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mark john junor Jan 2016
safe in the fortress of my heart
i looked out on the mysteries of my world
reveled in the complex dance of lovers united in
burning desires and passionate loves
and then i heard a distant swansong
heard a distant love affair promised behind
such lovely phrases and alluring photographs
but as the truth of it resolved itself in minds eye
i could see it failing in the crisp moonlight
i could see its painful ending that
is as sure as a rising sun
that it would leave me
in a dire thirst
a depleted soul

please pull me away from this swansong
this enticing tale
for its sweetness clings to me
its promised loveliness and beauty
are only facade for such a dark and lonely place
i will end up believing such a tale
i will fall victim to such a beautiful thought
and the swansong will be spread to yet another
lover torn from the worlds complex dance
of true beauty and love

safe in the fortress of my heart
this dire tale sweeps up against me
trying to wear me down
i call out that others should be aware
i cry out that others should see
this swansong so pretty and beguiling
is such a dark thing
i will hold out for the dawn
i will stay true to my love
and there i will breath easy a summer's day
in there i will find loves true tale
loves complex dance of passion and desire
i will once again dance happy and free
with all the other lovers wrapped in
the warmth of our passions
K Balachandran Jul 2013
I heard, my  rainbird singing Meghmalhar* alone,
my heart was broken in to pieces, as her wistful tune hit it,
her swansong it was, I realized.
I knew grief was her wings, how can I make her confine
to this garden and sing, when she wants to be on the wings?
I watched her from behind the bushes
thinking to give her the freedom to sing her swansong.
In to the  rain clouds , she flew up, only a feather she left behind,
for all the memories of my music filled days with her.
Torrential monsoon rains lashed, thunderclaps and lightening
made the sky a war zone, I saw her
flying in to the heart of danger, without concern,
my eyes followed her far and away, one last time,
a drop of tear on the corner of my eye,
sears my soul all the time.
*Meghmalhar is a classical  Indian (Hindustani) tune(Raag),the name derived from Cloud(Megh).Legends say that this "Raag" when sung in its sublime form has the power to bring rain in the area it is sung.
Àŧùl Feb 2015
In this poem, I speak directly to you-know-who-because-it's-you.

Dear old friend, don't miss me ever,
If I had some genuine value in your life,
Now I add the element of request, please,
You know that most of my poems are for you,
Whether normal or proposing you to be my wife,
Please do not spoil your career being busy in vain,
The social network & apps are a total waste of time.

The social network is not a place for social service,
It is only so harmful for your own career prospects.

This is just my last request to you, Kripiji.

I know you are upset with this preaching,
But please take the positivity from this post.
Realize your ultimate aim in life of a good career.
And remember your exceptional performance two years ago.
Take some lessons from it even if you don't want me to say anything.
You were away from Facebook.
Facebook is a really cool thing..
But it is not so good for students...

And please don't resent me, Kripiji.

I am just performing my duty as a responsible lover.

By the way, it's a bit funny how I am requesting you timidly, scared to spoil your mood, I respect you for the love you have given to me from in between of all this busyness in your life which sees you prepare for your exams.

My HP Poem #777
©Atul Kaushal
Shofi Ahmed Jan 2020
(0)
Fly perfectly straight and high, and show the fly
out of the fly-bottle on your way.
Rise to victory, far above the blue sky,
and reap the reward: the opening of paradise!

The road ahead is clear and open this way,
with things small and big growing and disappearing up this way.
You will see sunrises and sunsets waxing and waning,
with mention of the moon and stars in the dark.
Be mindful as you sway, it's got to be laser-sharp.
There is no hard shoulder on this highway,
miss it by an inch and risk losing everything forever!

There is hope, there is light up high
pick up your paintbrush, just like the sun does
goodness knows how it sneaks in, right in the black
canvas of the night, painting the first light
lo, it shows up in heaven, the candle of the daylight.

As long as there is a man and a woman,
never give up, our canary bird can fly
rosy or not, the nest in every morn nets a sunrise!

(1)
A woman indeed plucks up the courage
she never had to look up to the stars
be it for the guide or the light in the night.
Fathima herself was the full Moon every night
is thanks to her Godsent innate light.

With it, she can bask in the full spread of the pi
on top of its short decimals mounting high
constantly as if countless stars in the sky.

The time and space under the sun
and that under Fathima's light
are far apart from each other
yet they coexist side by side.

As she points out,
"A circle is masculine
while pi is feminine."

Pi forms the circle with fine prints,
decimal dots continue to spring,
sprawling trillions of new digits,
the bandwagon is still increasing.
Connecting the dots is an untouched dream.

The full moon pi picture is veiled,
unseen at large, yet in short, 3.145 it can live!

(2)
Fathima flies her lock of hair
in the lurking air of the transcended pi
the primitive feminine does that,
no wonder she is God's secret feminine opus!
An immeasurable black hole lies in between
the short and transcended pi, running like a river,
dancing anew on every riverbank
in the many curls of Fathima's jet black hair.

She lent out a hair to the planet earth
and crossed over like a silhouette
without spilling out the colour
of the transcended end of the pi.
The earth takes it in the core in her heart
as if it would keepsake it forever.

Weaving the pi in Fathima embeds two hairs ties one
perfect circle at the back and one at the front of the universe.
Inside each hair the earth is finest fluid in the core
none is as deep as high as proportionate a perfect flow.
No time is as revealing no music is as sweet in this orb
no force is as mighty nor as prevailing a true giant
causing gravity and the heat at the earth's core.
Matter and spirit mix free in the play both wax lyrical
thanks to the pure resonance of 'Qun Be' the word of God!

(3)
The way to the earth's core is exposed to none other
save the Angel of Death the lucky one.

See both sides of the one lofty sky swathed in countless stars  
but the day and night render through still remains an unseen one  
Terra is shalet zeroed in Fathima is heaven on earth!  
Up in the sky-high bank turning the starry bowl upside down
Fathima took no star nor a pearl diving deep down the Arab water,
the brightest luminary came after Muhammad (PBUH),
in veil from the Night of Measures and into the flipside in the night
she's gone without lifting the veil but left her penetrating mark.

Few could find the shortcut contemplating on a blank canvas
the Moon looks down into the abyss down the sea eyes on far
for a mirror in the bottom on the as above so below matter
since Godsent Fathima touched on the all-inclusive primitive water.
The sun gets caught up in the very water dew she raised in the sky
the ancient fold of time still unfurls with the sun-kissed flowers
for the new hands yet the fingerprint on the sun remains only her!

