Though the sun had begun bleeding in the West
With an explorer’s gait, I walked jumping over gutters
My track, flanked with knee high grass and nettles
Also wild bushes of all kinds that grew in clusters

I saw dragon flies whirring around in circles
Their wings catching glints of the evening light
As they buzzed from one blade of grass to the other
Giving a solitary soul benign company and sure delight

Strange enough, my track ended in an open space
Enclosed by cracked walls, now a forlorn territory
There are raised mounds, overgrown with weeds
I can easily make out, it is an ancient cemetery

Hush… hush is the place, here no bird sings
There is a mournful silence that deepens
Through the **** grown path, no traveler walks
The place, some morbid warning portends

Vacancy alone greets my pensive eyes
Here the wind sighs in silent pain
There is a muffled horror all around the place
Even the leaves chant a sad refrain

In these ancient graves sleep the silent dead
Their toil and trouble ended with life
They must have been perhaps heroes of the land
No more are they part of world’s victory or strife

Nor its sad commemorations or triumphant jubilees
Though released from the shackles of oppression
Each dear presence has now become an absence
Here they lie anonymous, without a single possession

Some graves are marked by crosses and head stones
But most of them are nameless, worn out by time
We do not know how or when came their end
Did they die in old age or die in their prime

Or perish in a battle or struck by some pestilence
However their names are blotted out from life’s tome
They have become inseparably one with the elements
And they lie here motionless exuding a strange calm

Generations pass and their progeny comes
Unmindful of who lived before them
Neither thankful of the legacy left behind
Nor thinking, all the comforts, from their toil stem

I stand with a heavy heart by these moss grown wrecks
Thinking I too shall lie here once, devoid of all opulence
Leaving all my hard earned possessions behind
Without a name, thoroughly forgotten by the populace

Oh Death! You are the mighty leveler of lives
With your indiscriminate hands when you strike
All differences are ironed out, all distinctions erased
Devoid of any rank, here sleep the king and the slave alike

a linkage
fragmented events and
colors
growing emptiness
differences shout presence
similarities mostly hidden
finding only hints
glimpses
within those differences
glints of light
connecting at last
linkage
a parable

All I ever wanted left me,
So I took it all.
All my lovers betrayed me,
So I ruined thee.
All I've ever known was subjective,
So I really knew nothing.
All my advice was selfish,
So I grinned right throughly.

I'm a wonderful caricature,
of what it means to be human.
Clowned up, and distorted,
that is the vision of me.
But worry not, fair sweet.
I'll be here as you worry and rot.
And I will feed.

I am all six circles of hell,
I am every demon.
I am the lie in the truth,
That glints so eagerly,
In the soft blue eyes of mine,
That can almost... make you feel mine.
Almost, but just out of a trance,
nay nothing ever was, just a circle,
That has never closed, just a cycle that,
has no history, impotent, yet
all consuming, I can't find the truth,
So I'll live in the lies, and they shall be,
The ties that I bind,
myself and others, delicately,
deliciously enjoying the feast,
I provide, alone, in the dark,
talking to those who live,
far far away in here, so that in my hell,
I can reside as king, and feel in control,
or an owner of something.

Yet still I awake,
stilly, I create,
These little poems on my own,
That you'll read on your own.
And you'll think, something but,
It'll be gone abruptly, as if you almost held a star,
but it twinkled unlucky.

The sun glints on my mirror again,
and I wake up, make a cup of coffee,
wash myself, and eventually, I’d
wake up.

The door is locked again, and the key
is lost somewhere in the pockets of my
***** jeans in the laundry. Just a typical
Sunday morning. Today,
I am finding the center of my soul, but right
now, I’m in all the typicality of
myself.

Just typical to sit in the dining area,
arrange the set of knives on the table,
rearrange the plates, and clean
the table, erase the smudges of
the dried up spittle (or whatever
that liquid is) from last night. Look,
rise, go to the cupboard, and search
for things you don’t normally touch—
not like before—there’s the bottle of
pills, the framed pictures of your
beloveds, numbered them, dated them,
like arranged tombstones on a stifled cemetery.
Smile, gorge, bask on the images, memories
unfolding high and low; how they’d always
say you’re a sick person. Low and sick. Like the way
everything goes.

Now, look for the center of your soul,
find the sharpest knife on the set, and

prepare

dinner.

It’s a miracle again, to sleep
tonight.

Not another one of
this.

