"bazian" poems
It is a wonderful thing, when the willows doze,
at the stillness of a winter breeze.
The season settles, and it never goes,
with the passing dues at ease.
The heart so stale... the dreams so pale...
But she would dance a-still!
She would turn the world around,
and she would would bring the walls to sound,
and she... would run the waters still!
The stalemate arises, all so subtle,
and the wind in willows, hurdled in muddle,
would fly no more, until...
She sings to be, she sings to me...
And then she would cry, and I shall cease to be!
A.r. Bazian
January 1st, 2017
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
The Haunting of the Ol' Fisherton Bay Morticianary, Pt. 1
The nights were longer, as though at bay...
It's time for the artist to make his way.
"It's a mighty profitable business,
isn't it Hugh?"
Said the mortician to his dog.
"These ones are old...
Almost as old as you"
As he worked up his corpse,
for its last and lonesome grog.
"Off to burial, this would see,
off with the other one,
whom ever was he...
Off with you too sir; old wasted chap...
Make for the wedding soon,
of woods and crap;
I shall expect a clean and smoothly slit,
to slip here this trap.. and finish it quick!
his final dance; adieu.. farewell..
Soon riddance will follow,
of you as well."
Yelled the mortician to the delving man,
To take over from here while still he can...
A.r. Bazian
Jan 26th, 2016
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
"I don't know her.
I've seen her;
A strong spectre of absolute femininity and a lingering presence so strong, that all things thereon.. revolved unto the centrepiece of her clear, imperfect, overwhelming and sinking magnitude.
The fortitude..
She's the most beautiful women I've ever seen.. and no, not that kind of beauty. Well, It could've been..
She has a darkness to her, so captivating; so dense that all article in her cense is stalled in mesmerising silence and anticipation for the next fleeting beat of her beautiful heart.. for the next pacing glaze that would tear me apart, along the horizon of mere "things" in her shade, as she looks around and so passionately drowns the world in awe.
The charm that she'd bestow..
When I first saw her, my heart stopped, literally, only to -and out of grave deafness, explode as if it has been beating 'cross an infinite expanse of scapes compressed in the swiftness of a second.. boom!
'cross the room..
Suddenly, the void that consumed out of me the very sorry existence that I am, failingly so distant to her proximity, exploded like a rose bursting into bloom.. exploding no less, from pale tasteless petals to mindblowing extravagance.
I don't love her, I admit. I don't even know how to begin to fathom such an implosion of utopian lust for the hazel green distance in her eyes, let alone love her. She might be a man-eater, in disguise, for all the possibilities of things likely.. She is, however unattainable, perhaps my greatest unembarked adventure; my Odyssey. Not so, perhaps, my greatest... the one other dream she, still that I of another kiss.. a bliss.. an even greater adventure, nonetheless.. but a rhythm for another rhyme; another prose for another time.
This.. She's ancient unconscionable forbidden bliss for the morbid spirit that I am, enchanted with sweetness and love. Volatile like wildfire, she has the world entwined in the gypsy black waves of unconstrained dreams.
But that wasn't her, who lingered back in my head... The residence was of another.. I saw her once, in my seems.. my truest endeavours for a place that screams for relentless torture behind sweet jagged beams of black light on black.
I don't love her, I reassure, nor am I in love with another. I'm taken by her like a leaf is in a storm. I am home. She's death in a green hazed gaze, for those of you who didn't figure it out by now."
A.r. Bazian
Nov 8th, 2015
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC
"It has been weeks, since our last discourse,
The sound of muttered sketch;
Rain-burnt,stained, and course... They are,
So lively, so weighed, and rich...
These pale yellow long faces,
‘fore lamp lit well traces,
seem rigid...Unlike my fingertips...
How the days still pass, so right here on course,
Like a steady pool in stream,
Of all our thoughts; our solemn oughts’,
of what might, and should have been.
And do you know?
O' what do you know?
of when darkness settles in...
There are from the edges of a turning page,
A distant woe and dew,
Of the mornings when, our nights grew thin,
And my thoughts would be of you!