Azrael heads to Fathima around the year 632 after death
touches down in Medina on his usual thin earth he steps.  
But this time a little mundane dust couldn't be thicker
he keeps descending deep down to the earth's centre
following from Medina but the angel locates her
inside the perfect circle a closed geometric figure.

(4)
Fathima is the female headline her secret is not all known
when she used to visit the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH)
he would stand up for her hold her hand and kiss it
and seat her on his seat, she would do the same to the prophet
when he would visit her like they did know each other
in and outside the spheres of heaven and earth!

She is the embodiment of the infinite feminine variations
the first spiritual woman created following God's word Qun.
Her is the mother tongue of the ever diversified feminine lingua
no one woman on her own can rhyme with her alone
she has no peer her rhetoric is unique like none other.
The galactic run from planet to planet up on the starry ladder
climbing high up the mountain heaven yet streams out like oval
off their rock bottom stone until that unleashes the final run
in perfect circle delving into the rhythm of the loop at the centre
made of Fathima's hair charged by 'Qun' God's uncreated word.  

Prophet David can sing on the bank of the river
and can see the fish are jumping to him out of the water.
The masculine is open form, eye on everywhere,
but not her the woman is in juxtaposition her
all-inclusive schema supplanting the details rest only on her.
She is the unseen world within the world at best imagine her!
Guess, through this inwardly open door who might disappear?
It's nature before the scientist on ultimate discovery of the matter!  

Aligning with her down the rainbow up high the land absorbs
the grooming sky looking on the running rivers within her.
Her words spread through like the smart cloud that flies far
over the lands and valleys but not even the wind none other
gets a sniff of the potion and melody it caries until that rain down
without a hurdle without a visual she moves on at the target
such a soul needs no after death lift from the angel of death.

Before Azrael Fathima loses an arc of the circle then and there
so not the earth but giant Azrael can take the pressure!
Marked by a fluid discharge since then she is cooling this fire
In Shaa Allah God willing when she ajars it, it will be elixir!  

(5)
Draw a straight line, but it won't be perfect
it keeps bending, fly straight touching the sky
the flight path won't look like a straight line
it would be like the crest of a crescent moon
like curve touched the sky, like climbing up
atop the pyramid is not going high straight on
it goes up from the widespread seked slopes.

Moves in golden ration 1.618 not the full two
and gets the designing formula flawlessly full
micro to macro all levels all the way to the true north!    

Fathima being the original feminine eyeing at her
she can tap in the knowhow of naturally feminine nature.
And discovers the immanent pattern - the world
is pre-designed and measured is never a coincidence.
The creatures' creativity, scientist's science
is to follow, discover working formulas like phi and pi.

Play along it works until an unknown hour strikes
comes with accurate knowledge dead on time
numerically correct never miss taking a life away
as if it was calculated beforehand before the birth.
A newborn is born for a limited time
already set but no one knows when it goes up  
is a deadlock clock but it isn't so shrouded
in the blueprint of the creatures' grand design
there the clock ticks safe and sounds it never dies!  

(6)
Fathima hailing from the other side of the pool
eyes on the ever live pre-design side of the creation!
Then its corporeal face was only a water drop,
the primitive one looks see-through it has dead zero
knowledge of its lively other side of the pool.
She comes closer and perfectly mirrors both sides
that shines through on her reflected face on the water.
An absolute new image that livens up the dead part
Bang - Big Bang! The corporeal world gets the spark
explodes out from the very first drop of the water!

Fathima's appearance was miraculously instrumental
God reveals nature the finite and infinite, 0 and 1,
future in the present and the death and life in play!
Nature follows suit it just saw the perfect role model
banged out but only to its corporeal set
it aspires to be with its infinite reality yet!

Fathima leaves the door open constructing a perfect circle,
hardly straight, took the mixed bag of countless variations
she zooms into the abyss irrational portion of the first matter,
the primitive water drop and aces the circle with her hair
that nothing can equate throughout the corporeal world.
Done the math discovering the zero starting point at the bottom.
The ocean of digit numbers, the DNA of all things material
banged out of it, still, the zero is numberless irrational!

(7)
All things, within oneself and in a set constantly vibrate,
strive to align with the enduring reality of itself.
The atom vibrates to reach out to its immortal portion
that doesn't die and is in the know of its lower base.
The planets are in a defined circular orbit, accurately measured
just the apex on top of their dynamic pyramid the pyramidon
is tucked away; they too have an irrational portion in the circle.

With the finest spin, they zoom in the spacious universe,
in part and like the sun outside the constellations round they go
never miss a target line yet to re-discover Fathima's perfect circle
the origin of their digital essences' breakthrough
the door to their transcended destination de jour.
Lo the matter turns the last stone pulsing across the cosmos
the mortal horizontal spread, the spirit returns home.

The earth has a line in its swansong it has a place in paradise
it's not here to stay for good neither to perish forever!

Matters form and break without losing the rope,
it's not to paint the shades of the eternal blue
but to ace an irrational portion in the circle
at the heart of the earth, as above, so below.  
The deep the high the perfect circle
up and down the centre of gravitation for all!

At even and at odd the vibration within the matter is fluid
somewhere is parched there the arch matter must make a splash.
Far away on that dark beach, the full-fledged sea of the matters
outpours its billowy potion with the Moon on the frontline
from deep within the physical world's most glowed up firefly!

(8)
The seven seas swell up smoothly into the moonlight-dip
oh, the waterless Moon at the core is still fasting.
Led by time the sweet swan punting along the waves
streams down the watery inner circle of the planets.
Until stuck in the Moon no water in the last waterfront
but paradise is on the other side of the pool!  

The sun dips away into the night
while the eve baths in the shades of pink and gold,
the dazzling hues soon turn to taupe.
Drawing down painting the picture in full colour
only to find the time is up on the halfway,
yet to print a colour copy of the night!
The other unseen half is passed down to the Moon
tiptoeing in slow motion in the depths of the night
barely keeping the head afloat in a fathomless ocean
of shades of black hails from where knows no one.  

The sun enkindles the moon half-lit keeping itself away
amid shadows as if comparing the shades now it knows
a Mehrem a veiled female is ahead not to look on or
compared to that the sun has no light or true are both.

Wrapped in the eternal night beneath its black mole
once the moon on the front approaching most close
directly down to the centre of the earth eyes on
over that inlaid string hairy black perfect circle
never did it turn back the same gaze is still on
orbiting around the earth in synchronous rotation.

(9)
The never-ending night is becoming a night indeed
it's coming to an end so soon in our time.
In Shaa Allah I will see it with my eyes before I die
in the Night of Measures in an odd night in Ramadan
Fathima from the transcendental end of irrational heart
will turn on top of the curve opening for the first time
a 9-degree angle in the circle at the centre of the earth.

