Lord knows I knew this day would come
Thinking it wouldn’t would make me dumb
What’s left behind is just mere crumbs
And I sit here feeling fully numb

Burned words written on paper
Getting rid of your name on my skin with a scraper
I’m still waiting for these feeling to taper

Can it be you think of me as often as I think of you?
Please tell me what it is I need to do
Because I want to be free of us too

Wedding dresses and white linens
I need to remind myself that this isn’t fiction
But I’m tired of using the proper diction under these conditions

Tuxedos and ties
You’re going to look so handsome I won’t lie
As she walks down the aisle to you
and all your friends and families are in the pews
I’ll be the farthest thing from your mind, I know that’s true

Center pieces and best man speeches
I can’t forget how sweet you were at times, sweeter than peaches
I can’t forget the flames of the summer fires, or how our friends helped you change your flat tire.
I can’t forget how at night when we’d finally retire you’d hold me tighter and tighter.
I can’t forget what it was like to feel chosen by you and maybe my memories are skewed but I swear at one time you loved me too

My heart is broken you’re taking this next step together, I really can’t lie
And I knew it from the moment I saw you with her that she was the real love of your life
And baby that cut me like a knife
Knowing… she’s going to be your wife

You once spoke of being my husband
And darling I got accustomed
To the idea of living forever with you
I got accustomed to the idea you’d help me make the bed in the house we own too
I got accustomed to the idea of your hand being a cooling compress on my forehead as we welcomed a child into this world, I bet their eyes would’ve been blue.

I’ve loved you for so long and what I fear is
that I’ll continuously bring you up year after year. I fear that every time I drink a beer I’ll feel like curling up into a sphere because the taste on my tongue makes me want you near, but honey that’s impossible to do because we aren’t even peers.

I‘ve often wondered what it would take for me to forget how we’d dance with me on your feet or how many nights we spent together in the summer heat. I’ve often wondered just how much you loved me and if you ever forgot what we did in your backseat.

Does she kiss your cigarette burns?
are there parts of my body or heart for which you still yearn? I think you’ve learned to keep the thought of me and our ashes in an urn, and I know I need to accept it’s no longer my turn.

The thought of you is like a drug
I’m drinking up memories of you like beer in a frosted mug
All I can think of is our last hug
And how we swayed along with the sound of the party and how I felt electric like a fully charged battery pulled from a plug

How can I get over this addiction?
The sorrow I feel and all this conviction,
They say all I need are some restrictions.
But how can I forget the way you flashed a smile at me and I’d just spill,  how can I forget the way you said “this is my girl” the night you took that pill and we stayed up all night for the thrill.

How can I forget the way you’d say my name or call me your pastry
You said it was because I was so sweet,
just one kind word from you would make me shaky and now these memories leave me feeling achy.

I wish so much that it would be me, that one day you’d get on one knee and tell all the other girls to leave you be. I thought I was the one that held your heart’s key, but now I know it was never me.

I thought we’d raise children together, I thought we could withstand any stormy weather. But since you’re without me, you’ve been doing so much better. I’d like to think you reminisce when you pull on your sweater, the one I walked in the rain to buy, don’t you remember?

A part of me feels like just laying here and accepting my fate, that your name will forever be tattooed on my tongue and that I’ll never be able to see straight. A part of me feels like accepting my eyes will forever scan the crowds of people walking downtown trying to find your face.

Forgetting your first love shouldn’t take eight years, it shouldn’t take all these tears, and it shouldn’t make my heart feel like it’s being stabbed with a spear. These are the reasons I’ve felt like our love can’t just disappear. It gone somewhere, where I’m not sure, that part is unclear.

Maybe our love has stayed in the woods, and in the sunsets. Maybe our love is in the pool of regrets, or maybe just maybe it’s in its own maisonette. Furnished with all the memories of your once favorite and special brunette.

Maybe our soul tie was never torn, maybe there are parts of you that still mourn the times I made you feel warm. Maybe there are parts of me you absolutely abhor. And yet I feel like I’ll forever be waiting for you by the back door.

I’m praying once you say “I do” I’ll finally be rid of you and I’ll see just how much I grew. I’ll slip on my dancing shoes and sway to the truth of how I was one of the lucky few. I won’t message you out of the blue, I know you and her are together like paper and glue and she’ll be the one to give you your morning brew.

I won’t be the one who washes your clothes, I won’t be the one to comfort you when you’re feeling low. I won’t even be the one to hear you say hello, you’ll forever ***** my heart like a thorn on a rose.

Now that you are affianced there’s no room for me in this newly made alliance. I’m sure as wedding presents you’ll get many a kitchen appliance. You were good at math and I science, it’s been years since I’ve felt the vapors of our dalliance.

You, my love, are filling the role of a spouse, and yet I still remember the feeling of you taking off my blouse. When we met it felt like my first time stepping into a greenhouse, leaves of green and flowers so vibrant, everything so peaceful and silent. You were special like purple violets.

I can’t believe I have to let you go. It’s been so **** long and although my body and heart are screaming no, I must say goodbye to you this I know. You’re the river that flowed  and it’s been years since you’ve run cold.

I’ll work on forgetting you, and how for my seventeenth birthday you bought me flowers that were orange and blue. I’ll work on forgetting all the times you made me feel good, I’ll work on forgetting sitting on your lap and how tall you stood. I’ll work on forgetting associating you with the smell of burnt firewood. And I’ll work on forgetting how much I loved you in my late childhood.

The cypress stood up like a church
That night we felt our love would hold,
And saintly moonlight seemed to search
And wash the whole world clean as gold;
The olives crystallized the vales’
Broad slopes until the hills grew strong:
The fireflies and the nightingales
Throbbed each to either, flame and song.
The nightingales, the nightingales.

