun 2014
Take me by the hand,
Lead me to that special place
Where your heart resides;

Tell me of the one you love,
Who holds your heart so tightly bound,
Crushing your chest, stifling your breath;

Show me that someone,
The one you cannot live without,
And yet somehow you do, each day;

Let me turn you around,
And show you all the lonely hearts,
That beat in vain, ever yearning for your love.
Tryst Jul 2015
Come, silver moon, alight on troubled clouds,
Gift them thy saintly glow lifting the gloom
Levied below, with flowery haloed buds
Springing forth like the lamb from mother's womb,

Light up anew hedgerows and quilted fields
Where cattle sleep in clusters like faint stars,
Constellations huddled upon the wolds,
Breath nebulous as fogging stale cigars;

Ill omens thrive to drift in darkest times
From cloud to stony cloud above the night,
Watching for victims from high lofted climes,
Raining full pent up fury of their might:

Come, silver moon, gift troubled clouds thy lining,
Hope lives in thee as long as thou art shining!
Tryst Jul 2015
Oh lonely code thy process all forlorn
Loops but to toil in thankless servitude
Unpraised for wit but savaged with ill scorn
At each found bug or flaw that thou exude

Yet if thou fork and then do spawn a child
A mother's mirror born of innocence
To share life's load, transactions reconciled
In mutex'd memory twixt each paired instance

Thy yield increased would empty buffers make
To give thee pause to take a cycled breath
And running on anon until a break
Or Control-C brings unto thee a death

An orphaned child thy memory would keep
Or die, or zombify in restless sleep
The parent-child process lifecycle in the C programming language on the Unix operating system.
A parent process "forks" to spawn a child process.  The child process is an (almost) exact copy of the parent.  If the parent dies, the child process becomes an orphan.  Sometimes when a process dies, it is not cleaned up correctly, and becomes a zombie process.  (Who thought software engineers have no sense of humour?)
Tryst Jul 2014
Tick Tock Tick Tock,
What time is it?
How long do we have?

Can't wait for the weekend,
Is it really only Monday?

Holidays in a few short months,
Then Christmas, then Easter,
And another birthday!

One more lap of life's track done,
How many left?

If I live to be a hundred,
Just 100 sun-kissed circuits,
Less the one's I've already squandered;

If I live to be a hundred,
Just 36,500 sunlit days (give or take),
Less the one's I've already wished away;

That doesn't seem like enough
To do all the things I want to do,
Even if I reached a hundred;

I think the weekend can wait,
I’m going to enjoy Monday while it lasts,
Because when this day is through,
It’s gone forever;

One less chamber
In the barrel of life;

One more chance
To pull the trigger on life’s roulette
And hope to hear a click.
Tryst Jul 2014
The world is always darkest
When you lose your guiding light

The world is always coldest
When you lay alone at night

The world is always cruelist
When you wake from blissful sleep

To find the world you thought you knew
Was never yours to keep
Tryst Mar 2015
Arm gooin' daàn me muvva's
An arm gonna goo by buz
Cos me feet am bloomin' urtin'
An I aint got me an oss

Then arm off to ave some bevvies
An arm gonna get kaylied
If yow'm in the Jolly Nailor
Then arl shaàt ya one inside

Doh goo bein' a soft apeth
Doh goo doin' owt thats daft
Cos when yow'v dun ad' a skinful
Then yow know yow just get saft

If ar doh see yow befow'r yow goo
Arl see yow on anon
Cos arm kippin' on the sofa
Raànd me mums aàs back up um
Tryst Sep 2014
One more **** fool woman,
One more reason why
One more broken useless man needs
One more glass of rye;

No more **** fool women,
No more reasons why;
No more “Plenty grains of sand”,
No more *“No more **** rye!”
First published 12th Sept 2014, 20:15 AEST.
Tryst Sep 2014
~

If you want to stand out from the crowd

~

Dress in expensive fashion

    And be the rich snob people despise

~

Or dress in drab clothing

    And be the pauper people look down on

~

Or wear nothing at all

    And be the lunatic people avoid

~

Or just don’t stand in the crowd

    And simply be yourself

~
Tryst Mar 2015
Hair nets and hand-me-downs,
Striped garb with strings
Wise men in scrubbing gowns,
Angels with wings