Instantly the leading force, time will get the first sniff
of the other world, so peaceful heart-melting serene.
Rapturous time feeling an ounce of the enduring peace
for the first time cutting all the corners with ease
will be propelled into its yet uncharted golden mean.
Scurrying to the peaceful abode time will be on its wings
across the globe, people will be stunned seeing
how first the times pass from then on incredibly quick!

Fathima, the first spiritual woman on duty, will start
pulling her hair back off the circle at the centre
Juxtaposed in between the worlds of here and hereafter.
She will take back every inch of it, the heavenly bodies
will feel the pinch of her every little subtle pull
that too is a boon helping them perfect their circle.

(10)
Soon she opens it just 9-degree wide at first
the Moon will see a glimpse of the first drop of water.
Without it, it's living perched without the water of life
that's destined to rain down soon and the Moon
back into its original pond shall revive!
Mapping the pi's whole infinitesimals playground
finally, Fathima will turn the circle upside down
on the dot the stunned sun shall rise in the western sky!

By now under Fathima's hair's shaded closed circle
it must have sailed far over the blue sky in the other world.
Billowing with the breeze over the sea of uncharted water
and stacking to the brim with all that it could discover
humbly stood like a cloud in that corner of the sky.

The time is finally ticking fast to rain down with love
paradise's welcoming schema rendering in waterpaint drops
on the Moon over the sea of matters, that's most glowed up firefly
ah, finally can break the fast sipping in a drop of elixir!
It's their heavenly adopted, Miʿrāj performed, primitive water.
The Moon with the seven seas will leave off the corporeal shell
gliding gracefully with this stately water nymph as if it never dies
and will make a splash plopping into the pond of paradise!  

For the matter ultimately is water and its extent is sound
Fathima will fetch it the water of life and take it to the next life!
Oh, the matter shall do both die and revive with Israfil's sound
the cloud will fly out of the dead water on the ground,
like the earth with chorus songs of the rain revives.
When that a melodious nymph in the water makes waves
see paradise is here the Moon over the sea can't take off its eyes.

(11)
Hang on though they all set ready on their horizontal span  
to pull in such a fluid yet colourful descending like a rainbow swan.
First chaste Fathima will evaporate her hair's perfume away
that's yet lingering in the water warming it up to its premium
no crowd then can see where this heady, fragrant cloud will fly!
There are the momentum and delights where that will alight.

Israfil might then blow his trumpet swooning the world away
the secret will remain a secret exception is said in the Qur'an.
A strange sound will silence the chorus of the innate digits
collapsing the floating cosmos bubbling on their music.  
The corporeal circle will collapse as if there is no base no pi
the melody of the first word Qun means Be will still be loud
supercalifragilisticexpialidocious so how can we all expire?

Israfil too will play his reviving trumpet pure mellifluous
and In Shaa Allah numerically perfect Fathima will rise
amidst the resonant Qun as like she did in the beginning
when except prophet Muhammad (PBUH) there was nothing!
Now the earth once zeroed in beneath her hair will follow her
the stunned terra will discover Fathima took her hair away
only to shift the constellation up onto the upper world!

The old songs of the planets the chorus of the digits will revive
from the zero bases in the core the digital panache that dance
planet upon the planet as if they are always at the perfect hertz.

Indeed that is yet to come, the arts of the fine layers
opening from the irrational pi, the finest one is to flower
when Fathima will unloop her circled hair at the centre
piercing the very immanent irrational cut
that no creation can fathom only the loving creator Allah
will turn odd to even in between the here and hereafter
then the ocean stuck in deep salt shall turn to enduring potion!
The As-Sirat shall turn to be the bridge to paradise
the body shall revive with the enduring soul forever
and with ah Fathima couple shall enter paradise In Shaa Allah
with the rhapsody 'all praise is for Allah' Alhamdulillah!
T Nov 2017
This maybe is my Swansong
Because I don't know how long I can hold on
I wrote these so she could see how much I loved her if I am gone
I am just thinking ahead
Should something happen and I am dead
I am in a place I don't belong
I hope I am not there too long
If I end up here to long
This will be my Swansong
Hello
J Oct 2020
You beautiful,
Beautiful
Woman you --
I'm in awe of you,
You lovely woman
Every dawn is a nexus, /
Every twilight is a beckoning; therefore, /
Embrace the fickle future /
Ensconscing within the sacral oath /
Of a thousand words: /
These utterances shall envelop you /
When upon Triumphal Arcadian Skies /
We meet again. /

Save your tears, /
For love shall reign /
From the empyreal aethers above /
To the Gaian epidermis of /
The Magnanimous Matriarch; moreover, the mellifluous kisses /
Of The Sovereign of Songbirds /
Will burgeon within, /
Will descend upon you as The Holy Dove. /

Unfurl your third eye, /
See with an indefatigable clarity /
All that you were meant to be: /
Strong, Wise, Just; /
Love; /
A luminary fulminating /
Radiantly, resplendently upon /
The Denizens of the Terrene. /

(—Se' lah)
Your heart /
Is an impearled grand piano: /
Every word, /
Every thought, /
Every utterance, /
Is an ivory key emitting /
A sonic, an aeonic testimonial; /
A reverberation of spirit./

Awaken your senses, /
Trust your intuition, /
Burgeon in the beauteous /
Molecule quenching, /
Rays of the Feuillemorte, /
Hiemal, Vernal, & Estival Sol. /
In truth, our Mother Lodestar /
Transcends the seasons./

Evanescent, /
Though life may be, /
She is worthy of every /
Onerous breath, /
For all is a quickening; A preparation /
For the auric-ascendence, the platinum self-transcendence /
Awaiting us in /
The Realm of Greater Eden. /


Excelsior Forevermore,



Sanders Maurice Foulke III, AAS


09-06-21
The Precursor’s Psalms
Book Two
Chapters VI- X: Ragnarök

A sacred parcel to the soul who looks to ―raptured firmaments for their salvific benison. Se'lah.

VI: The Paean of Lovelight (The Paean of Lovelit Life)

1 Every particle in the soil of my epidermis roves for its emanation,
Its musicality, vibrating in pulsing fuchsia shockwaves,
This melodic energy is the Paean of Lovelit Life.
2 It reverberates the remittance in reminiscence;
yes, the Circle of Life breathes through the conduit,
it peregrinates
The ephemerality, even, the eternity in all entity.
(For in us exist dichotomies)

3 In a moment of self-revelation
I know naught but the vagary of the self;
still, the pain remains,
In the benighted truth of epiphany;
4 Yes, even,
Upon the Visage of Creation
All existence groans in groping
For its Nirvanic Pulse, ―like a wraith.

