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| If eyes are flame-stained candles,
His were washed but have not dried.
The flame is gone, but fire remains,
For tears will burn when cried.
And if words are dying idols,
His are worshipped then tossed out.
So he is God to fools and cynics
Who can't see what life's about.
A cloth will never make a man,
Nor leather for his shoe.
So naked shall he walk through life
In all that he may do.
Though mocking tongues might whip his flesh,
And cold eyes freeze his bone,
No coat nor mask will he put on.
He'll go his way alone.
So eerie are the wind-chimes
When they sound their toll at night.
Yet he's the only one to listen
And the tremble with affright.
Oh poor and stricken Poet!
In your suffering you'll find rest.
Lie down safe among the wheat fields.
'Tis in life that you die best.
p.s- are we? am i? | | |
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The sand stained golden by the twilight,
Sea is blood and sky is fire.
Yet I await the cooling moon
To take away my childhood's pyre.
Beside me stands, all robed in mud,
An idol of forgotten dreams.
I know you're there, my little lord,
There in the fairy beams.
The crab grass may sing lullabies,
The feathered gulls may cry--
But never would I beg to stay,
Nor bid this place good-bye.
So says the bubbling of the surf:
"Have you returned at last?"
I cannot answer yes or no
Until this day is passed.
Come hold my hand a little while
As you did once before,
So I'll remember you at dawn
When you're not real any more. | | |
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Red and orange and green and yellow,
Time to paint the world,
Blue and grey and all that is mellow,
And open what is furled.
Pink and indigo and violet brew,
Pounding sound and dazzling light,
Black and white and greying to,
A kaleidoscope in flight.
A spin, a toss, a catch, a smile,
Faces peering out to see
A leap, a shout, a flair of style,
A taste of personality.
The whirl of flag, the swish of silk,
Adrenaline pumping swift;
The crack of rifle and sabre hilt,
All sense of time adrift.
Flying colour, swimming heat,
Tempo rushing on;
A cheer, a gasp at every feat
And then, Breathe!
A pause, a break, a lapse in time –
Silence blankets all.
A sudden vacuum, a rip in time,
Dazzled eyes stare down in awe.
First one, then two, then hundreds more,
Gathering bit by bit,
Leaping, bounding into a roar,
A joyous, raving fit.
Heart and breath a thund'rous sound,
Satisfaction welling forth,
Task completed, the work is done,
A splash of colour upon the earth. | | |
| Sorry for the long break, as i was having difficulty in getting a fixed internet connection at my new place, still having the same problem, as i am currently using the uni's pc to get logged on here to post this lil poem on..
"Willow"
O willow, why forever weep,
As one who mourns an endless wrong?
What hidden woe can be so deep?
What utter grief can last so long?
The spring makes haste with steps elate
Your beauty and your life to enew;
She even bids the roses wait,
And gives her first fond care to you.
The welcome red-breast folds his wing,
To pour for you his freshest strain;
To you the earliest blue-birds sing,
Till all your light stems thrill again.
The sparrow chirps his wedding song,
And trusts his tender brood to you;
Fair flowering vines the summer long
With clasp and kiss your beauty woo.
The sunshine drapes your limbs with light,
The rain braids diamonds in your hair;
The breeze makes love to you all night,
Yet still you droop and still despair.
Beneath your boughs, at fall of dew,
By lovers lips is softly told
The tale that all the ages through
Has kept the world from growing old.
But still, though April's buds unfold,
Or summer sets the earth aleaf,
Or autumn pranks your robes with gold.
You sway and sigh in graceful grief.
Mourn on forever, unconsoled,
And keep your secret, faithful tree;
No heart in all the world can hold
A sweeter grace than constancy. | | |
| "Euphoric Immortality"
Aye, let us walk from fire unto fire,
From passionate pain to deadlier delight,
I am too young to live without desire,
Too young for you to waste this summer night
Asking those idle questions which of old
Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told.
For, sweet, to feel is better than to know,
And wisdom is a childless heritage,
One pulse of passion is youth's first fiery glow
Are worth the hoarded proverbs of the sage
Vex not thy soul with dead philosophy
Have we not lips to kiss with, hearts to love and eyes to see?!
Does thou not bear the murmuring nightingale
Like water bubbling from a silver jar
So soft she sings the envious moon is pale
That high in heaven she is hung so far
She cannot hear that love enruptured tune
Mark how she wreathes each horn with mist, yon late and labouring moon.
For our high Gods have sick and ragged grown
Of all our endless sins, our vain endeavour
For wasted days of youth to make atone
By pain or prayer or priest, and never, never
Hearken they now to either good or ill
But send their rain upon the just and the unjust at will.
Seemingly eagerless, our Gods they sit at ease,
Strewing with leaves of rose their secented wine
They sleep, they wake, beneath the world trees
Where meaning and life shines
Mourning the old glad days before they knew
What evil things the heart of man could dream, and dreaming do.
We oppress our natures, God or Fate
Is our enemy, we starve and feed
On vain repentance, that we are born too late
What bound for us in bruised poppy seed
Who crowd into one finite pulse of time
The joy of infinite love and the firece pain of infinite crime.
From lower cells of waking life we pass
To full perfection, this the wourld grows old
We who are godlike now were once a mass
Of quivering purple flecked with bars of gold,
Unsentient or of joy or misery
And tossed in terrible tangles of some wild and win-swept sea.
We shall be notes in that great symphony
Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,
And all the live world's throbbing heart shall be
One with our heart; the stealthy creeping years
Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die,
The Universe itself shall be our Immortality.
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