they tell a tale 'bout a bottle filling with all the tears
shed from all the pain 'n misery of all the years
all the suffering, all the tortures,
all the plundering from earth-scorchers
all the famine and the fever and the fears

and when that bottle's reached its limit will be the time
when salvation awoken starts its clock to chime
when war and famine end
humanity grief amends
and forgotten will be the ache and gloom of crime

what kind of bottle is it that never fills
regardless of the slain and horde of kills,
regardless of the river
of blood and pain and shiver
unending on the hard earth flows 'n spills?

my dove,
I still remember - the day I found you
your perfume wafting o'er distant waters,
i smelt you from afar,
frankincense, myrrh, myrtle o' young daughters.

beloved,
you came to me from afar.
Time had no meaning, as you held me in your love,
You gazed at me,
your pure eyes calling me dove.
But now you're gone.
And life has lost its meaning.

my dove,
i let you go,
i let you fly over many waters.
i deemed it wiser -- for us both
but my dove, i love you still.
and i'm still here, on the hill.

beloved,
till hoary days i'll remember your voice
though they look at me askance
in simulacrum of life,
they ask me to dance
to tune of flute 'n fife
but i hear not,
for i cannot, save in you, rejoice.

as the waves of the sea
hitting wharf rhythmically
as the suckling of the babe
past midnight hour on astrolabe
is the cooing of the dove
in the silence of alcove

like the call of the cuckoo
as sweet spring breaks forth anew
as the hoot of tawny owl
'midst the canine's nightly howl
is the cooing of the dove
in the silence of alcove

as an angel drawing near
whispering secrets in my ear
as the mysteries of world beyond
juxtaposed to burning pond
is the cooing of my dove
in the silence of alcove

Awake! arise! the hour is late!
Angels are knocking at thy door!
They are in haste and cannot wait,
And once departed come no more.

Awake! arise! the athlete’s arm
Loses its strength by too much rest;
The fallow land, the untilled farm
Produces only weeds at best.

there was fanfare when she came
golden suns whisper'd acclaim
the robin had awoken
and the squirrel from her heim

ladies swirl in pinks and white
leaves unfurl to petals bright
there is music in the air
spring's arrival all declare

tell fingers to write
in compendious form
perchance grant respite
from inner turmoil storm
from nature gregarious
in mind-jail contrarious
through written commune
in time opportune
elucidate my state
perchance reciprocate
perchance to clear
the fog and the fear
perchance exculpate
the guilt o' mind-state
to elicit response
from brain so ensconced
in darkness of mind
state in which i find
the people all around
as i in state confound
a mental funambulism
of paranoia 'n autism
bemused befuddled
black cotton wool not cuddled
all druthers denied
in polyglot mind
in liaison with the devil
unpalatable to one level
thoughts unmanageable
as soft putty malleable
not by monsters in the air
of zoomorphic form to scare
but by monsters in the flesh
catch mind as in a mesh
construe in mental rift
in milieu o' crooks' grift
yet through timeless antidote
with words' rhyme in note
have cleared mind somewhat
from dregs of coffee-***
so onward mettlesome horse
we'll trot together yet
at vanguard o' life's course
till time to pay our debt
till hope for imprimatur
from my true life Protection
in place of light so pure
till time's resurrection.