5 Finding meaning in all that I am,
all that I see, all there will be, and all that is,
I understand the fallacy in knowing, the bane in consciousness:
6 In an instant, one must forget

Page | 1

all they have learned, all they feel, all they sense,
in the diminution of a moment
lest the soul relinquish that which does seamlessly transmit itself through
The Streams of Tempus Fugit.

VII: The Virescent Masquerade

1 Forsake all sorrows of the morrow, for
Beneath the Masquerader’s Virescently Butterfly-Winged Mask, there is a beckoning;
2 O, even amidst foible for which you long to be assoiled, excogitations do roil;
A tremulous heart: eventualities do saunter past, present,
future, and in communing you examine the finitude & the frailty
(Will their Exodus, my Exodus,
Come before I am ready?)
Of those in the Land of the Living.

VIII: Hierarchy of Sacrality

1 Wisdom
Is a cosmos,
2 Love,
―Invictus Dei,
3 Power,
The Cradle of Cosmogenesis,
4 Justizia,
Universal Scales through which Edicts of the Cosmogonist unfurl.

IX: Vagrant Story

1 Profundities lie in our vagrancies,
And in these there lie Faiths;
The faithful hunger for
―Virtue
For through these, we find a Savior.  

Page | 2

2 Our Deiform-Apotheosis is ordained by of the Arbiter of Fates,
3 He Is Our Nexus to Transcendence,
The Empyrean whom carnal perdition hast braved


X: Nelumbo Nucifera (Sacred Lotus)

1 ―O, Jah,
The Sovereign of Songbirds,
Sing in the Key of Elysium,
The Requiem of Our Swansong;
2 Beseech the Earthen Womb
Of the Terraqueous Mother
To conceive us anew that
We partake of an elemental legacy.

3 O, then
Might we re-alight,
Upon an aforetime wearied land,
―Nelumbo Nucifera: The Impregnable Sacred Lotus
4 Whose aegis’d petals through
Dusk, Dawn, Midday, Twilight, and Eve
Might effloresce
In the Aeonic Light of The Empyrean One.

(Se’lah).

Written on
Monday
May 20th, 2019

Page | 3
The Book of 1st John
Chapter 3,
Verses 18 -24

(Verse 18)

“Little children, we should love, not in word or with the tongue, but in deed and truth.”

(Verse 19)

“By this we will know that we originate with the truth, and we will assure our hearts before him”

(Verse 20)

“regarding whatever our hearts may condemn us in, because God is greater than our hearts and knows all things.”

(Verse 21)

“Beloved ones, if our hearts do not condemn us, we have freeness of speech toward God;”

(Verse 22)

“and whatever we ask we receive from him, because we are observing his commandments and doing what is pleasing in his eyes.”

(Verse 23)

“Indeed, this is his commandment: that we have faith in the name of his Son Jesus Christ and love one another, just as he gave us a commandment.”

(Verse 24)

“Moreover, the one who observes his commandments remains in union with him, and he in union with such one. And by the spirit that he gave us, we know that he remains in union with us."

Page | 4

Hearken unto
the
Resplendent Sol,

The Twilight draweth nigh,
Whence erupts from Sundered skies
Arcadia
In
Aeonic Light

Let ye soul
Transcend
By
The Great Apothecary;
His Panacea of Healing Love.

Though
I am a Loveless
Blight, worn, of Earthly Denizens,
I bid you
Immortal heartsease.

Borne of the Father:
Who
forms
all
things.

Page | 5

Sired by the Son:
Who
Conceives
All
Truth.

Begotten by the Spirit:
That
Burgeons in
(our)
―dreams.

The Grand Creator's
Magnum Opera:
Loom
Within
All of us.


Excelsior Forevermore,


Sanders Maurice Foulke III.

Page | 6
howard brace Apr 2011
Preened to perfection, paired for life
in ritual courtship, as partners they dance
arched wings held high, necks entwined
both pirouette, and waltz through the night.**

...   ...   ...
Àŧùl Aug 2019
A swansong of the Indian Partition...
Kal humaare ghar ke diye bujhe rahenge,
Kal hum kuch rishton ke liye rote rahenge...

Tomorrow the lamps of our home will remain put out,
Tomorrow we shall keep crying for some relations...

Rishte un bantwaara hue kheton se,
Rishte un bhatakte hue jawaanon se...

Relations with those partitioned farmlands,
Relations with those misguided young men...

Rishte us chamakti Multani mitti se,
Rishte us damakti Pakhtunkhwi **** se...

Relations with the glistening soil of Multan,
Relations with the bright snow of Pakhtunkhwa...

Rishte Ganga ke us Bangali muhaane se,
Rishte Sindhu dariya aur samudr ke us mel se...

Relations with the Ganga's Bengali estuary,
Relations with the confluence of Indus and the Sea...

Rishte us Balouchi kapaas se,
Rishte udhde un kapdon se...

Relations with that Balouchi cotton,
Relations with those clothes torn away...

Rishte luti us izzat se,
Rishte mari us bahu se...

Relations with the disrobed honour,
Relations with the slain bride...

Rishte jo sajaaye the mandap mein,
Rishte jo likhaaye the jannat mein...

Relations decorated inside the temple,
Relations written in the paradise...


Tomorrow is the Independence Day of India.
An Independence attained at such high costs.
A nation divided by the illegal British occupiers on communal lines in a hotchpotch.

My HP Poem #1759
©Atul Kaushal
Shofi Ahmed Jan 2020
The physical matter
has a line in its swansong
it has a place in paradise
it’s not here to stay for good
neither to perish forever!
Àŧùl Jul 2021
My new novel
Is now available
On the online circle
Of Amazon Kindle
As a soft copy eBook
And as a traditional
Hard copy novel

It set it in beyond COVID19 days,
Read what I write as a PhD scholar.
I know that China modified it,
Naturally, CoV won't affect us so much.
China altered it in the Wuhan lab,
They made it a novel Coronavirus,
They called it nCoV19, ask why,
Because they engineered it in 2019.

My novel talks about it,
This sin is punished,
Not just by India,
But also by USA,
And everyone sane,
There happens WW3,
The Negative Axis powers are:
China, North Korea & Pakistan

Indian Army has HuSaVe's,
Human Safety Vehicles,
Robotic suits that the DRDO creates.
China copies them,
Removes the human part,
And makes GHOST's,
Global Human Omission Safety Transformers.

The story is built with a lot of action, some technology and a bit of romance,
A lot of red shades make the story, some blues for it and a bit of pink,
For writing it, I wasted not a microlitre of real ink.