A long time ago I tried to write
A love poem to a girl of my dreams.
I was burning and I was burning
For her. Instead, it seems

I wrote something about amnesia
And forgetting how to feel.
I wanted to win a dark mistress’s heart
Only the burning was real.

Or a different story:
The gulf between objects and desire.
Like the soul in Emerson’s tale,
We can never touch our beloved with fire.

Or loss. A long-legged beauty
Disappeared into echoes that I can’t explain.
Still burning with thirst
I wrote about ashes and pain.

Then I met you on a blooming campus path.
You had sinewy curves and a powerful flame
In your eyes that left me burning
To give your pleasure a secret name.

But it turned into a different plot.
You told me I set something inside you free.
It was new and I was still learning.
I told you, “Come burn with me.”

I think I know what the problem was.
I needed to learn a language from you,
The wordless speech that tongue teaches tongue,
Eye glints to eye, that skin lets through.

And our bodies coiled together
And your brown skin and my pale skin
Entangled in the heat of unity.
The burning flowed from outside to in.

There has to be a word for this,
Something enduring, strong.
Come close, I’ll try to whisper it.
Though I might get it wrong.

Sweet as the pantries,
She basked herself in a fanciful coating of clothes and accessories,
Longing to find what she termed her "Identity" in her self-proclaimed journey of seeking Truth.

Basing herself upon these coatings,
The sweetness, the addictive tone of hanging on to the securities of being visually appealing had been the sole thought harnessed in her underutilized mind.
"What should I wear?" "Am I looking too ugly in this?".... undisclosed, subtle yet toxic cycle of thoughts kept protruding from the braincentre.
Things unkempt, bottles scattered over the floor, food wrappers uncleaned....she continued glorifying herself with her trance-like state of consciousness: Calling it "Nirvana" as she glanced over her new list of Boy-friends on Facebook.

While ignoring being a  pejoratory display to others, she went on profusely with her self-consuming obssession on "Beautification"....with few occassions of gaining a few disapproving glints of nostalgia from her used-to-be down-to-earth mates.

******: Her work was disorganized, she was casted out from the team she used to collaborate with on a Science project, and became merely an alluring visual representation for pack of hungry alpha wolves.

Disintegration, down to the floor her teardrops were drained from her tearducts as she pushed every bottle of her exclusive make-up products away. "Useless, worthless...."the self-degenerating dictionary of vocabulary swarmed her psyche, attacking every single optimistic living cell in her.

Few days had passed when she found herself sleeping on the cold, hard, unrelenting floor. With a slow recovering stance, she gets up with the final thought of taking a chocolate bar for sugar.

Now she is a healthy, spiritual woman committed in empowering others to find their true identity

Skyward glints,
another hint from another sun,
London runs down,
daily commute over and out.

And how the weekday work is
coming to an end,
but what do they work on whilst 5 in the evening?
Spreadsheets saved in significant folders,
word documents in for a week on Monday,
presentation notes to be written, rehearsed, re-wrote and printed?

‘Beds, beds, beds,
prime town centre property To Let’
Broken brick buildings sit, they belong
to internet auction sites and in estate agent windows.
There’s no flow in this town no more.
Whatever river of commerce that once ran through here
has moved onto, and into, another course,
oxbow lake suburb by Government force.

It rains in the North.
Jewels in the tarmac,
rings in the walls,
stars behind the factory noise,
sound hidden behind an all-car-call.

My broken skin, my broken hide,
months of thought, a hunger for home.
Far flung, further thrown,
back to the up-north-hometown,
hometown of the known.

On another tab of this computer
a forty page document
sits quietly.

It is a study guide for the Biology unit
we started yesterday.
I could take the test if I wanted.

But my homework and my studying is last-minute
rushed and stressful
pencil flying.

Last afternoon
my hammering heart burst
when she accepted my prom proposal.
I only stammered twice.
Her face lit up.
The dance is next Saturday.

Sometimes I feel as if
the hallways and the students who reside within
move around and past me
twisting and turning and yelling too loud right next to my ear
but dragged away by the treadmill hall
before I can think of a response.

Five weeks until the end of junior year.
It has been endlessly hammered into my cranium
that this is the stretch of time that will make the difference for
future, longer stretches of time.
My head hurts.
My homework's not done.

I must grasp upon the small glints of light
in my rapidly darkening environment.
Her face lighting up.
The laughs of friends.