Upon the angle of its shade
The cypress stood, self-balanced high;
Half up, half down, as double-made,
Along the ground, against the sky.
And we, too! from such soul-height went
Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven,
We scarce knew if our nature meant
Most passionate earth or intense heaven.
The nightingales, the nightingales.

We paled with love, we shook with love,
We kissed so close we could not vow;
Till Giulio whispered, ‘Sweet, above
God’s Ever guarantees this Now.’
And through his words the nightingales
Drove straight and full their long clear call,
Like arrows through heroic mails,
And love was awful in it all.
The nightingales, the nightingales.

O cold white moonlight of the north,
Refresh these pulses, quench this hell!
O coverture of death drawn forth
Across this garden-chamber… well!
But what have nightingales to do
In gloomy England, called the free.
(Yes, free to die in!…) when we two
Are sundered, singing still to me?
And still they sing, the nightingales.

I think I hear him, how he cried
‘My own soul’s life’ between their notes.
Each man has but one soul supplied,
And that’s immortal. Though his throat’s
On fire with passion now, to her
He can’t say what to me he said!
And yet he moves her, they aver.
The nightingales sing through my head.
The nightingales, the nightingales.

He says to her what moves her most.
He would not name his soul within
Her hearing,—rather pays her cost
With praises to her lips and chin.
Man has but one soul, ’tis ordained,
And each soul but one love, I add;
Yet souls are ****** and love’s profaned.
These nightingales will sing me mad!
The nightingales, the nightingales.

I marvel how the birds can sing.
There’s little difference, in their view,
Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring
As vital flames into the blue,
And dull round blots of foliage meant
Like saturated sponges here
To **** the fogs up. As content
Is he too in this land, ’tis clear.
And still they sing, the nightingales.

My native Florence! dear, forgone!
I see across the Alpine ridge
How the last feast-day of Saint John
Shot rockets from Carraia bridge.
The luminous city, tall with fire,
Trod deep down in that river of ours,
While many a boat with lamp and choir
Skimmed birdlike over glittering towers.
I will not hear these nightingales.

I seem to float, we seem to float
Down Arno’s stream in festive guise;
A boat strikes flame into our boat,
And up that lady seems to rise
As then she rose. The shock had flashed
A vision on us! What a head,
What leaping eyeballs!—beauty dashed
To splendour by a sudden dread.
And still they sing, the nightingales.

Too bold to sin, too weak to die;
Such women are so. As for me,
I would we had drowned there, he and I,
That moment, loving perfectly.
He had not caught her with her loosed
Gold ringlets… rarer in the south…
Nor heard the ‘Grazie tanto’ bruised
To sweetness by her English mouth.
And still they sing, the nightingales.

She had not reached him at my heart
With her fine tongue, as snakes indeed
**** flies; nor had I, for my part,
Yearned after, in my desperate need,
And followed him as he did her
To coasts left bitter by the tide,
Whose very nightingales, elsewhere
Delighting, torture and deride!
For still they sing, the nightingales.

A worthless woman! mere cold clay
As all false things are! but so fair,
She takes the breath of men away
Who gaze upon her unaware.
I would not play her larcenous tricks
To have her looks! She lied and stole,
And spat into my love’s pure pyx
The rank saliva of her soul.
And still they sing, the nightingales.

I would not for her white and pink,
Though such he likes—her grace of limb,
Though such he has praised—nor yet, I think,
For life itself, though spent with him,
Commit such sacrilege, affront
God’s nature which is love, intrude
‘Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt
Like spiders, in the altar’s wood.
I cannot bear these nightingales.

If she chose sin, some gentler guise
She might have sinned in, so it seems:
She might have pricked out both my eyes,
And I still seen him in my dreams!
- Or drugged me in my soup or wine,
Nor left me angry afterward:
To die here with his hand in mine
His breath upon me, were not hard.
(Our Lady hush these nightingales!)

But set a springe for him, ‘mio ben’,
My only good, my first last love!—
Though Christ knows well what sin is, when
He sees some things done they must move
Himself to wonder. Let her pass.
I think of her by night and day.
Must I too join her… out, alas!…
With Giulio, in each word I say!
And evermore the nightingales!

Giulio, my Giulio!—sing they so,
And you be silent? Do I speak,
And you not hear? An arm you throw
Round some one, and I feel so weak?
- Oh, owl-like birds! They sing for spite,
They sing for hate, they sing for doom!
They’ll sing through death who sing through night,
They’ll sing and stun me in the tomb—
The nightingales, the nightingales!

I


"My dearest, sweetest love" the Baron said,
"Now that we two affianced souls are one,
What's mine is thine, for joy that we are wed
And through this house I bid thee freely run.

Enjoy the drawing room, the stately hall,
The bedchamber where thee and I shall play;
The blue room for each annual summer ball,
All draped in swags of blue and silver grey;

Enjoy the music room, my fine spinet,
The gilded harpsichord that sweetly sings,
With music to dispel all past regret -
Thou hast free rein of all my treasured things.

But go with caution to the library,
And only ever in my company."



II


With that, the Baron shewed her all around
His mighty chambers, all the corridors;
The quarters where the servants could be found,
The painted ceilings and mosaic floors.

The library he shewed her last of all;
The key hung on his chest, on a gold chain.
The secrecy thereof held her in thrall;
It seemed the library was his domain.

"Love, touch ye not the Book of Samothrace,
Don't venture to the pages held inside!
For when the sun hath turned about its face,
Malevolence finds shadow lands to hide!

The pages of our lives are clean and bright,
The Book of Samothrace is endless night!"



III


"My handsome sweetheart" Said the Baroness,
I'm humbled by thy generosity,
And when my maid has helped me from this dress,
Thou shalt discern how grateful I can be.

Thou gavest jewels for my neck and hair
That shine as well by day or candlelight;
And I shall kiss thee all and everywhere -
Prepare for not a wink of sleep tonight!"

With that, she led him to their master bed,
Undressed and pressed him down on sheepskin furs;
There proving true to everything she said
Till he declared his soul forever hers.