Pin ****** and pressure cuff,
Disarming chat
Face mask and gassy stuff,
Drugs by the vat

Dull aches like bicycles
Peddling up lanes,
Cold streaks like icicles
Rush through the veins,

Laid back and lazily
Watching the dance,
Head floating hazily
Into a trance

Woozily waking up,
Wobbly and drunk
Water to sip and sup,
Memories sunk

Balance returning when
Loved ones are phoned,
Recovery over, then
Time to go home
A big thanks to staff at the Hobart Day Surgery for making the experience of my first general anaesthetic as comfortable as possible.

First published 12th March 2015, 05:50 AEST.
Tryst Aug 2015
Quick-draw five card stud
Dealt a bullet on fifth street --
    Full house cashes out.
According to legend, Wild Bill Hickok was murdered whilst holding 2 pairs, aces and eights, in a game of 5 card stud poker.  The remaining card remains a mystery, however given he took an extra bullet to the head, I guess he cashed out with a full house.

"Fifth street" is the term used when the fifth card gets dealt.
A hand with two aces and eights has since been known as the dead man's hand.
Tryst Aug 2015
Sometimes, when I write,
Not on a whim of fancy flight,
No -- on a matter of desire,

Sometimes, I delve too deep
Like a dreamer lost in sleep
When all the world's afire

And sometimes, I think
This time I've passed the brink,
In my desire to learn

Through empathic guided dreams,
And this time, it seems
I might never return.
Tryst Jan 2016
Give me a line and a Wisconsin dime
And I'll plea till I'm free as I'm doing my time
And I won't chase the man for a stogie or can
When I leave this box of mine

Give me the fudge of a Wisconsin judge
With a hole in his soul and his wink and his nudge
And his steadfast denial of a right to fair trial
And his will that will not budge

Give me the hope of a Wisconsin rope
And a beam and the dream of the chance to elope
To the land of the free in a plot 'neath a tree
On a fishing river *****
Tryst Jun 2014
-

Some day

-

Long after we are gone

-

This will all be

-

Fields

-

Once more

-
Tryst Aug 2014
Player:

    "Where the hell am I?"

DM:

    *"Precisely!"
Tryst Jul 2014
Upon a lofty perch
Nestled warily
He waits

A gargoyle
Still as stone
Unflinching

Trained eyes
Gazing far below
Ever watchful

The forest swaying
Willows leaning
Over a dry river bed

A murmur
Among the trees
Awakens senses

The prey approaches
Flanked by willows
Unaware

Still he waits
Transfixed
Hidden

Swiftly swooping
Three sharp shrieks
Sing out

A lofty perch
Left with empty
Broken shells

Willows weeping
By a river
Flowing
Tryst Apr 2020
Depression is a flat and empty road,
Gray bitumen against a dull gray sky,
No pit stops to unload a heavy load,
No off-ramps and no stop signs by and by,
A shadow etched upon its lifeless face
From clouds that blot affection from the sun,
Loping alone through endless open space,
Unpurposed hitherto when it begun —

It stretches like a finger pointing forth
To where the earth and heaven press their lips,
A mocking jest to whom may seek its end,
And on its back we mortals weave and wend,
A conga-line of self-absorbent trips
We weigh as gold, yet tally not their worth.
Tryst Mar 2023
I look for truth amongst the dust
And debris of an erstwhile time,
When life had hope, as all life must
Before it meets an end in crime;
A seed was sown, a scene was set,
And time was apt to soon forget

The rain that fell to cleanse the blood,
Perchance from angels weepy-eyed,
Caressed the concrete and the mud,
Destructive as a rising tide;
What once lay here now rests but there,
Some things that were now are nowhere

And to this chaos, casts my eye,
To see the dust and debris strewn;
I look to where the bodies lie
Like shadows cast beneath the moon;
What did the hour of time perceive?
Would that I could traverse its weave

And follow thence unto a strand
That holds within the truth I seek,
And with enlightenment in hand
Then of that truth I'd gladly speak,
But I am mute, for all I see
Is washed-out dust and cleansed debris
Tryst Jun 2023
Oh sleeping beauty, whence thine prince
To kiss thee from thy sodden dreams?
One hundred years and two score since
Thy last farewell -- Who now redeems
This world awash for loss of thee?
Who now shall stand thine shining knight
To guard thee for eternity
And bring thee safe to heaven's height?