Indian Army comes up with TASIP,
Terrestrial Army Soldier Improvement Program,
And the protagonist, Ravindra Thakur is selected to be one of them.
He becomes a genetically modified soldier,
The DRDO has a specialist scientist Dr. Malakar who does it with his team,
CRISPR-Cas9 is used to elongate all his telomeres,
And now he has stronger chromosomes.

Ravindra & his batchmates can handle extreme doses of hormones,
Adrenalin, human growth hormone and testosterone to name a few,
These hormones can otherwise **** people in such high overdose,
But his sixth sense is strengthened and even the seventh & eighth senses top with those,
You begin to read it and if you can't put it down, blame it on me,
Cross-references to my previous novel help bring your heart closer,
Yes, the novel is sci-fi, army, diplomacy and hypothetically viable too.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B095Q76Z52/

My HP Poem #1933
©Atul Kaushal
Lyn-Purcell Nov 2020

Fighting the dark
And feeling so overwhelmed
Wish for still waters

Fly sooner than hoped
To find what I have long lost
This is my swansong


I dunno what happened but I just feel super overwhelmed and I cant shake the feeling. Things are getting a bit much on my end so I just want to take a break to make sense of things. I definitely will be back and I'm so sorry for not being able to upload as well.
I will be back soon, I promise. I'm not gonna take year long hiatus again just a mini break to get myself together again.
Be safe and well everyone.
Much love to you all
Lyn ***
Connor Mar 2017
Fierce is god impenitrable
glad glad glad there is a
Fire up the street called Heaven
There is

A woman wearing only one shoe who is taking
an exhaustive drag of her smoke in the
early morning where birds are
still heard in
                                    !!!!!!cities

A hymnal a
heralded nest of savory berries A quartzstone is trapped in time a myth is made more ridiculous when proven real

Continents wither where the flies glue their

regal canvases on downtrodden earth (missing Pangea)

Or smiles everlasting smiles meanwhile
(Blonde tongues wearing fashioned wigs)
in constant state of beguilement

The Neanderthalic stones will be unforgiving to the REVEREND who has collapsed through his song the song of lead pipedream fantasies of sexless dogma YEAH monkhood yeah Ghat burning holes in twilit schools of thought or no thought at all


I can

hear the collective Faerie outcry that silence has presented itself HEAvier to their wicked careless bodies ok I am innocent of love I love your innocent love I am careless(of their wicked careless bodies)
ResemblingA swans actual duty to die
a swan lies a swan lay
like an even more beautiful swan
on even more beautiful swanny grass
To die by swanlightSUN and MOON white like the swan where we soon listen closely to the swansong a celestialLOVELY
rhythm of gilded forest (((((orchestrals
The swan leaves us in happiness of bright groggy light
                         O (of which in chaos of day I am again innocent)


     The Reverend's desperate gaspings into a  micro -phone for a macro - cosmic prayer idol o idol where is your capability for worship idol o where is my chinstrap o idol where is ****** youth or the romanticized eternal SUMMERS I sing
     O bible O cloudland O where is your telephone operator is they deceased by their own fragrant holines? The church
     Watches the Reverend neverend his television routine of clamoring death odes
     Watches his senility come like an implorical shadow outline watches a demon lick its dreamless lips beyond the periphery of godless dreams
     Watches
     Reverend lose his sight in anInstant
     HeWAILSheWAILSandWAILS can you hear it Thomas De Quincey can you hear the sandbeaches ringing more clearly than the ChurchBells or the ****** Pagoda for torture /

his soul is to sleep in the (mossy)mountain the fire of the (forever)street called HEAVEN the mountain column supporting the sky(swan)gate of heavenHeaven!welcome

   to:
Inspired by Joyce, happy St Patricks Day
Chatting cold conspiracies from across the coffee table.

Pangaea on the rocks - sweet, sober, civil silence.

When did the degradation become so severe?

Time ticks down and friendships fade to acquaintances.

Spine tingling tempo of the pitter-patter rain drop percussion.

Galloping triplets trickling down from the temples of thunder.

Hands of the clock clap in celebration of another hour killed.

Two o’ clock Coca-Cola to crown the king of carbonation *****.

Naming off artists to impress the drunken temptress.

Taunting the room filled with glimmer-eyed, lovestruck libidos.

All the kids are struggling to remember the horoscope they skimmed.

Brains drained to the point of puking in mouths, poisoning the passion.

With whiskey laced erections, this night chants a swansong.

Illegal lane changes and tiptoe key turning roustabouts.

The Hubble eye can’t detect the silent thoughts left hidden.

Dreams within dreams, lost in a cloud of exhaled acceptance.

Tonight, you fizzled, and tonight, you sleep alone.

These are the danger days. Timber!
When I read this, I always lead on that it was written drunk. Some silly fun that I hope you enjoy.
L Perry Feb 2018
[i]

No soaring pain could match her, draped across a dying flame.
Like cinder,
                    she whisper-whistled through lungs thin, teeth sallow,
a promise in song.

“Towera jinner mulbeena,
Poodinyoober mulbeena.”
        
    It was a good promise;
    belonged to everyone
                                   and wouldn’t change for Tomorrow’s ranges.
It asked for nothing
but patience and faith.
                          From where she lay,
                                              the trees, gums, were akimbo.

[ii]

                          For generations she had walked, through the wettest of wets and driest of dries.
       With hope in her ribs and a nature savage and pure.
                     You could break her, throw her to the cockatoos,
                                                      ­And yet, ***** and punctured,
                                                 like driftwood, she would drift back,
                                                           ­                                                                Blossoming in your lap again.

[iii]

                      When the kangaroos have done their dance
                                                 in the twilight.
There she'd been.
Supine. Broken open and
lily-white (on the inside).

                                                  
    ­                                        and we did this.
                            with our prospecting and land grabbing

                                      we did this,
                      with our parking lots and Starbucks cup

         she was dismembered, priced, "loved," owned.
                    
                                     discarded.
                                            to the meek edge
                                       of an eternal flame ****** to embers.
Adapted from the last chapter of the novel "Coonardoo" by K. S. Prichard.
Autumn approaches
hiding her dance of decay
beneath russet skirts.

Evenings bleed early
through chill days
bringing steel dawns.

All falls silent
as leaves pirouette gaily
to the swansong of summer.

Birdsong threads remain
as harmony takes flight
to sheltered shores.

Autumn approaches,
bitter winter tracing steps
in her glorious wake.
Paul Butters Jan 2021
Wordsong, wordsong,
Lovely as birdsong.
Could be a Pop Song,
But never a Swansong.