O' dare I how, do dare I speak,
of songs that sound of you...
From far away, O' dare I say,
these times were so but few...
I'd linger in rhyme,
In meadows of chime,
In Arts, in words,and songs,
Of revolt and freedom..
Of satire and reason,
On dance, on tempo and cue..
But none of them dear,
I solemnly hear,
Do sing my old nightmares adieu ...
But O' do they pry,
My heart for goodbye,
And for parting hereon forgo,
Where there is no reason,
For heartache or treason,
To devil with hearts on in on toe..
So 'wards them sea chamber,
To see mine own paper,
Wet soaked to marrow and stone...
How waters would carry,
The heartaches we'd bury,
To surface, when all else is gone.."
A.r. Bazian
May 18th, 2014
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 4:07 AM UTC
The Haunting of the Ol' Fisherton Bay Morticianary, Pt.2
And so it goes...
The good mandelver, was given two,
caskets to measure his feelings to...
the undertaker sat, while the artist was gone...
pulled a flask of whiskey out.. and,
sang himself a song.
When he stood up,
to look 'pon the corpses
he found his flask missing...
he fussed and cursed, what's worse is;
that there stood a man, in such deathly groom,
he stood in the corner-centre, of the prepping the room...
There stood a man who'd sung along,
whose eyes indeed were really on...
"Off with the willows and off with the bloom,"
he said..
off with the cherry too, and off with the tune...
Come ol' Merry merry mate, come and sing along,
for when you bring the caskets make,
sure to sing a song.
One for the lock-it ring,
one for the key.
Another song to whistle to,
and a song to rid of me...
What's wrong you old drunken ****
All pale and wet! O' gee...
the cat's gotten your tongue, I hope!
You dare not mess with me!"
A.r. Bazian
Feb 19th, 2016
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
Winter... Winter.. Winter...
O' winter's at the door.
Ye drunk, ol' drunken silly fool,
watch the slippery floor...
Winter...winter; O' good ol' friend....
winter now is here,
winter without an end!
Winter to me is dear!
Winter is my friend!
Ye drunk, ol' drunken silly fool,
Winter is our friend...
Remember where yer logs are be...
for when chaps and wound shall mend!
Winter, Winter, Winter
he'll be come and gone...
Ye drunk, ol' drunken silly fool,
ye sat and wrote a song...
Winter, Winter, good ol' chap
stubborn tending tears;
what where the days of merry clap
winter, then all clears!
A.r. Bazian
Written in 2010
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
"I came across a lonesome face,
among the figures stuck in traffic,
Someone there, somewhere,
Longs for a distant place...
A place, of dreams and magic.
This ageing scent, of dying breath,
And history, is just too tragic!
The wandering braids,
Scout the town,
Hoping, things will come around,
And as early risers greet their way,
Their faces Pass, and fade away!
The stones and old homes,
Fill space Between,
fiction, And the stories we tell!
They reek through the alleyways,
With reflections keen,
Mixed with an old familiar smell...
Of Passages dusty and features a-print,
The smiling pales of concrete mint,
And the fellow grin, by the local inn,
Who's never had a tonic and gin,
Unlike those of London...
This,
I can barely define,
stories-high, as we go by,
simply left behind!
But passenger light,
Drops in flight,
In the hours of eight 'till five,
I caught the melody sung in sun,
In our hour or so long drive...
Still I couldn't tell,
Of this old scent and smell,
and all that it's not,
why This raging ravel still, seems so forgot.
Although they've bettered it,
in some sort of a way...
Today, I think...
With all hopes a-still,
there's little much left,
and less be will...
Little still floats, and little is wet!"
A.r. Bazian
Jan 14th, 2012
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
The million things I want...
The million things I need!
The more that I let go...
The more my anguish i feed!
All the things I have...
Of all that is I bleed...
I got most of the things I want,
but nothing I have; I need!