Oh sleep well beauty, flaxen maid,
With lavender laced in thine hair,
No earthly sin to be repaid,
Awash with frailty, love and prayer --
Oh sleep well beauty, pure and chaste,
Undying maiden, casket lass,
And watch the world pass by in haste
As thou do rest beneath thy glass.
Tryst Jan 2015
earth* borne, on
water drifted;
fire reborn, on
air uplifted
Tryst Sep 2014
Sunken eyes mourned
The death of another,

Parched tongue warmed
By the birth of his brother.
First published 19th Sept 2014, 23:20 AEST
Tryst May 2014
Insipid hour I dread your looming call
Condemned waiting for thee inside this cell
My days will end when finally I fall
Down the abyss as summoned by your knell

In life the mornings ever found me bright
An endless optimist of no reproach
So how I fear your vast and empty night
My mind asunder doomed at your approach

I beg a dream to fill the lonely void
To reach inside to see beyond the veil
Yet even sweetest dreams are still devoid
Compared to morning light they shine so pale

Consciousness fails, my soul is yours to plunder
Until the morning saves me from deep slumber
Tryst Jul 2014
Tho' I should chance on every golden grain
Of sand ensconced on every ocean floor,
And know the touch of every drop of rain
That ever fell, or e'er will ever fall;

Tho' I should visit every garden, grown
With flowers wrought in every spectral shade,
And learn the name of all that e'er was sown
In every bed of every hidden glade;

Tho' I should gaze up high above the Earth
At every star that lights the evening sky,
And tell the tale of each and every birth
And when and how and why each one will die;

Tho' I should see all that was e'er to see -
There's naught, my love, that e'er compares to thee.
Tryst Jul 2014
Headline Story:

Sweet old lady found dead in oven;

Science and Medical:

Prince develops cure for narcolepsy;

Gardening and Leisure:

Giant beanstalk wins first prize;

Duckling takes honors in beauty pageant;

Entertainment:*

Sorcerers apprentice: You're Fired!
Tryst Jan 2015
The Ugly Duckling

quack?

                yuck?


QUACK!

            ­    DUCK!



The Emperor's New Clothes

new?

                yeah?


BLUE!

                ­BARE!



Hansel And Gretel

bread?

                coven?


DEAD!

              ­  OVEN!



Little Red Riding Hood

eyes?

                ears?


LIES!

                SH­EARS!



Goldilocks And The Three Bears

hot?

                cold?


COT!

                SCO­LD!



The Three Little Pigs*

huff?

                sticks?*

PUFF!

                ­BRICKS!
Tryst Dec 2021
How I fell for you?
The dull hit of a bullet,
A clean through and through
Tryst Mar 2016
Let mason's mark not be aught told of thee
When time the griever weeps upon thy mound,
All livelong deeds like boughs unto the tree
Bring life to roots laid low in hallowed ground.
No!  Let thy mark be made in shadows cast
To wilt the weeds that clamber for thy heights,
Withered tendrils may writhe to gape aghast
And fall ashen to flames thy name ignites!
All men are named yet name makes not the man
And deedless men no time should be afforded;
Yet scribes will bridge the void to tell thy span
And song will keep thy life and deed recorded.
        Oh children yet unmade rejoice thy fame
        May deeds live on eternal in thy name!
Tryst Mar 2015
The bird has flown far far from home
where none will ever find her;
she left behest a vacant nest,
and crumbs as a reminder
of all the things her mighty wings
have borne of her creation,
and now she's gone to fly anon
and left a ruination

Far far from home the bird has flown
and time is ever fleeting,
a vacant nest she left behest
in silence of her beating
her mighty wings; of all the things,
she knows the sheer elation
to fly anon, and now she's gone
to seek her own salvation
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