Could be a rap,
And all that *******.
For Rap is easy,
Lemon squeezy.
But rap has beat
And words that repeat.
Rap has rhyme
Nearly every time.
Rap even has metre –
Who can beat her?

Yet wordsong is melodious too,
Giving us a worldly view.
Poems of love and dedication
Even human emancipation.
Whoops I’m slipping back -
Back into that addictive rap.

You must remember to read out loud –
Silver lining on every cloud.
Poetic landscapes catch our gaze,
Brightening up our mundane days.

The river of life keeps flowing on,
Iambic metre our beating heart.
Read it like you’re singing a song,
Write it whether or not it’s Art.

So play those words
So full of feeling
Just like the birds
And so appealing.

Paul Butters

© PB 27\1\2021.
Sing It Out Loud.
Alas, awakened to the glorious smell
Of grieving petrichor and lichen
Intoxicating scents of spells,
Has left my thoughts forsaken.
Aggrieved, unclean,
I wash myself in the river,
Alone again, once with my mind,
The cold water does bring a quiver.
Rushing gently across its bend,
Its current does drag along
A heartache inside a massive depth,
A misery that floods it anon.
It seeks to help wash stains of past,
Blood from mistakes without thought,
Caressing my hands as I dip them in,
It cleans at the souls I’ve wrought.
I’ve brought spite to all I’ve been,
I bathe in hatred and stigmata,
Correctional growth of paradigmatic folly,
Proves equality to tumultuous fodder.
-
There has been death here,
Drowning and sickness,
Villainous nature subjugated
To corruption and bleakness.
Disparaging remarks whispered of men,
Bring to light lost life and love,
Discouraging thoughts of mine herein,
Anticlimactic and soulless above.
The trees began to whisper,
Moving slightly in the breeze,
I thought I would move quicker,
But something that couldn’t trapped me.
-
Bringing about a fallout cloud
That kept my mind thus smoked,
It is hard to cherish anything
That the water itself could soak.
-
I wanted to leave,
But I was locked in the wood,
I began to need it,
Like any Stockholm would
The treasure trove in which I was kept,
Was something of a fairy-tale
It hid monsters, death,
And only one nightingale.
Its swansong allowed me to sleep,
Gorgeous at night, it cast in weep,
A story of one so scared, The fear of bleeding out
One day upon the growing creep.
Vines and lies surrounded me,
Its whole existence was false,
Nothing could be this natural,
And the dead forest scoffed.
-
Could there be someone else here?
Doubtful, I began my search,
Through vasts I spied, time again,
But nothing upon this earth.
The forest fell in love with my heart,
Its emotions curious to her,
She tortured me with affection,
My reality was blurred.
I found my way across her floor,
Trekking miles to a never-end.,
Purgatory does not know this pain,
Hopeless abandon, fell unto myself to fend.
A trip, a fall, unique and random,
I impaled myself with a sharp cry,
A sharp palisade jutting out, I then whispered
“What if I don’t want to die?”
Mark Aug 2018
Routinely lark, though this day depth therein
bemused as why the warbling fluter turned
instilled and sung laments, residing within
and perched unkind; that brittler branches - spurned.

Melodic angst has never sprung so dim
and tunes of fathomed trebles; parted love?
Perchance the ballad pours a swansong hymn;
and from aloft the skies - returns a dove.

If song an' bird be taken dazed with stars
beliefs contort and bowing strings apart
nor stealth be known as fervent dwells the scars,
though bleak the lust for any other heart.

O' feathered, pennate cherub play her whim!
Remain upon the sill and bygones swim.
Parnini Nov 2016
Dear Picture-in-my-head,

I wish I had you for my reality instead.



Your star spangled banners,

your dim faded lights,

that alan walker music

misty, misty night.



Him,

from the corner of eyesight

letting his frown drop,

asking me in. Our time.



An audacious vivacity,

the merry sliding down of unhinged desires.

A mating of intellectuality,

less of skinny lust, discarded mask and pride.



Wafting smell of earth drenched in season’s first rain,

halting words breaking the initial stranger pace.

Cups of ginger tea than ***** and ice,

living the moment than getting drowned in haze.



I could whisper my secret wishes -the one that involves a mountain top,

a leather jacket, bullet ride

an unfaltering speech – woman of the moment,

a potential done right.



You could tell me about that night you cried,

That misunderstood age

Your favourite cartoons,

And their funny ways.



We could draw the clouds on our palms,

The ones that compliment a picturgasmic sunset

Feel the lightness of solitude,

the sweetened somethings in the nothing.



The breeze would crash against me,

Before it hit you softly in the face,

And it would feel just right,

To let you have a bit of me this night.



It would be good, or even better;

but it’s just stuck in letters.

For it’s a trapped swansong – in a party with people I barely know,

and wouldn’t want to, at the end of the night.
(An ode to every uninspiring, dreadfully loud party with a stale company I’ve been to.)

(No) Love,

P.G.
Àŧùl Nov 2020
Marriage as a choice,
Needs a voice...

A voice I have found in myself,
A prospect I found in yourself...

Do not be deaf as I recite my proposal,
Do not be dumb during the appraisal...

If you preplanned rejection,
Consider this my swansong...

Come on now,
Know me more...

Read my poems and stories,
Listen to most of my songs...

Know me more,
And forget yourself...

Leave your ego behind,
Welcome my love in your mind...

Make space for me in your life,
I am not fat, I am not huge...

I am confident of my art,
You will find me straightforward...

Straight and ****,
That's how I operate...
My HP Poem #1900
©Atul Kaushal
Megan Sherman Feb 2017
Stealthily the spring has arisen
Shuddering from Earth's cold prison
Budding bunches of Leaves astir
In wild song, the new bees purr
Vibrating as they please
At most peculiar frequencies
Circling the flower's girth
Doing sacred work of Earth
Sun kisses wan, pale cheek
Outwits the darkness, bleak
Begetting warmth to tender creatures
O, Sun, the glowing crown of Nature
zebra Oct 2020
wild night videos
for the dark web
3 Atlean men
and a girl

she got it
by a mob
of Moroccan **** rockets
and will pine
for the rest of her days
screaming to the hells
in a reimagined language

the regression to Lilith
**** *******
the world
when hell touched paradise
***** and man handled
shot by shot
mouth to ****** to ****
split and folded
tooth and nail
to drive the ****** tides
of the world

***** monsters like
T Rex
force a ritual infliction
butter meat of dreams
pain sensually
reworked into pleasure
blister-hot and oh so sweet
married to a paradox
like feeling bad
about feeling good

give me your ankles *****
an unveiled immediacy

right off the bat
i got just the girl
confiding in me
so ready to die
like an Aztec princess
to be the star
like a peacock
in an engorged circus
blizzard of jealous snakes
strangled fanged and spewed

a swansong exhibition
in blood-soaked ponytails

a bobbing head
and choke throat ***** picnic table
with mayonnaise wounds
mediating power
in a psychoanalytic fetish

death is not death
but performative submission
her body ransacked
in tooth marks
and red tipped *******

steaming eraser head
pulses
a **** soaked
chicken on a plate
eradicating reality

are you gonna eat that?

pass the ***
collapses time
lust  
custodian
of human archeology

**** piñata
bearing gifts
of squirty pork gasms
******* and cuchifritos
corpus of ****** horror
as liberation
crosses-temporality
and breaks the vessel of time
oow
Nefertiti where are you

a tongue up the ***
sniffs
Prada's Candy Perfume
**** blinking licks
up there where havoc lives
in ******* farm country
Ella Gwen Jul 2015
Anya sings words I would
rather she have not spoken
and decimates what little remained
between us all.