Anon, with trembling lips and blissful sighs,
Yielding to sleep, the Baron closed his eyes.


IV


How eloquent is beauty in repose
The Baroness reflected, as he lay
With lips half-open, like a dewy rose,
His night-black hair in tousled disarray;

And in the central furrow of his chest
One hand lay, as if half-protectively,
Next to the key more treasured than the rest -
The one that could unlock the library.

"Love touch ye not The Book of Samothrace"
She heard her love's words echo in her head.
Remembering, her heart began to race,
That such forbidden pages might be read.

Thus, yielding unto curiosity,
She let her fingers tiptoe to the key...



V


The golden catch was easy to undo,
Seconds before the Baron turned away
In blissful dreams of love. He never knew
How vicious time was leading fate astray.

The key was gone, while in the corridor,
His wife was creeping, ever-stealthily,
Drawn to the library's beguiling door,
Enchanted by base curiosity.

Only one lamp revealed the tall bookshelves
Which bore the most illustrious of tomes;
Huge hide-bound celebrations of themselves
Where God and science found unequal homes.

Herein her questing fingers came to trace
The cover of The Book of Samothrace.



VI


An ancient script met her enchanted gaze,
Whose Foreword mentioned a young sorcerer:
The fabled author of this book of days
And book of spells, unfolding now for her.

The spells were fashioned with one grand design,
To be recited in a secret place,
To call upon a spirit most malign -
A terrible demon, named Samothrace.

"...And mighty magick shall infuse the one
Who looks the longest in the daemon's eyes;
Undreamed-of power, burning like the sun,
With insights into Hell and Paradise.

Go to the garden seat and draw the ring,
Be seated and begin the summoning!"



VII


If hindsight were the author of our fate
We might find ways to live with less regret.
The Baron woke to realise, too late,
The secrets of his book were safer kept.

'Twere better had he mentioned not at all
The Book of Samothrace, so markedly,
For now she did not answer to his call
- He guessed she must be in the library.

He raced downstairs to find the door ajar,
The Book of Samothrace had gone astray,
Into the garden, yet it seemed too far -
He tried to walk, his legs would not obey.

Beyond the French door glass, a dreadful sight
Had rendered him immobile, mute with fright.



VIII


His wife sat rigid on the garden seat,
Her hair splayed like a sea anemone,
With a wine chalice lying at her feet,
Her mouth was open, screaming silently.

A doppelganger, like in every way,
Unto his mistress, with red splayed-out hair
Was screaming, still he could not turn away
To flee the image of her wild-eyed stare.

As time stood still, the Book of Samothrace
Floating on air, was burning by her side,
Eerie green smoke began to veil her face
The earth within the circle opened wide.

Out sprang the demon, withered, smoky-grey,
With cruel teeth and eyes as bright as day.



IX


Hereby the demon Samothrace was freed,
A great evil unleashed upon mankind,
That all life must remember how to bleed
Within a world grown dark and mercy-blind.

The terrible futility of war
Decay and all the tyranny of flies
Futility and struggle, all the poor,
A hidden curse on every new sunrise.

"Love, touch ye not The Book of Samothrace,
Don't venture to the pages held inside"
The Baron, frozen still in giving chase,
Watched and remembered, grieving for his bride.

The book, having now caused the demon's birth
Fell deep into the chasm in the earth.



-------END------


NOTE: This was inspired by a painting of the same title by the brilliant fantasy artist, Barry Windsor-Smith. I emailed the poem and was delighted to get a reply and positive feedback about it from him.

‘Just where do you think you’re going, girl
With those ribbons in your hair?’
‘I’m off to the world of Make Believe
To the Hart Midsummer Fair.
They say there’s a Magical Fairy Ring
Where the maids dance round a pole,
Where the step of a dainty pair of feet
Can win you a *** of gold.’

‘There’s Lords and Ladies and Dukes and Kings
Come down from the Castle Kragg,
Wearing their Crowns and jewels and rings
And they roast a new killed Stag,
There are clowns and jugglers, Gypsy bands
And the Phantom Fiddler’s there,
Playing an ancient Irish jig
At the Hart Midsummer Fair.’

‘The gentlemen from the town come down
All dressed in their best array,
Looking to win a country maid
To hang off their arm that day.
And those as willing, the auctioneer
Takes maids from the countryside,
Bangs his gavel and calls the odds
For the sale of a country bride.’

‘I’ll not have you at the County fair,
You can stay at the farm by me,
We’ve been affianced for over a year
And wed in a year, we’ll see!’
‘I’ve waited long for your promise to wed
But nothing has come about,
I’ll not be wed to an Ostler, when
A gentleman calls me out.’

He locked the maid in the pantry, so
She wouldn’t get out that day,
But she slipped the lock, and changed her dress
And managed to get away.
She went the way of the hidden lane
On the old grey dappled mare,
And rode on over the hills to find
The Hart Midsummer Fair.

She was late for the clowns and jugglers
She was late for the Fairy Ring,
She wasn’t too late for the auctioneer
Who told her to come right in.
She couldn’t see who was bidding for her
But she took it with a smile,
It must have been some fine gentleman
For the bidding was done in style.

‘Four pounds I’m bid, for this comely *****,
Four guineas to you out there,’
Another pound brought his gavel down
‘I believe that you’ve won her, sir!’
They tied a blindfold over her eyes
And her wrists were bound with cords,
She had to walk for a dozen miles
Tethered behind a horse.

The horse’s hooves had a hollow ring
As they hit the cobblestones,
The walls were damp and the air was filled
With a smell like drying bones.
Her ‘gentleman’ took the blindfold off
And her knees began to sag,
She’d sold herself to the Pantler of
The household, Castle Kragg.

