"mystry" poems
will you pass the shilling test?
your life is the slamming
of typewriter keys
to paint with crafted words the world you would dream
the world she would love you in
your life is the desperate holding at bay the hours evaporating
into a future you cannot
comprehend
into a land as foreign as another world
into a mist of unknowns
my leather bound case and trench coat
bible and cookware
a shilling for the ferryman
but fret over
like the wringing of sweaty hands
pacing the hall
small bald fat men
with neatly pressed brooks brothers suits
but fret over like the well greased
plans and carefully laid designs
of another mans futures past misgivings
will you pass the shilling test
another day and far away from such
musings i find myself at odds with
myself over the course i should follow
on this days misadventure
i have known deep seasons of love
and iv known vast feilds of emptyness and fear
these days are a mystry to me
i cannot see my way
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
I see you in your dream ,
I meet you in your death.
Once I have you,
No one would hear you ,even if you scream .
Deceive me , and I walk beside you ,
I’d find you , and do what I do best .
I’d have your soul , and mystry is the rest.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
Well?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXLIV)
Blue skies lo, nary cloud blots for intents
Warm on these frozen wastes as trash' detail
Flirts 'cross the puddles like a bird in pale
Excuse who, washing up as wont, shakes thence
His wings, light flashing off them with a sense
Of summer's carefree minutes, whiles to scale
Ice glares more coldly from the corners frail
Ghosts of thin warmth ne'er touch but tis pretense.
Dad pulls espressos, foaming milk in tour
As all baristas, yet sans flourish, to
Leave that to sheer caprice I find as twere,
Whiles I feign then to ascertain a view
Of this or that, which he half tol'rates fer
The mystry is't? of all we sorta knew.
03Mar19b
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 9:54 PM UTC
When you take a false
lead, life will undo the seeds
and the cataracts freeze.
This is the story of
a butterfly, in disturbing amber
buried in snowfall.
Can your body take the imprints of flogging?
When you start sketching the polar ice
in the story of death, compounding
the mystry of
unleashing sea
of the fawn eyes, whose message
was sent in water?
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 7:07 PM UTC