A.r. Bazian
Written in 2010
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
Inspired by; Jennifer Lilliston Walker
I take a look outside.. into emptiness... I found it somehow the same! Endless and vacant, like the echo of my name; a memory perhaps, fading into flame; unlike these everlasting-monuments of sorrow; that may by time last, just as long as would last tomorrow, they too... But there's nothing to hold within.
You can see right through the cracked windows into my soul... Should you take a look.
I admit; my life isn't exactly what I would call an open book... And i admit; nothing is the same, after all that you took... Its all the same, yet, and regardless!
Regardless the charades, and all... Regardless; all that might once have been.
Here, the terrain is rigid and uneventful...Try piercing through, instead, of slicing my skin, or pealing it off!
Try.. go ahead! You wont die... At least; I take my time.
I am interested, of course, in what's beneath.
These casual chords and ravaging teeth. I want to... See you naked; so here i am, half the man i used to be; before your gentle, weary eyes...
I have no interest in theatrics and special effects; for i can see the blood on your hands; and on mine albeit the same... Regardless the deaths... The pains... The elegies... The memories... Regardless the instantaneous corpses and dead beat, put aside the numbness of some sort, that I sense... I feel; at least to a point; a few aspects of affection often taken for granted, would pay off too.
I've always had one mask on... Maybe its time I took it off!
A.r. Bazian
Written in 2010
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
The echo still pounds down onto the ceilings; wide based feelings, detached from the vain faces of sanity, denounced by reason: Dementia! Still chanting to the pace of galloping fiddles, in the stream of the night!
A.r. Bazian
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
The days and nights
cluster like dust.
Mistakes from times
of youthful lust.
For there's a change, that even with regret,
cannot be undone.
Like the lonely and the fearless...
from glories lost and gone.
And as the rains pour to cleanse our path,
of reckless deeds and scars of wrath,
the nights unfold, and memories pass;
leaving the ruins of past bygone....
Through a route of thorns and broken glass!
Do not mistaken me for a dying tune,
Nor stare with sympathy or regret...
We all have chosen roads, and goals we have set,
but please;
do walk away and remember we met...
I do not know you, nor myself, I bet...
But the day's still young,
and the leaves are wet...
The moments will come...
When I'll stand *****
Just as i do now,
with this weight off my chest!
A.r. Bazian
Written in 2010
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
Kindly, do play me the songs of hope? I may need some passion play, for the road, and just a tad of weight, for the hanging rope!
A.r. Bazian
Written in 2012
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
"To hold is to bear the dream a moment, and meanwhile toil still unto the downfall -Regardless, together... However folly and glad!
To die, as all men have and will.
But to having lived?! this is so far as to you that you may have only your dreams to suffice the thought of life with another!
A Life for another!
A dream, merely, to make the sweetest passing onto oblivion, ever sweeter Still!
Having been dying for the long while rather than living, such thought that the brave lot have taken unto with zeal and devotion, is as foolish as is noble.
As meaningless as it is divine.
And as solemn as it is rejoiced!
Still, after all, a dream."
A.r. Bazian
May 18th, 2014
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
Brother, let me hold you tight…
Shelter you through the long, freezing night!
Behold, before all that surrounds us come ablaze…
How the fires shall devour, the minutes of every hour,
How the restless shall reap, and fairest will cower!
When the night grows thin…
How the world unfolds!
The tides of time shall pass, and this too… my friend,
Through the tainted glass, through us both; me and you,
The wind… every so westwards!
Light, blinding and bright, soon shall shine.
Through the pain and the rain, so everlasting…
So in vain…
O’ how little we knew, despite me and you …
The earth shall twist and turn,
And the skies shall rain on you,
Yes… Out of everybody else,
But I, my brother, will shelter you!
O', how endless our love and plight…
Endless through the day and night.
A.r. Bazian
August 26th, 2016
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
And in the Shades...
Lingered a memory!
Under the dancing braids...
Of a morning sun!
There...
Stood an aging log...
With many years undone!
Where we loved and laughed...
Kissed and Cried...
Lost and won,
And all that we did, was there and gone!
Yet, in this memory,
Laid at hand...