The Pantler, so very old and grey
With a blind, white staring eye,
He said that she’d be the scullery maid
There were pots and pans to dry,
There wasn’t a single window in
The kitchen, down below,
She ****** the money he’d paid for her
And she begged him, let her go.

‘That’s not enough,’ said the wily serf,
‘To free you from these grounds,
If you want to purchase your liberty
It will cost you twenty pounds.
Your value is in the work you’ll do
Both here, and under the stairs,
If you pay your shilling a week to me
It will take you seven years!’

That night she slept on a pile of sacks
And she ****** the man away,
She said, ‘You’re not going to touch me
For as long as you make me pay!’
But late that night in the pale moonlight
A horse’s hooves were heard,
And a shadow crept to her bedside,
Whispered, ‘Don’t say a single word!’

He led her up to the courtyard where
There stood the dapple grey,
Hoisted her up behind him, spurred
The horse, ‘Now let’s away!’
She clung on tight to the Ostler she
Had spurned, without a care,
And laughed when they crested the hillside
As the breeze blew through her hair.

The banns went up the following day
They were married in the fall,
She said, ‘I finally got my way,’
And he answered, ‘Not at all!
‘You only married an Ostler, not
The Pantler under the stair.’
‘An Ostler’s all that I wanted since
The Hart Midsummer Fair!’

David Lewis Paget

Lock me up because my pants are showing my ankles and that's too much skin.
Lock me up because I stepped out and made the moon aware of my existence.
Lock me up because I am not the affianced bride of the boy I smiled at today.
Lock me up because my soul is stuck in this pathetic feminine body.
Lock me up because I committed the crime of applying the colour red to my lips.
Lock me up because I thought equality exists.
Lock me up because a bunch of highly intellectual men think that if they enter my body without my consent, it's my fault.
Go ahead lock me up.
Lock me up because I was born a girl, and I'll die a shameful death of a lady.

Alone without my confluence to Agony, frosted, departed and soulfully emory clothed to hold my newly founded glory of a precious seed, nurturing her with all I have, investing in this wonderful treasury.

I'm abused and discarded, a strength taken deep inside releasing upon my soul a dreaded stench, I'm lost without my afflicted misery.

Still intertwined to the drug in me which was with this spectre of a sentry, she layered traps of Bereavement like a slug for me to find, clutching to my kindred to shield our new born of this vicious cycle I'm chasing, my choices bonded to trauma of a dedication to fix these Demons I'm facing, chalices manifest a lost direction to more distasteful love that I miss tasting, imprisoned into the mind where I should of felt more freely.

Months of this torment didn't ground my soul to a more blissful direction, I followed her slug trail pounded by hail within her mindful jail, unsigned and unaligned, reassured the baby's ok I'm patiently dying inside, waiting to ******* drug again, waiting for her addiction to end, awaiting a certain doom carelessly.

I've lost hope but I keep my faith, everything inside is scared and had been hard raked, I'm a ghost in a shell living within my own hell, everyone can see this, no one truly believed I'll pass through this testament I've been given, I'm back to the basics and eating bread unleavened, exploring heaven awaiting the return to hell, she comes back scaly and bitter, mind is lost and spirit is frost, I can save this arc angel, I'll be her beneficiary.

Holding misery in my arms I'm feeling unearthly charmed, but alarmed, our song replays in dismay, hearing voices and walking in circles I know something is wrong, clutching the little one I watch, I'm shocked, she needs air and gives one final look at our family, she leaps to the concrete in blasphemy.

Blood covering her scales I wail, she's alive but not awake, I'm dying because she was already frail, if I released my little one to save her... It's my fault, I failed, the trauma bond multiplies as I cry to see her eye hollow inside because she lied, she didn't need air, she needed shivaree.

The newly found dedication consumed all of me, I'm going to save her no matter what, holding her hand all day as she withered in bed, praying for the coma to subside, she's finally moving, in this white room to believe, rock bottom is how addiction is weeded out, I've been rock bottoms blood relative for years, I am angelic not rebellious, I'll take this bull and remove the horns, she can no longer be scorned, because now I know with her finally awake smiling at me, she believes, I'm to be Affianced to Agony.

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Eleuthoromania
Likes to hold my hand
Even when I tell it I am taken,
Unavailable, betrothed and affianced
Tethered to a man who bets with solid things.
He says precious stones and he means gems. But I,
(Oh silly child that I am,) I
Remember when precious stones were only
Ordinary rocks with mica threads that glinted in the light.
Money moves the world, though,
And I must move with it. I am in it, after all
Not above, dwelling in some cloud, no.
I am in it.
And this marriage of necessity will happen,
                                                               (whether I dream of it or not.)

Earlier today April 4th, 2022,
which supersedes bald faced headlines
pointing finger and
Putin blame for Bucha killings
squarely on head & shoulders
of Russian autocrat, née
yours truly lathered
his hirsute higglety-pigglety
thinning oily tresses.

Hark….the herald angels sing,
snapchat and twitter Uber view doo
for mass communication mediums
stop the well conditioned presses
when I, a regular schlemiel
took shampoo to mine matted mass mop
(lame and feeble dreadful locks)
of straggly follicles, and commenced
to dispense with the heady ecosystem

viz rare crop of flora and fauna
(some rank as endangered species)
rub and band together
to scratch envy of flaky key
neigh bring ponytails
and create quite an niche,
and where also can be found
lousy knit wit vendors ready to scalp
and give shaft to razor sharp purveyors,

who mane lee scout out
available head room to nap
without a stir, tub bed down
(praying  Holy Scott no wash out
nor Harris mint occurs),
or burrow vis a vis,
where subcutaneous porous droplet size
water ship down pieces of
prime residence found

counting one mister
comb lee bald faced realtor
amidst competing rival
bulb buss (h)Edward scissorhands
(with knot to heavy a price toupee)
affianced to rapunzel,
whom he sheared split ends
as her barber of civil,
one dapper dan duh ruff dude to offer