He looks to me and I
pointblank-sawnoffshotgun refuse
to meet sight of sapphire sky eyes
now too singing along
to her song.

My mother always said
you were two sides of the same paper
and you will both slice me the same.

But scissors always win;
laceration's chorus croons to all.

Origami smiles
so carefully cultivated as
I kindle our final swansong,
a celebration in flames -

simultaneous ignition of
friends to lovers
and that irrevocable rendering; razing
lovers to ash.
Felix Sladal Jul 2014
She’s a tragic prodigy of her time, hammered nails and spring posies
Playing peek-a-boo to keep the cards from running out
Beautifully highstrung forming charts out of tomorrow

Ghosting sunsets waking up with clubs and spades
What is the the horizon but a roll of the dice, 1’s and 5’s

She’s cloaked with grey roses spun out of lace

Stars tell the future reflected in the dewdrops resting on her pillow
Fashionably awkward and impeccably immaculate

Swansong embodied
Oregon
jennifer wayland Jan 2015
step into the surf.
waves surge over your ankles,
unexpected speed, threatening push.

wade thigh-deep on sea legs,
digging your toes into the sand,
timing your steps with the waves
as earth and moon play tug-of-war.
the drop-off slingshots your heart into your throat.

making slow progress to the ******* --
you're unfamiliar with this marine rhythm.
the ocean knows you don't belong on this dance floor.

stand up, fighting riptide, undertow.
side-tackle weakened waves
hitting the ******* like brick walls,
each an oceanic supernova with whitecaps imploding.

surrender to one,
let it ****** your feet from under you,
immerse you in its raging swansong.
it traveled a thousand miles to die
on this insignificant strip of coastline.
j.w. 1/2015
i don't think enough people realize that the ocean is both beautiful and terrible.
Tie a knot in between
Tear the flesh off my skin
Rip my heart to let you in
A parade of lust in a bloodstream
Kiss the fears off of my eyes
**** the venom of a thousand lies
Rid me off of this wretched demise
Say a prayer as the candle dies
Call me home like a church bell ringing
Prepare a swansong that is worth singing
In every verse and line souls are wailing
Listen closely as they whisper"They're Waiting"
In a castle constructed of bones on a mountain high,
our hero sits alone on an ivory throne,
waiting for his current state of jejune to pass.
Whisperings of a voice, mellifluous air,
a singing so beautiful his heart skips a beat
at the gentle murmurings of such an ethereal voice.

And so he vacates his ivory throne
in search of this songbird that has invaded his walls,
the voice instils a certain hiraeth in his mind,
that village once so dear to him that now lies in ruins
due to his incandescent bursts of magical madness.

The owner of this voice, the eloquence, the elegance,
the image in his head that of a maiden on a rock,
as naked as the day she was born
and bathed in an iridescent sunrise.
A scintilla of a break in her voice
and she begins to sob at the meaning of her words.

He finds the source of this angelic sound,
a woebegone but comely creature supine on a table,
her eyes staring into heavenly mountains of madness.
She does not look to meet his wild-eyed gaze,
instead melting away until she is nothing at all,
leaving only dancing embers and phosphenes where she had lain.

He hears this burst of angelic quavers every day
but his madness permits no memory of each
to reside in his brain, comfortable and snug.
Instead, he suffers this delusion every morning,
when his head his quiet and thoughts are oblivion.

This siren swansong has no source in reality,
it is the last vestige of a mind damaged by time and solitude,
where the dawn chorus each morn’s twilight goes unheard,
but the ghostly choral vocalisations of a bitter memory
break his trance and he searches for the only sound not real.
Àŧùl Feb 2019
I looked into your eyes,
Hoping these to be true,
What I didn't see were lies.

I dreamt about you, please,
Holy Love of mine were you,
Who new loves you better than me?

Innocent they look as pure as ice,
Hopping without any rue,
When did I not see the lies?

I hoped for it to sustain long,
Hell, I didn't know they'd rust,
Where should I sing my swansong?

I trusted your romantic promise,
How you broke my trust,
Why these deceiving eyes?

I now suspect that you lie,
Hey, you can't cheat on me,
Whom new did you learn to love?
My HP Poem #1731
©Atul Kaushal
On the way to Hell, I met a man
who sold counterfeit tickets to Heaven.
He was ***-bellied, bald and hunchbacked,
mothballs in his mouth and flames in his eyes.
He mumbled through consonants,
slipped over vowels and destroyed syntax,
pointing at the tickets frustratingly
at the comprehension of my confused expression.
I shook my head and moved on
as he coated the air with broken expletives.

By a bridge over a magma river,
a bird-headed demigod held a set of scales,
but he waved me through,
seeing by the weight in my eyes
that my soul’s mass had already been determined.
He whistled a tune vaguely familiar,
a desert swansong of a dying missionary.

The road rose slightly, and at the apex
I saw the city in a foul-smelling valley.
Blanketed by smog, I couldn’t discern much,
a factory chimney billowing smoke and ash,
screams forcing their way through the cloud.
A giant man with skin like fresh, glistening blood
greeted me as I began my descent.
He informed me he was a demon
and he would be giving me a tour.
Asking him how long it would take
he said it was entirely up to me,
all the time in the world was waiting for us.

I asked him why he had no horns
and he laughed with a noise of horse death,
one he had baptised himself with an aeon ago.
He dutifully informed me that this particular misconception
came about due to a similarity between invading warriors
and their certain bloodthirstiness and vitriol
held in much akin to the view of demons at the time.
He assured me that demons weren’t that bad,
friendly enough but with a temper fitting
a location as unearthly foreboding as this place.