A visiting spirit,
I understand!
Do we pass us by?
Do we bid us goodbye?
All, into the yearning of skies above?
Or do we set farewells,
To near tolling bells,
And part in hopes,
Of finding love?!
Go, dearest...
Be free, at will and ease...
Fly away, white dove...
Upon the western breeze!
But when ye're back...
Oh, Glorious day,
Remember this parting woe, I say...
And do slumber please, there and then,
So far away, and never again!
A.r. Bazian
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
As i cross the landscapes,
gray of time and pain...
The same old scenario;
the same old rain!
Caress the violets and...
Slowly whither away;
nothing unusual, nothing's changed,
a feeling mutual, visions deranged,
and all away... fall away
Pardon my senses,
pardon my weight,
do pardon me...
And my departure...
For I'm running late
A.r. Bazian
Written in 2010
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
This night I wake, to musics aloof,
so distant in the wonders of passion,
and so eager, that yet, amused,
I say,
I've found here so little, compassion!
It saddens me when I stare out into, the vastness of our despair
for I find no shelter, in the wilderness here, and I seekth for none out there!
The nights have been generous but sturdy still; ever lonesome, waking, and bare!
Tonight, will be a memoir,
and the lines will read in stone...
The moors shall sing to the whaling,
and the mermaids back to back,
to the worlds of elderly woe,
and the nights so cloaked in black!
the fiddlers shall sing, and choirs resound,
the ruthless words of wedded bounds...
Onto the veiling bow, and great divide,
we dare in this silence, still confide...
to the vow of endless dream!
A.r. Bazian
2014
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
O, but the gracious pardons
do give leave for weary sin...
Or do make way for lovers departed,
to solely bare the weight within?!
Strangely thought one man can face a crisis,
but one man does all he can...
Until his foolishness arises;
surely you'd think, one would've had a plan!
O, how folly of me and of my dream...
As it slowly demises!
Beloved oblivion!
A.r. Bazian
Written in 2010
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC
Sunlight braids rained onto the dusty folds of our parking-lot-like schemes, 'cross the gaping leaps between our sentenced deaths with the occasional intervals of blindness; lighting the path torrents for black light on black, and the little hopes, still held back.
Pocket poles and bullet collars decorate the walkways to the stockyard, where we piled our words and promises before; we stood bare and helpless to the passing winds that swept the misty passages empty, through the urban woods of vanity and fair.
Still the overtures sound light carried on the sealed whispers of the distant dream; that we would live! And portions of our existence rest down the wasted years, on the rocky crust pavements of a river. Floating streams of living things that pass down into oblivion, with their faces cold, and impotent smiles alike.
Perhaps the fading wonders of the breeze one midnight would sweep me away too; perhaps it will take me on to you.
But this that extends down through the rot and the veil of beasts, in to light the flares of a broken heart... It was not you! It was something else, something awfully lovely; it was totally something new!
A father's dream set into the breed of a pointless purpose also set into the wilderness and into the vain colours of a feint folly for greed; as the vacant corpses pose the prose for fortune bring, and for the songs we sing.
Beatitude in the sense of a crime for the sake of a lesser scream; a voice through the void that echoes against the street lights shaping the crossroads to hell; the tolling bell! The little left, gone and strew.
A.r. Bazian
Written in 2012
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
The evenings trot so vividly posing to the noising strokes of the brown fiddler's brush; forth to paint a new dream for the restless!
A.r. Bazian
Written in 2012
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
All within the dyed robes of rhyme,
and the subtle dispatches of sinful woe...
Enchanted in wisdom; a pilgrim's trot,
waging and waling at the spot.
Fringing at the hands that drew his fate,
ever so lonesome in his wait.
With scattered fears, roaming earth,
in search of what, truly, is dear and dirth.
There is much freedom, need I say, in passing time...
In the careless precision, pattern, and chime!
Dearest dreams, do float away,
and water my sight, with not grief this today!
While sweetest passions, of ides a-due,
devise in garnishing thoughts of two!