lice cent shuss insects a tonsured cut
above other stylish habitués
(preferring to fraternize,
glad-hand, and hobnob
amidst a cluster of big wigs
housed by yours truly - Samson
in gleaming puffy pompadour
pads tightly secured
with the best dreadlocks,

which harum-scarum
green barrettes serve
as first line of rinse able defense
IdentityGuard (with franchisee
Bob O Link averse
to split hairs, but fierce
as a Mohawk and ring leader
to protect any curl of mine)
waving away intruders,

who if insist tubby persistent
and tangle with fate
cannot expect camaraderie
from buzz cutting crew i.e. the fuzz
to give expletive filled lathering,
severe shame poo wing subjugation
plus an up braiding experience),
and teach stragglers
they will suffer a real perm

in hint bang up job
and experience embarrassing cut up
if they brazenly brush
against brylcreem of the crop
rooted as rightful heirs (hairs)
of tousled doo mane
and thus tail all told.

Awoken from a nightmarish telltale that Affianced me to Agony, splendored persuasion had me second guessing the reality I'm pursuing, or was reality slowly escaping my grasp, was I on the edge of catastrophe overlooking a treacherous shore?

Wrestling with my thoughts inside the broken barriers of my mind, I can't relate my gut instinct with what I am believing like a torn family within my soul, her habituation has scorned her soul and stigmatized her family, the hole inside of her was always craving more.

But now she's grounded by the projecting of her false image, now she's laying her cards on the table for all to see, now she's in groups falsely admitting everything wasn't what it seemed, now she's convincing everyone to make believe, now she's pointing to the front with a foot out the back door.

Cautiously I'm riddling the chassis of chaos that once consumed, walking the plank of confidence that shakes, I'm in love again with misery, my withdrawals from grief are withheld, I'm trusting the  braille of dissolution, my misguided faith is lead by the folklore of her encore.

Steadfast into her mendicity I'm to bring a sister to the now toddler, my short sale to bricklay a foundation for us was my courage to endure, a new life into our family was the best path to keep the Demons away, only long enough for duplicity by seduction to implore many more claymores.

From three to four, we are now indebted among each other to hold high responsibilities to one another, I provided all aspects to a glimmering future, in the meantime her mendicity to swindle the mind was my demise to dwindle, a candle burning at both ends by prevarication, this made our family mindful prisoners of war.

My plan to build our castle was slowly coming to fruitation as all events lead to our true freedom, something a fiend will always want, freedom to control by the ways of a narcissist, something that I never imagined to lay with me, slavery of the mind because I'm in love with misery of a maniac, going forward would only become a civil war, slowly isolated and alone I'm planting our future, miles under the sea shore.

Blinded to all truths believing our future is intact indefinitely, I push painful tragedies  aside to continue my love for Bereavement, because death makes me believe, in our new castle with two little seeds made by make believe, being Smitten with Agony I implore, taking our first picture of a perfect family in front of our first castle, standing above her carefully laid trap door.

eastern standard time Autumn Equinox arrives

That seasonal occasion twill arise
when darkness and light doth bring
equilibrium between night and day
raking leaves will constitute exercise
espied and witnessed by observant earthling
namely me who subsequently bellows hooray
jumping for joy childlike behavior I improvise
reliving boyhood mirth itching and inching
playfully scattering laborious effort lay
ying down burying self amidst tree humus - prize
zing spontaneity willingly orchestrating
shedding inapropos edict qua grown man at play.

A meadow for Autumn begins,
when eve doth fall upon summers’
and long ago mine childhood's end,
a hint of splendor bequeathed arose
upon firmament as changed scenery
(third equinox act since new year) bellows
basses loaded and blasted in sync
with pyrotechnic pizzazz,
while electric light orchestras suites scored for cellos
thus quiet riot of multitudinous notes swirl
from each bronzed leaf like fellows
dancing elliptically forsooth greeting mother earth
with char: rills brawn son utter hellos.

How peachy keen and grand to be seated
at plum lined tree center stage
to behold the colorful
capering downward spiraling threnody
quintessential silent rage
chapter three if nature alluded to
as a tome poem – and now the first page
known to humans since…way before indigenous tribes
occupied North America such as the Osage
and/or other natives, whose keen scents foretold
the onset from flora and fauna sings they did gauge.

Now regimentation of existence commandeered
by strict adherence affianced to the clock,
where misery loves company
lest an employee arrive one second late –
her/his pay will go hickory dock,
which sequestration to twenty first century life
analogous to men undergoing emasculation,
whereby he may as well be ******
without thick horn, where business
deals concluded as overhead a flock

of seagulls migrate to southern climes,
which with global warming seems ad hoc
yet the multitudinous animals and plants
genetically under rubric of life lock
which mucking around viz industrialization
humankind doth make a mock
‘ere re: and drive many miniscule species
to take safety and shelter under a rock
totally oblivious, those bipedal hominids haphazardly
scurry to work in order to purchase schlock.

Thus pre dormant season of the witch,
where one must be vigilant and tread
like angels heeding curtain call
draw wing summer to a close
with **** the torpedoes salvo,
the cacophony kaleidoscope of color
viz hitted courtesy sixty plus shades of red -
rose iz madder than horde of Bulls at Pamplona
forecast thee onset of cooler temperatures
with Falun Gong foliage natural compost

shelter burrowing creatures, who stash goodies
at a later time to be fed
thus each of us need be vigilant
with no misstep to tread
upon feet lightly negotiating
whereat dwells busy itty-bitty bodies
well nigh invisible to the naked eye,
yet if ground swell of organisms espied
one would behold microscopic
whirled wide webbed world.

Forest, I lay me down to rest
upon bed of moss.

Eternal sleep immediately overtakes me
lichen kenning myself
as Rip Van Winkle
except being repurposed
as  oldest living species.

