Fleeing of thee
I've no more feelings for thee,
empty is the cup from which I drank,
free is the buck that hath flee,
forever emersed is the ship that sank.
Unseeing is the gazing eye,
dull is the obscured bright,
no hidden marvels can I aspy,
crooked are branches of tree upright.
Blue becomes mud at end of tide,
people believe what they hear & not see,
you can feel sad e'en at yuletide,
invisibles are boarders of country.
Important's moved aside in time bide,
silent are words once fervently spake,
stationary now is ride as I abide,
what's been lost without cause or sake.
The eyes are closed below uplifted brow,
tired of trying am I,
no more living, merely surviving in eternal now,
not bothering any more knot to tie.
I no longer weep in my sleep
I no longer weep,
no more marvel at a favourite dress,
hardly pausing for rest or sleep,
seeking ugliness in loveliness.
I'm akin to woe,
moving far from what was close,
moving to, not fro, judging neither friend nor foe,
feeling prick of forms surrounding rose.
I do not own what I did rent,
having another caring for other,
in pent up feelings not repent,
not identifying with sister or brother.
I ignore the sun, but notice the cloud,
breathe with increased heartbeat the air,
listening silently at proud boisterous loud,
having given up on trying to dare.
Many have I in ignorance offended,
wasted in earning a living are thoughts of mind,
my life continues as a butterfly's cocoon ended,
rising in flight, of necessity leaving burden behind.
The read red book
The primary colour red
is noticeable in erupted valcanoe's spray,
leaving trace elements in books yet unread
tarrying to pack away an ecyclopedia tray.
Both insecure and adventurous is the edge
on the mountain where faithful friends pray,
partitioning reminiscent wedge
stagnating in progression alway.
There parables of dread pause so as not to tread
in the path of a boy wandering ahoy,
at the passover a bowed head passes bread
while joy may be found with idea to toy.
Despite all the sun remains bright
as she the shadows see,
illumiating with red a glow of white
reastricting excesses exceedingly.
What is thought here also once were there
as red and white merged on book's cover's pink now,
having been heir to bare pages I bear by brow of hair
even though having amassed knowledge unseen by thou.
Here, there and everywhere
Some degree of trepidation it takes to be fond
of unsighly snakes of various makes;
some unfrozen water's left in the pond
concealed as fakes by ice & flakes.
Some residue precariously remained
when trading joy for distress;
some anonymous are found amongst those named
and some wakefulness despite weariness.
Some degree of pain results in spiritual gain
and warmth, youth & vigour are cradled by old & cold;
in repetition again obscure realises main
reminiscent of many tales told.
Some sun still hides behind thunder so loud
as not one, but many in sorrow opt for shroud;
some lucidness is in sleep & weariness in awake
as equal in importance as make & break.
Some shapes materialise in straight line bend
and some restful truth evades lying;
some stangers are but yet an unmet friend
as here, there & everywhere life's left despite dying.
La Blueprint
As this chapter is brought
To you in a Sculpture visions
Of mine traces of my rapture
You try capture
I returned like a shooting star
Falling with no landing not
Likely to crash into another
In Eternity my time was created
My lines in Poetry has been
Blueprinted I wipe my hands off
The walls of fame I walk on Hats
As you take it off for me
My dirty footprints create a path on
the red carpet the spot is clouded as
others lift the dust of it my absence is
presently manifested more then when I was
Encores are against my Laws
Sirens are against my silence
Against the odds am is my enticement
Come what may grounded is my
Stand I float on others words that
Shoot against me I’m on a high
Unconsciously I surpass all claims
Inspiring the reader as a mind feeder
Poet addicts need no rehab
The crave is far greater then heroin
Daily they search the net for others
Heartbeats to not drug themselves
But others my digesters know not mine
Name but the ones isolating them
Who’s hearts do I then Blueprint on?
Black and white days
Generations of old school
when days were black and white
and word kept, was golden rule
so rigidly upright
in faded photographs today, proudly they stand.
Men immaculate, stern, chiselled faces,
alongside lady’s overly long dresses, hand in hand.
Breathing airs and graces,
and dull unsmiling middle path children
bewildered, buttoned tight to throats.
Flanked by lined, frowning relations,
antique apparel, attired grey coats,
images of the lesser, strange folks, some gaunt.
Departed, past, under church steeple
passed on, reduced to nought,
the forgotten,
sepia faced people.
2 June 2007
Time
What is time?
Life’s rhythm rhyme.
Where did it begin?
Will it ever end?
What century are we really in?
Asked to describe time,
what is the answer?
A moment on eternal line,
yesterday, today, the day after.
Hours, minutes past midnight, or noon.
Is how we measure
the sun, the day, the moon,
the seasons and the weather.
The earth mysteriously spinning round,
the concept of time ticking on, who really knows?
I put it to you, time reader,
the only evidence of time is found
in the rate at which flora and fauna grows.
Twenty four hours in one day.
Eight to sleep,
eight to work,
and eight to play.
Time, a fascinating entity,
past, present, and future, regarded as one.
Time; divorced from eternity,
when time in this life’s rhythm is over,
eternity has just begun!