I will go study from my study guide now.
I will last.
I am Arjun.

From  the pinnacle of the quaint hill,
where a lone tree spreads her parasol,
it would seem one could glide smoothly down,
till the far horizon, where the sea faintly glints,

the sun just floated up, a pink, perfect globe,
changing the color of layers and layers of hills
in many hues of blue, from dark to light-
in to a song of red, only hearts listen,

A bird, not moving wings, soared far above,
round and round, a song bird on the throes-
of a song; it would break in to it soon, I hoped.
*Wind quickly subdued, leaves perked their ears,

With bated breath the hills stood attendant,
the moment was fully pregnant with expectations.

when you sit by the ocean at night
i hope you think of me

i think of you

twinkling stars scattered across the vast sky
the spots and freckles dotted across your cheeks

the ebb and flow of the sea
the slow and steady beating of your heart against mine

glints of moonlight bouncing off the rocking waves
the flickering light in your eyes when you say my name

At night, smothered in darkness, it hunts
Its eyes burning like stars
Slinking through the air, searching
Soundlessly for prey.
“She is such a softee.” Esther sighs
Scooping its favourite food into a bowl.
“My baby. My furry little baby.”
Its claws sink into the wren, ripping
It apart in a cold deliberate frenzy.
Sodden bloodied feathers, slithers of skin
Like red glints in a killer’s darkening eye.
She takes the cat into her arms,
Cradling it and smothering it with kisses.
It purrs, dreaming carnivorous dreams of its owner’s dry flesh.

I often wander past her gallows
And feel a sympathetic twinge
At glints of sun on growing rifts
I long to hear her sing

My fingers itch to hold the mallet
Molded to her brazen form
A tongue, once ripped from quiet lips
It rests, with ears, unworn

If treasured glance is counted higher
Than the purest ringing note
Then may she hang still, gagged in silence
“To Liberty!”, I quote

Merry go-rounds
Twirl around the sky
Shut down ice-cream posts and
Repressed flower petals
Crisscrossed hands and
Popsicle sticks
Loitering the salt-stained pavement
Glints of late-night squares in
Skyscrapers which brush the clouds
The crunch of diseased leaves and the
Distant honks and whistles
In chaotic, zig-zag traffic
Snow falls silently
Its fingertips landing on
Windbreakers and cotton mittens
Of children
With red cheeks and
Exasperated smiles
Chasing after frozen-pond ducks
With tongues extended and catch
Soft white water
Winter dampens the sidewalk cracks
And chills the abandoned earmuffs
But winter will not
And can not
Dampen or
Freeze or
Abandon the spirits

ever is where?
I am at it
      I never have seen
a ridge where night
touches the dew- or
     sunlight glows
on both the day and you.

There I sat upon
   a ledge teetering
fearing heights
              and the depths of darkness
     below. Tottered
down upon spoiled grounds.

Ever is where-  over a hill?
    may we ever see
sun glints-
      on green
      eyes
strong trees,
          sowing seeds
in sunlights.

Too familiar with the unhealthy coping mechanism of numbing emptiness with mindlessness
Your hands are too tired of the math review you’re desperately trying to finish.
You find yourself
Tapping through Snapchat stories, barely paying attention to
The group selfies, of bright, well-lit rooms decked with Christmas decorations
Of red ribbons and green pine and mistletoe
Of the white glints of friends’ toothy smiles
Sometimes the snaps would be videos
With deafening, muffled sounds of cheers, people’s faces recognizable
Even when turned away, laughing, looking at the star, the subject of the snap
All the cameras point to her face as she dances
It’s a party, and the late realization makes you feel dumb
I wasn’t invited. But why would I be?
I’m the asocial one, the one who always has to politely decline with
“Sorry, I have to do homework, have to do this, have to do that”
They’re IB kids. You’re in AP. What’s your excuse?
You think as you sit in front of your fluorescent LED screen
The phone’s luminosity searing through your eyes
But you can’t tear them away from the festive scene playing in front of you.
They’re having fun. It’s nighttime, 11:04, 5 seconds in, but
The environment in your house versus theirs
Seem 12 hours apart, night and day,
You squint, because wow, everyone is there. The close ones, the acquaintances,
That one guy you had to sit next to once in homeroom.
It’s almost Christmas.
You glance around your room.
No cat in sight, mother upstairs, conked out.
Your phone isn’t even alive. The snap has long been over. No vibrations of incoming texts.
You sigh.
Only a semester left.
And your fingers wearily
Pick up the pencil
And you resume
Alone.