With an estimated age of 8,600 years,
Rhizocarpon geographicum,
also referred to as the Map lichen,
is the planet's oldest lichen.

Said complex life forms
witness symbiotic partnership
of two separate organisms,
a fungus and an alga
to equinoctial metaphor
at which the sun crosses
the celestial equator,
when day and night  
approximately equal length
(about September 22 and March 20).

When evening doth fall
'pon summers’ end,
a hint of splendor
bequeathed arose
firmament changed scenery
(this soon third equinox act
since new year) bellows
basses loaded and blasted
in sync with
pyrotechnic pizzazz,
while electric light orchestras
suites scored for cellos,
thus quiet riot madrigal
of multitudinous notes swirl
from bronzed leaf like fellows
dancing elliptically forsooth
greeting mother earth
with characteristic rills
brawny sons and daughters
harvest September hellos
before dawn's early light mellows.

Against backdrop sensational war
doth mother nature wage,
how peachy keen,
and grand to be seated
at plum lined
tree center stage
to behold colorful
capering downward
spiraling threnody
quintessential silent rage
chapter three  
nature alluded to
a tome poem,
and first page
known to humans since…
way before indigenous tribes
occupied North America
such as Osage
and/or other natives,
whose keen scents foretold
the onset from flora and
fauna sings they did gauge.

Now the regimentation
of existence commandeered
by strict adherence
affianced to the clock
lest an employee arrive one second late –
her/his pay will go hickory dock
which sequestration
to the twenty first century life
analogous to men
undergoing emasculation,
whereby he may as well be a ******
without thick horn, where business
deals concluded as overhead
a flock of seagulls
migrate to southern climes,
which with global warming seems ad hoc
yet the multitudinous animals and plants
genetically under rubric of lifelock,
which mucking around viz industrialization
humankind doth make a mock
‘ere re: and drive many miniscule species
to take safety and shelter under a rock
totally oblivious,
those bipedal hominids haphazardly
scurry to work in order
to purchase schlock
courtesy crypto currency
redeemable at social media platforms
especially one named TikTok.

Thus this pre dormant season,
where one must be vigilant and tread
like angels heeding curtain call
draw wing summer to a close
with **** the torpedoes salvo,
the cacophony kaleidoscope of color
per fifty plus shades of red
forecast thee onset
of cooler temperatures
with falun gong foliage natural compost
shelter burrowing creatures,
who stash goodies
at a later time to be fed
thus each of us need be vigilant
with no misstep to tread
upon feet lightly negotiating
whereat dwells busy itty-bitty bodies
well nigh invisible to the naked eye,
yet if ground swell of organisms
once would behold
a micro/macroscopic
whirled wide web.

I attribute being a grown mad scientist
linkedin with tacit approval of parents
(both long gone to the smoky afterlife),
and donned wizard trumpeting magic spells
while dark and stormy night
(one week before Halloween),
which usher nostalgic memories
encapsulated within the following poem
initially drafted quite some years ago.

Both parents possessed pedigreed panache
(but especially my father – renown Chemist
B.B. Harris and to slightly lesser extent
late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms
Kuritsky - gal whose troth thy then still
livingsocial octogenarian widower papa
pledged, while holding some bubbling
sinister looking flask in hand while both
donned trumpeting finessed affianced
doctored formula to marry, when both
partook of blind date.

This combustible transunion link analogous
to their representative first electric kool aid
basic laboratory litmus test date), which
took place without a hitch, and telepathically
encouraged begetting retinue of revered
sons and daughters, whose ken hopefully
burned with passion KRISPR incubated,
inculcated, and incurred genetic outlook
ideally transmitted to prolific brood
of begotten babes.

This kid felt embers crackling, popping,
and snapping with yen that burned from
within and without buns sin burner of this
cingular earthlinked son.

No matter a bit tentative to experiment
*****-nilly (wonka like) with rather
explosive materiel, I received truckloads
of ammunition (in tandem with benevolent
benediction) to foster dare devil and
derelict pyromaniac precocity.

Those initial awkward formative forays
assaying, assessing and carefully calibrating
this, that or other liquid or powdery substance
found me meticulously measuring and
weighing the substances using kitchen
midden malodorous kid gloves.

Frequent disappointment arose from
yours truly as well as momma and papa
when net result (of these early attempts
to blend powders and/or liquids) merely
fizzled and self extinguished
into near inaudible ****.

Continual daily practice (would lead way
for me to enter Carnegie – Mellon ---- Hall)
after countless travails, trials and trolls i.e.
uber vaporous wisps to lyft yawping banshee
like holograms, or equivalent of 10,000 maniacs)
eventually bore successful fruit in the form
of near perfect results.

Success in hotly contested field Pyrotechnics
requires striking resemblance
to any other vocation.

One must be able, eager, ready and willing
to maintain burning passion no matter any
unforeseen setbacks or heat from an
objectionable source.

Yes, there would be an errant conflagration
(sometimes set purposely by adjunct professor)
as object lesson to master usage of fire
extinguisher/fighter, a vital piece of equipment
and evenhandedness for getting hold
instantaneously jetting kickstarter live matches)
to contain any runaway flame.

I do sheepishly admit to (ahem) you
on occasion the outcome went awry.

Nonetheless, they prided their potential
fire branded wizard in the making with
kudos and praise with DYNAMITE.

Practice from indiscriminately creating
unpredictable concoctions, these lethally
marshaled nonchalant opportunities
provided quintessentially random results
though usually very wimpy in tandem
with totally tubular nerdy, geeky, freaky,
and dorky beastie boy.

As proof positive and proud testimony, they
proudly pointed (upward) to the kitchen ceiling.

There such handiworks practically covered
entire ceiling with variegated splotches.
These scorch marks keepsake frescoes to show
kith and kin unspecified years into smoky future.

Quite accurate to assume
father and mother coached,
goaded, and nurtured
exploratory ambitions and
tried not to stifle
(at least consciously or deliberately)
my early stage ambition
toward scientific artiste bent.