As we walked through the ***** streets,
I couldn’t help but notice they were busy with people
rushing about and selling things and generally
much like people did on the mortal plain.
The demon said Hell was much like Earth,
just with greater punishments if you didn’t pull your weight.
An abominably long and disjointed finger
pointed in the direction of the chimney I saw earlier.
That was where the worst of the worst end up,
the rapists and abusers of child and woman,
all the filth humanity had to offer,
always churning, he said, always smoking away.

We stood by the door for some time,
an awkward silence descending between us,
rattling the synapses in my brain
as I tried to comprehend my past life
and the fate that awaited me.

After an insurmountable time, the demon knocked on the door.
I heard scraping on the door, a set of keys fall to the floor,
a curse put upon those keys then the clinking of a lock.
The door opened and a massive fire raged within,
conveyor belts from several directions leading towards it,
naked people, statues to the Heavens, falling off the end
and making the fire grow and glow like no fire I had ever seen.
The demon in charge of this awful place looked me up and down,
asking me what I had done to ever deserve to end up like this.
I attempted an excuse but couldn’t muster the right words,
so I just told him the truth without hint of any repentance.
He shook his head and genuinely looked shocked at what he had learned
and grabbed my shoulders and hauled me towards my piteous soul-death.
I was stripped naked as I became more aware of the intense heat,
flames of scarlets and oranges reached out to my broken body,
all skin and bones and nerves vibrating to an otherworldly chill.
I floated up to a conveyor belt which felt unduly cold beneath my feet,
and as I looked back on the life I lived and the one I dreamed when I was young,
I realised that this was a fitting ending to a life lived fully sans regret.
I opened my arms wide like a Messiah and began to pray eternal thanks.
Requiem, requiring writ of my chances,
I found I lost what I could have had,
She whispered sweet nothings and spied glances
That told me more than her soft words ever could,
And in that moment of realization,
My longing heart further broke and fractured.
Close as we could be, and still so far,
As cliche as it may be enacted.
The solemn silence of my triumphs,
The deafening screams of my failures,
None of this had mattered,
Because in that moment, all was perfect to me.
She walked to the music of the swansong,
With such beauty, and candor, and grace,
Her name painted on my whispering lips,
I still remember her angelic face.
I'm in love with an absentee,
And what's more, she knows all I know,
We sit as if Romeo hadn't called,
And he and Juliet just thought of what could've been.
If she were to tell me to wait,
I would until my bones shone through,
For even that is my happiness,
To recieve her love anew.
Samuel Adell Oct 2014
I see worlds of demons and villians as I take my last breath
I avidly add adages to the words that I press
Each and everyday strewn and littered with stress
Life’s just a savage game of chess
A new beginning has been presented
With her gone it’s like I’m living out a life sentence
Never again will a person so perfect be invented
She truly had an awe inspiring presence
48
Living life with a newfound belligerence
Like a high off of ten different barbiturates
Today’s generation is filled with complete ignorance
This cypher shall be thy deliverance
Since her death I’ve been nothing but diffident
Like a lost dog, I’m timid
People have always seen me as quite different
But to that opinion, I’m indifferent
48
Life is all about mind over matter
Look at the wall covered with your brain splatter
On some Ice-T ****, rhymes that blow your mind
True love is hard to find
Do you live life as you want to
Or do you follow everything society tells you
In the end society will destroy you
No matter what, stay true
48
Just rolled up, five & dime
Every morning, rise and grind
Now I’m flying away with Peter Pan
Gone, gone, gone away, Never Land
So here’s to another day
Another coffin rots away
Life’s just a game we play
Until God takes us away
48
Tomorrow is not a guarantee
When my mind is my purgatory
No soul can control me
Your word’s do nothing for me
Now you’re saying I’m your salvation
Who the hell are you? What’s your relation
I miss seeing her eyes ablaze with elation
Her death was my inevitable damnation
48
No matter where I am, I’m writing a verse
I’ve seen too many loved ones dead in a hearse
My heart golden, but my blood’s black
My thoughts stretch to oblivion, like you leg on the torture rack
Is this where I belong?
This is only the beginning, not a swansong
I’m bound to be bigger than King Kong
Free my mind, get ***** eyed like Cheech & Chong
48
Bill Dynes Dec 2014
And will you stay here at my side,
And will you hold my hand?
Will you welcome me with solace
As a stranger in this land?
Oh my smile will never waver
But you'll see behind my eyes
There's a truth, not quite forthcoming,
Built in, permanent disguise.

And will you stay the mocking voices
that are screaming in my head
Will you quieten the questioning,
The words long left unsaid?
Will you show me how to show them
how much love I have inside?
Barely scratching at the surface
Strong enough to pierce the pride?

And will you have strength and patience
To excuse this bold façade?
Will you know the shame I cling to
Overcome and over awed?
While senses swim in puzzlement
New colours, sounds and sights,
Smells of life and death pervading
Brand new treasures, endless nights.

And will you exercise discretion
When she comes, as duty states?
Will you offer tea and biscuits
While she sits and Knows Her Place?
She the mother of my children
Will attend to sigh and cry
While years of living in my shadow
sire secret gloating, as I die.

And will you promise there'll be angels
To escort me to my fate?
Will you bother God with praying
Far too little, much to late!
As I watch my self decreasing,
And eternal sleep approach.
And all the hanging-heads assemble,
Witness Death and I elope

And will you try to fill the silence
When the boy sits at my side
Two suits of armour, never yielding
Bolstered by each others pride.
Lips form around apologies
To tell him I was wrong.
My disappointment's disappointment
Left unuttered, my swansong.

And will you promise there'll be choirs,
People weeping there in rows.
Muttered platitudes of comfort,
Midst a hymn that someone chose.
Will you promise there'll be angels
Otherwise then what's the point?
With trumpets, herald my arrival
And my fevered brow anoint.

And will you try to understand me
Will you promise not to judge
I was blinded and misguided
Used a fist and bore a grudge!
I'd exchange it in an instant
For a chance to right some wrongs
Hold my wife and hug my children
All my angels all along.
For the lifelong brave who just cant face the bravery any more!
Kelly H Sep 2011
Denial is a thing with such power.
Silence, movement; then it devours you.
I cannot see you now.
I cannot smell your skin
nor kiss you
nor love you
And yet
In my memory I will do all of these things.
Sweet torture, sweet torture
The swansong sings.
I must leave my life behind
The parents, the others, the I people I know,
But where will you be, my darling?
What will you do when I cry for you?
You cannot hear me across the tides.

I love you.

I pray you hear it in your memory.
My voice will whisper it in my sleep.
Maybe the wind will carry it on my dreams
to yours.
Hear me. Please, God. Don't forget me.

— The End —