A Portrait of Love



“Pristine your pose, exposed artistic allure”*

Canvas on easel waits patiently
Naked in formless thought
Inviting rapture’s brush strokes

“White on white destined pleadings”

Visions engulf watercolor yearnings
Blending passion’s tints…
Seductive bristled breaths fall

“Soft curves fill unframed desires”

Olive skin seeps semi-gloss wishes
Hues of fire fed glazing
Smooth along tender tan lines

“Valleys of bliss penetrate oiled needs”

Mahogany eyes captivate
Pearl’d glints shimmer silently
Beckoning in secretive glances

“Portal’d palettes draw on my sight”

Crimson lips in whimper’d pout
Satin pillow’d arching designs
Whisper me my dreams

“Their touch breaks my will”

As I paint you, I linger in lust
Overwhelmed by your beauty
Falling helplessly into this masterpiece

“And we become one via art”

Saturated in drop cloth drippings
Sighs of fevered temptations rise
Releasing abstract movements

“Acrylic serenity, vibrant achings”

Melting in chromatic motion
Collapsing among overspray imagination  
Embracing iridescent ending

*“Lost forever in a portrait of love”

Tobacco-stained dreams remain. Tanned like leather, finger joints gnarled.  The sun glints through a crack in the door.  This is a sign of brighter times.  Turquoise blues holds the memory.  

Tainted by gunfire, the repetition of the rounds hitting the ground.  Tactile senses return, feeling the grip against the palm, fingers around the guard.  

Tension becomes the norm.  Tomorrow is hope, every evening brings the tears.  Trees sway as I walk, seeking serenity in the green leaves.

Shadows grow long as the day begins its end to this
beautiful summer day, which had shown the
colors of morning at 5:30 am.

Orange and yellow so brilliant, it just seems annoying
now  as we drive towards it on our
way to work each day.

No trace of that orange and yellow, just overwhelming
brightness as the day begins to play.

Light reflects from windshield to windshield, building
to building. Mirages appear on the road ahead, of
ponds and puddles as we navigate the swells in
the road as these obstacles appear.

As cars rush by, blue, yellow, red and green,
streaks of flattened color create the morning’s end.

A spectrum of color moves throughout the day as we
see glints of magic from our cubical through a
window across a walkway.

We sit and wonder, with one leg on our desk as we peer
through the window in awe.

As the day’s end begins, in the opposite direction we
drive, the colors are sharp and pure
gold, green, blue and white,
fade to black and the beginning of night.


http://www.charlesdennis.netne.net

© 2009 Charles Dennis

the opening fold of sunlight
dawns with delight
o'er the bush land
tis a scene grand

bright rays of radiance do beam  
on hills and stream
shining of glints
lovely the tints  

the sun doth light up the countryside
with its preside
dazzling of sight
is its highlight

I wish I could keep this moment
Put it in my pocket and save it
For a rainy day
When the world reflects my mind

I wish I could save the sunshine
As it glints golden off
Emerald leaves
That dance and whisper
In wind's soft caress

I wish I could save the silence
As it wraps it's fingers
Around my swollen heart
And holds me close
So I don't feel so alone

I wish I could save the grass
It's expansive touch
Enfolding me in a blanket
Of sweet memories
To ease my mind

I could stay in this moment forever
But if I did
I might lose the next one
And who knows
It might be better

In the dim yellow light beneath deciduous trees she spun methodically in Autumn. Shadows loomed aloft, chirping their approval. She spun and seemed to levitate, the flickers of the evening flame reflected in her pale green eyes darting in between loose strands of bland vermilion hair. And she spun and spun as if she'd spin forever,

Autumn.

She was Autumn there and then, personified in glints of golden green and faded yellow brown descending listlessly to greet the open canvas of the forest floor.
And the shadows pressed into the earth and disappeared as overhead the rain slashed through the shyness of the crowns betwixt the trees.

And she slowly spun her last, and lastly, panting stood before me naked, shivering in the gentle gales that rose and fell like Mozart's heavy heart.

I beckoned her with dead weights crudely fashioned to the pauldrons of my coffin that hung lowly, swaying listless as the leaves. And she smiled a tired smile and blew the kiss I yearned for seasons to receive before collapsing in the dirt.

In Autumn.

-Mike Robbins-