As homeschooled and to some extent self taught
chemically romanced muralist, I grew up (not
surprisingly) in Unitarian household paid
close attention also adhered to the pioneer spirit.

The near limitless boundaries of life, liberty and
pursuit of understanding
an underlying credo, which
allowed, enabled and provided near endless
experimentation even at the risk of life and limb.

Aside talking head
nearly burning down the house
amidst talking heads practically in dire straits,
an instinctive reflex found me immolating myself,
occasionally singeing the canine fur of Lady,
Schultz, or Socrates, et cetera no frightful
catastrophic outcomes occurred thru milieu
of mixing deceptively harmless looking
inert raw materials.

Trial and error (quite successful with latter)
via blithely cooking dicey elements forming
goulash hiccupping laboratory mishmash
practically eliminated any pained regret to take
daring risks (such as getting married – ha)
in later life.

Despite favorable and lovable upbringing,
my mother (ever the protector and/or proctor
of our family and an excellent chef boyardee
to boot) still managed to insinuate (gently
as possible) the necessity to be careful when
igniting flammable materials lest
some uncontrollable conflagration ensue.

She (mom) did frequently confess to feeling
ever so slightly jittery and uneasy with my
slapdash amateurish homebrewed pyrotechnics
and much preferred to steer my attention toward
safer hobby such as the edible objets d’arts i.e.,
the much more drab field per how to present
and aesthetically appealing and nutritious meal.

Fondness to prepare food and pretend to be
faux renowned cook (this confession admitted
rather baldly and obviously deduced) actually
competed for my most favorite avocation activity
and spare leisure time.

In other words, this chap did relish designing
his own recipes mainly from leftovers in tandem
with unpronounceable multisyllabic organic
compounds filled numerous sized dishes
and aged apothecary bottles respectively.

Without question though, the passion plus
less riskier factor to combine and potchka
dry and wet ingredients together did rank
as considerably safer medium that still
allowed, enabled and provided me an equal
opportunity to test reactions, than those
earlier iterated potentially explosive hazards.

Nonetheless, my cavalier crusading overactive
appetite, hunger and thirst to discover causative
outcomes (even with purportedly innocuous
looking household cleaning supplies or easily
acquired inert materiel) nearly witnessed an
apocalypse at three two four Level Road
on one particular nasty occasion.

I anticipated our domicile would become
rent asunder, and reduced into a black
and decker ashen funeral pyre, yet for
grace of some divine force no family
members nor pets succumbed
nor got asphyxiated from choking acrid air.

I attribute being a grown mad scientist
linkedin with tacit approval of parents
(both long gone to the smoky afterlife),
and donned wizard trumpeting magic spells
while dark and stormy night
(one week before Halloween),
which usher nostalgic memories
encapsulated within the following poem
initially drafted quite some years ago.

Both parents possessed pedigreed panache
(but especially my father – renown Chemist
B.B. Harris and to slightly lesser extent
late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms
Kuritsky - gal whose troth thy then still
livingsocial nonagenarian widower papa
pledged, while holding some bubbling
sinister looking flask in hand while both
donned trumpeting finessed affianced
doctored formula to marry, when both
partook of blind date.

This combustible transunion link analogous
to their representative first electric kool aid
basic laboratory litmus test date), which
took place without a hitch, and telepathically
encouraged begetting retinue of revered
sons and daughters, whose ken hopefully
burned with passion KRISPR incubated,
inculcated, and incurred genetic outlook
ideally transmitted to prolific brood
of begotten babes.

This kid felt embers crackling, popping,
and snapping with yen that burned from
within and without buns sin burner of this
cingular earthlinked son.

No matter a bit tentative to experiment
*****-nilly (wonka like) with rather
explosive materiel, I received truckloads
of ammunition (in tandem with benevolent
benediction) to foster dare devil and
derelict pyromaniac precocity.

Those initial awkward formative forays
assaying, assessing and carefully calibrating
this, that or other liquid or powdery substance
found me meticulously measuring and
weighing the substances using kitchen
midden malodorous kid gloves.

Frequent disappointment arose from
yours truly as well as momma and papa
when net result (of these early attempts
to blend powders and/or liquids) merely
fizzled and self extinguished
into near inaudible ****.

Continual daily practice (would lead way
for me to enter Carnegie – Mellon ---- Hall)
after countless travails, trials and trolls i.e.
uber vaporous wisps to lyft yawping banshee
like holograms, or equivalent of 10,000 maniacs)
eventually bore successful fruit in the form
of near perfect results.

Success in hotly contested field Pyrotechnics
requires striking resemblance
to any other vocation.

One must be able, eager, ready and willing
to maintain burning passion no matter any
unforeseen setbacks or heat from an
objectionable source.

Yes, there would be an errant conflagration
(sometimes set purposely by adjunct professor)
as object lesson to master usage of fire
extinguisher/fighter, a vital piece of equipment
and evenhandedness for getting hold
instantaneously jetting kickstarter live matches)
to contain any runaway flame.

I do sheepishly admit to (ahem) you
on occasion the outcome went awry.

Nonetheless, they prided their potential
fire branded wizard in the making with
kudos and praise with DYNAMITE.

Practice from indiscriminately creating
unpredictable concoctions, these lethally
marshaled nonchalant opportunities
provided quintessentially random results
though usually very wimpy in tandem
with totally tubular nerdy, geeky, freaky,
and dorky beastie boy.

As proof positive and proud testimony, they
proudly pointed (upward) to the kitchen ceiling.

There such handiworks practically covered
entire ceiling with variegated splotches.
These scorch marks keepsake frescoes to show
kith and kin unspecified years into smoky future.

Quite accurate to assume
father and mother coached,
goaded, and nurtured
exploratory ambitions and
tried not to stifle
(at least consciously or deliberately)
my early stage ambition
toward scientific artiste bent.

As homeschooled and to some extent self taught
chemically romanced muralist, I grew up (not
surprisingly) in Unitarian household paid
close attention also adhered to the pioneer spirit.

The near limitless boundaries of life, liberty and
pursuit of understanding
an underlying credo, which
allowed, enabled and provided near endless
experimentation even at the risk of life and limb.

Aside talking head
nearly burning down the house
amidst talking heads practically in dire straits,
an instinctive reflex found me immolating myself,
occasionally singeing the canine fur of Lady,
Schultz, or Socrates, et cetera no frightful
catastrophic outcomes occurred thru milieu
of mixing deceptively harmless looking
inert raw materials.

Trial and error (quite successful with latter)
via blithely cooking dicey elements forming
goulash hiccupping laboratory mishmash
practically eliminated any pained regret to take
daring risks (such as getting married – ha)
in later life.

Despite favorable and lovable upbringing,
my mother (ever the protector and/or proctor
of our family and an excellent chef boyardee
to boot) still managed to insinuate (gently
as possible) the necessity to be careful when
igniting flammable materials lest
some uncontrollable conflagration ensue.

She (mom) did frequently confess to feeling
ever so slightly jittery and uneasy with my
slapdash amateurish homebrewed pyrotechnics
and much preferred to steer my attention toward
safer hobby such as the edible objets d’arts i.e.,
the much more drab field per how to present
and aesthetically appealing and nutritious meal.

Fondness to prepare food and pretend to be
faux renowned cook (this confession admitted
rather baldly and obviously deduced) actually
competed for my most favorite avocation activity
and spare leisure time.

In other words, this chap did relish designing
his own recipes mainly from leftovers in tandem
with unpronounceable multisyllabic organic
compounds filled numerous sized dishes
and aged apothecary bottles respectively.

Without question though, the passion plus
less riskier factor to combine and potchka
dry and wet ingredients together did rank
as considerably safer medium that still
allowed, enabled and provided me an equal
opportunity to test reactions, than those
earlier iterated potentially explosive hazards.

Nonetheless, my cavalier crusading overactive
appetite, hunger and thirst to discover causative
outcomes (even with purportedly innocuous
looking household cleaning supplies or easily
acquired inert materiel) nearly witnessed an
apocalypse at three two four Level Road
on one particular nasty occasion.

I anticipated our domicile would become
rent asunder, and reduced into a black
and decker ashen funeral pyre, yet for
grace of some divine force no family
members nor pets succumbed
nor got asphyxiated from choking acrid air.

to become affianced to the grim reaper,
who never promised me a rose garden
nor crystal clear pool of fragrant delight
to accompany last living breath
before succumbing into black hole sun
re: the void of nothingness
with absolute zero remembrance of things past.

Suicidal ideation in tandem
with purposelessness
(nihilistic existentialism exponentially
increasing since my halflife ago),
and most importantly
cursed with flat limp hair,
which serious crisis undermines reason
to write reasonable poetic expression
spurs the notion to traverse consciousness,
and painlessly segway
into the hereafter
(and maybe reincarnated into a heifer)
on a broken wing and a prayer.

No glorious notion of heaven
(nor belief in some omnipotent supreme creator,
who will be instrumental
uniting those meeting their demise)
with dead souls doth explain
zealousness toward what happens to human body
very soon after they – give up the ghost
(second person singular) and die,
yet intimation fostered
linkedin to dulling senses of mine,

that allow, enable,
and provide means to see or hear,
cuz already at threescore and five
revolutions clocked around the sun
post January thirteenth
two thousand and twenty four
increased insightfulness brings to mind,
a quickening uptick courtesy senescence
whereby aural and visual deterioration occur
at what appear faster clip

than when I happened to be younger
within the lovely bones of this sensate being,
who finds himself sensitive to loud sounds
discovered audiological test administered
hearing loss at extreme high and low ranges
similarly recognizing even the largest sized letters
on the Snellen eye chart
fraught with greater difficulty
particularly without wearing corrective eyewear.

After querying Google concerning a medical term for hearing loss of high and low frequencies, the closest response came back as follows.

While there isn't a single, universally accepted term for hearing loss affecting both high and low frequencies, it would typically be described as a "mixed frequency hearing loss" or "broadband hearing loss" on an audiogram, indicating significant hearing loss across a wide range of frequencies, including both high and low tones.

Before acquiescing to the afterlife,
I bolster maximum body, mind and spirit triage
aware declining senescence
affects physical, mental and spiritual well being
what fluke roll of the genetic dice throw
wrought yours truly (me),
whose latent potential
hijacked (to Cuba) thyself,
an anomaly sexagenarian

forever stunted socially courtesy
courting The Pale Horseman
when just a lad
of approximately a dozen years
of longevity since being born
thirteen days into
the first month of nineteen fifty nine,
when according
to most Western cultural interpretations,

being born on January 13, 1959,
would not be considered
particularly auspicious or unlucky;
it's simply a regular birthdate
with no inherent positive
or negative connotations
associated with it in mainstream beliefs.

Perhaps, cuz I (the male offspring
from both deceased parents,
especially my father –
the renown Chemist B.B. Harris,
and to a slightly lesser extent
the late culinary cuisine queen
Harmit Harms Kuritsky -
the gal whose troth he pledged
while holding some
bubbling sinister looking flask in hand
on their first guinea pig type date
encouraged incurred genetic yen
that burned from without the buns of this son)
possesses a pyromaniacal streak,
no surprise cremation would be my choice
of post life treatment videlicet
mine grateful dead as a doornail
cadaver formerly yours truly.

Believe it or not, a dead doornail is actually a thing. It's a medieval carpentry term for a nail that's been “clinched” — hammered into a door with any protruding part hammered flat. It wasn't going anywhere, making the doornail “dead” and unfit for future use.