Later mine hearts, when candles do,
shalt guidance us to all, when I am through!
And when thine waters cease further fall,
all virtues when on then, shall hitherto stall...
Beware of that widow, that mocks at our night,
in pitch perfect light, stings mostly she might!
for when golden braids,
spike at God's feet,
away, shalt thy singing,
make surely we meet!
A.r. Bazian
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
It is a matter of time only,
until the wind arises,
and relentlessly, the moments fall asleep.
These lonely hours pass by slowly,
bestow me with radiant fear,
and far more courageously... i weep!
The music shows me my place,
As weary as I am, drifting into space.
The lighten candles have thinned the air.
visions of my Eden come to me
slightly vague, out of vogue, yet fare...
Dancing among the leaves of autumn,
in my head, the spectrum...
Swaying to the sounds of time,
To a memory;
that is mother to all wisdom...
To the scents of freedom,
and to the plunders of prime!
O, how folly my ventures were...
Through the valleys of death.
O, how many passed winters there...
That have denied me mine own breath!
Good night, and good riddance...
May I please sleep!
Shalt ye give me leave now,
to my downwards so steep?!
A.r. Bazian
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
Maybe I've taken more time, than would you
to ponder and consider...
And maybe not, but perhaps I do,
to learn the probable outcomes,
of times, through and through.
There is a sacred Geometry to fortune,
a forbidden set of plans!
Words and worlds put in tune,
and miracles put in clans!
For I stand parallel to the world, where I'd exist...
A formula of division, and slanderous gifts.
Exploring as i may,
every possibility...
Every dance...
Burning, as i sway,
Every paper to work,
every glance to a stay...
Every memory, every stance...
Every blazing day!
Every lingering minute, I'm carved in stone.
Every spoken thought, is a glimpse unbourn,
into another moment; a candle blown!
every moment; there,
I rest in bed...
Brings upon a universe,
that is here once, then is shed...
Withered like tears, that once they're gone,
this word I have left, is all there is... In stone!
All within the very dialectics of a chance,
this riddle it seems, given... And every dream, a trance!
Sweetest dreams, O' darling you...
for it seems, the mourning has come,
as words are silent, and kept a-queue!
Gentle replicas of our thoughts,
humble as this dew,
brings the world a smaller place,
and brings my words to you!
The pieces that arrange together
are strange to our dialogues, dear...
And surely, they are few!
A.r. Bazian
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 9:42 PM UTC
I am sill here...
And I still sound through the muddy plies of your illusion.
Still, even now, do I resound
through the crooked void of your presence...
I am the change!
And you, dearest mine, still so unbound,
so colourfully, you resound,
through the mundane madness of the hour.
You are the war I wage.
We are the frailty of desolation...
We are the winds that blow...
You, and I,
are the god we bestow.
We are the abstracts of absolution... We are the dancing hymn of death.
We are the raging scorn of delusion, we are society's failing breath.
I am change, I am the bringer of doom.
You're the war I wage, and the coming bloom.
And here we are again...
The wilder me,
storms the colder folder planes...
Across the distance that separates all that is between us.
Where do we go from here...
A.r. Bazian
Written in 2012
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
"There are defining moments when the blossoms bloom in spite of the wind, the reeking dryness of the ice cold plies of travelling light amid concrete, in speeding flight to grasp a sparkle of light, or a quick breeze of air, before their spines crumble and the petals back in despair!
These are the moments when and where, my eyes come fixed in constant stare... and then the nights takes away the plight with restless sleep!
You see, in the midst of all this, all this whirling and twirling, forth comes the sun, then the moon, all too sudden, all too soon... amidst all this noise so out of place, this stone grown pile of grace, and disgrace... so out of pace; the flowers I can see leap for a breath of air! amidst of all this despair, there are flowers out there, stealing their place in time! like the winds plying through the cracks in our old souls, one sweet glance at the braided bedding dawn, against the winds, the sudden winter, and stone! One quick strife for freedom, and then... no more!"
A.r. Bazian
Mar 21st, 2015
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC