Mariana in the Moated Grange

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
  She only said, "The night is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
  She only said, "The day is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
  She only said, "My life is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said "I am aweary, aweary
  I would that I were dead!"

And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
  She only said, "The night is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
  She only said, "My life is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
  Then said she, "I am very dreary,
  He will not come," she said;
  She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
  Oh God, that I were dead!"

"Mariana in the Moated Grange"
(Shakespeare, Measure for Measure)

With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"

And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"

With blackest moss the flower-plots
         Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
         That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
         Unlifted was the clinking latch;
         Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
                She only said, "My life is dreary,
                        He cometh not," she said;
                She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
                        I would that I were dead!"


Her tears fell with the dews at even;
         Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
         Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
         When thickest dark did trance the sky,
         She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
                She only said, "The night is dreary,
                        He cometh not," she said;
                She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
                        I would that I were dead!"


Upon the middle of the night,
         Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
         From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
         In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
         Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
                She only said, "The day is dreary,
                        He cometh not," she said;
                She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
                        I would that I were dead!"


About a stone-cast from the wall
         A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
         The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
         All silver-green with gnarled bark:
         For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
                She only said, "My life is dreary,
                        He cometh not," she said;
                She said "I am aweary, aweary
                        I would that I were dead!"


And ever when the moon was low,
         And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
         She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
         And wild winds bound within their cell,
         The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
                She only said, "The night is dreary,
                        He cometh not," she said;
              She said "I am aweary, aweary,
                            I would that I were dead!"


All day within the dreamy house,
         The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
         Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
         Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
         Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
                She only said, "My life is dreary,
                        He cometh not," she said;
                She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
                        I would that I were dead!"


The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
         The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
         The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
         When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
         Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
                Then said she, "I am very dreary,
                        He will not come," she said;
                She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
                        Oh God, that I were dead!"


                            *Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I've studied the chess table and its consequent game. I know every inch of every square and what each can provide without doubt. I have seen the creatures of this world conflicting in their natural habitat, like an audience to a drama, watching them devour each other until the math proves the premise on a single side. I've moved according to their stride, like a dancer's partner, gliding across this checkered ballroom floor until the truth sets in stone. It's simple dialectics, a move is made and then, from the other, another follows. White conflicts with Black and Black counteracts, a perfect unity of opposites. Never jumping ahead of themselves, one piece at a time, it's a rising exposition from White's first movement forward, a heat creeping in increments on the desert surface. They're each a step ahead at every moment, each a worthy opponent for the other. The cold, morning mirage becomes blistering afternoon and only once does the volcano erupt from boiling sand, truly agape in a fiery victory. Do you hear that power in the distance?

A horn bellows and I move in the wake of the Divine Voice. I am but a cleric for his queen, yet the king requests my service in these grave times. This foreboding feeling leaves me truly afraid for my life, however, like a snowy dove's feather, I am called to the wind with my brethren towards the direction of the evil swamps. God has blessed our devout; the witchcraft of the Black Kingdom will surely fall to His mystic weaponry.

A farmer's strong-hand makes no strongman in the abysmal depths of this marsh. Tilling the land for fallen comrades, the breath of the Black Eye leaves me entrenched in a dripping terror, coating my lungs in a bitter molasses. I contain my sultry pearl of abandonment in the Clam of Defeat, knowing the king's life to be the insurmountable jewel I must truly protect. The following torture would be an endless excruciation heard from every corner of the world.

From afar this looking tower I notice an encounter of mild defeat. A white knight on horseback casts his sword into the chest of a young peon boy standing guard for the King as he leaves the gates of the Black majesty. The boy cries out and the embers from the magical weapon envelope him in ash. The king needn't make haste, after all, the armored fool is frozen in awe, staring at the remains of his powerful encounter with the child. The half daemon looks to and fro as he skims across the moated bridge. He grabs for the golden kryss at his waste and slowly stabs between the break in white armor, freezing it solid. The blood runs quick on the fallen honor.

She's traveled far from her black caging, ripping down from the sky like a dragon. The wind blows a bastion out of the sand in my protection, but she ignites it with her icy breath, stagnating all those inside, moving ever closer to my advantage. My last warring cleric triangulates a teleportation to the town square, fighting a harrowing defeat that lends her to me. His bravery leaves her chained in physical combat with a half deity, however, she smirks as if the war is already won. I tighten my gauntlets for battle as the flying arrow passes my helmet. Oh my great men of war, your weight is on the wrong side of the world. Now it spins out of control. Eclipsed in madness, I send the eruption beneath her, encircling her in rising doom. She cannot escape her molten grave, neither does the arrow shaft merely graze my heart. Everything is hazy. Everything is dark. It is late in the hour, hearing the Devil's whisper say:

“Checkmate.”

Your laughing eyes filled up my cup of yore
When summer flowed in endless streams, yet when
Sure-footed feet were swept out from the shore
Then time unkindly turned our now to then.

You laughed and yet your eyes revealed in you
Deep secrets hidden down within the deep
Blue oceans of your soul, that guard the blue
Keep of your moated castle where you keep

Those inner thoughts you dare not share and those
Which weave a spell as tho' some haggard witch,
Nose misshapen, had snorted from her nose
Rich veins of silver bound to make her rich.

Long not for treasured silence e'er life long,
Song gifts the world and those who gift their song.

Black moss and flower pots.
She cometh not, she cometh not.
Lonely and moated,
Rusted nails broken.

Dew with tears,
An hour before sunlight.
Cold winds wake,
A greyish mourn.
Clustered marish-mosses,
Silver green bark.

In a dreamy home.
Among wainscot,
Door hinges creak.
Like a mouse,
She shrieked-
She cometh not, she cometh not.

I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?

The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder 
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?

*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?

The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?

*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

It is the tipping point
the harvest well begun
its end in sight
an early morning
retreated to past
five on the clock

mist lay on
the meadowed fields
observed the pond
held tight to the trees

walking the empty road
camera in hand
to catch the chill earliness
in the far fields then back
through the uncared-for orchard
past the forked-fingered ash
still quite still -
the night air collapsing
as the sun rose

Darjeeling
in the white bone-china cup
a kiss of milk
comforting this delicate tea

and light everywhere
between three windows
our table her gifts
from the shoreline
shadowed hard-edged
whilst the back-lit screen
blinks and waits for words

my story blended from fact
pestled into fiction
itself a background
to a further fiction
from a past in ancient time
where each image described
takes aim at the resonant heart
of every exquisite moment


Eight Sketches in a Notebook

I

into a western sky
the sun finds cloudspace
to enter and set
well above the sea’s horizon
and for a while its rays
glimmer upward onto shards
holding remnants of the day’s
unreflected light


II

not a hut of straw and rushes
on a far mountain fastness
this a walled stockade all but moated
gardened inside its bounds
a miniature railway said to surround
a six-cornered house facing seaward
and towards a lagoon on whose banks
little terns nest from April to June
a mirror of light upon which
the solitary soul might dwell


III

rock guardian
standing
mid-beach

its debris
spilled
to water’s edge

still as still as
no wind or wave
pools dark depths

further out
the sea shimmers
ablaze with reflections


IV

hiding an anxiety of hair
a headscarf blue
and spotted white
reveals an ear
and below a sturdy neck
on round shoulders
her bare arms fall to quiet hands
next to thighs trousered  
knee-length to gentle calves
falling further onto bare feet
stood standing on course sand
at the sea’s murmuring edge


V

here the rock opens
its lips to a kiss of light
but deep inside remains
a dark sheltering secret
blackness impenetrable
wide enough for a storm’s
intrusion of water and wind
but beyond such darkness
possibly nothing
- a closed door
of rock?


VI

from my canvas chair
on the flags outside
the white French doors
this drawing – from where
the garden gate once was
a gap between
the honey-suckled hedge
and the long low cottage
above an ash tree waving
its fingered branches
in the afternoon breeze
fresh over the hill
from the sea’s shore
hardly a mile away


VII

the land points seaward
to an island light
a mile off-shore

on a shingled beach
sliced by the sea’s knife
cattle wandered yesterday

in the mist-driven rain we
sleeked wet as dogs approached
on the headland’s path


VIII

littered the land lies
with interruptions
interventions of the built

past beside present
ends amongst beginnings

complex histories
to delve deeper into
on this northern shore

I wish I lived in Wayne’s World,
where Wayne and Garth are real.
I wish I had Cassandra’s curls,
and her *** appeal.

I wish I dated Jason Dean,
and coloured him impressed.
I wish I had the killer gene,
but never ever confess.

I wish I went to Ashfield Hospital,
and looked a little on edge.
Explored shutter island in the spittle,
and made the Marshall pledge.

I wish I lived with Yeats,
or in the lonely moated grange,
I wish I danced on table tops,
my body for money,  fair exchange.

I wish reality didn’t exist,
or better yet just me,
all those opportunities would be missed,
and at peace I’d finally be.

I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?

The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?

*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

a consummate character actor
came to the footlight stage
his performances critically acclaimed
in entertainment's grand page

Burton nor Sir John Gielgud
had not a patch on his prowess
in all facets of the craft
this star did certainly impress

at The Crown Theatre he played
a bearded vagabond
who wandered the Yorkshire Dales
and further beyond

he received many an accolade
for a gripping role in "Where Is The Maid"  
the plot centred around
an English castle's moated ground

scripts by the score keep
flooding in each week
as directors love working
with the sensational Edward Deek

I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?

The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?

*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?

The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?

*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?

The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder 
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?

*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

Being puny, young and too impatient to understand time would eventually change me, I sulked at the unfairness of the world.
He sensed I felt exactly what I was: a limp sapling too fragile and green to be allowed join the hunt of adventure with the older children.”Fetch me water from the well,” he said, more so a suggestion than a request.

Galloping to show my pace under his constant protective eyes, I reached the stone hemmed shaft.
Looping the rope through the eye of the weighted pail handle, I eagerly watched the vessel plummet into oblivion. Savouring the echoed dunk and gulp. The silent count to seven reverberated within.

Bracing myself in a determined stance. Straining against the initial load, I heaved. Hand griped over hand grip on the thick rough hemp cord. I allowed its slack to gather as it wished on the earth by the foot of the attached secure spike.

The last hoist was always the hardest for me. Trying as I could to avoid the bottom of the pail from striking the lip of the well. Swinging it clear, I untangled the umbilical cord. I carried the burden with dread. One arm was awkwardly angled for balance in case too much sloshed over the brim and soaked my feet, or worse, dampened my chances to prove my worth.

“Place it on the bench.” He nodded to the far end from where he sat as rigid and as tragic as a dense tree stump hinting at the might which he once was. Standing by his shoulder, I watched him overlap the flesh of his bog-wood tough hands into a cup. Without a flinch or goose-bump to note the coolness of the water, he sank his hands into the pail.

He slowly raised the basin of flesh. From the gathered pool minute drips seeped back into its source. He looked at me with his tricolour eyes of pitched pupils moated by iris of speckled cloudy blue in a sclera battlefield tinged with a sepia hue.”This is all I can lift. You’ve carried more than I one-handed.”

He sipped the last of the diminishing pool, only wasting the dampness of his fingers upon his woolen top. I followed his gaze to my own petal hands. I did not notice him leaving as I examined my palms in a new light.

carrying fairy tales in your pockets
I could see your yearning for a castle
the towers reaching into the sky
Moated with drawbridge and portcullis
safe from the wickedness of stories
handed down through generations
the ones kept in your pockets and
to be re- read while residing safe in your castle

I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?

The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?

*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?

The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?

*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six                                                    
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

My bed is a cocoon.


A floating
And moated sand castle
and I unravel

in a dream of reality


Come into my humble,

Pretentious abode
A bubble

and stay the night
Draped in silken sheets.

.
I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?

The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?

*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

.

           The Indelible Army.


Within the moated margins on this island
parchment, where scribes from the past

propagated an ancient art, in ink, the blood
of all creativity, they transfused their genius.

While maintaing an unstoppable march
ad infinitum, attempts to alter, erase and

erode the truths of their painful history
has failed, due to the fossils of fact.

Those rank and file columns of
paleographic characters the freedom

of expression which will in time, hold
those who aggressed them, accountable.