Days/Time
Days like drops through the fingers slipping
slowly at first, but through allowance quickening
down and away, into wind, into rain
into ice, into earth, into the fray
towards finality marching, uniformly
into the pire. Each of us is a calendar stained
with ink. And when sifting through the piles of ash
when scattered on the breeze, alas, does ink remain?
Amidst the grains of sand and stone, there lay bits of ash
each containing a thousand days alone.
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Ambition
The Ignis of the Idea
Ensnares the ears of the eager
enraptures the wide-eyes
of the impulsive, youthfully
indecisive. Invokes the impassioned
Gulls in flight,
Their scattered song, out of sync
With the sound of the waves
Their fatigued Wings,
Once enthused at the feeling of flight
find peace in their folly.
They circle the harbor, seeking a spot
to rest. To passively listen to the
laymen of the shipyard opine.
They've culled their truth from the farthest curves
of the globe, toward every horizon been
But have they gleamed, the beauty in the unseen
For which they once dreamed.
The riches that lay within ones self seeking?
The learned journeymen looks to the sky for direction.
When weary eyes narrow onto the map,
The charted stars soon become farther from the heart.
The sun sets on the horizon inside
All the bras... |
Seasoned Prose
Emollient air waves
Breath deeply greeting
Benevolent morning ray's
Searing saturnine
In the spring clearing
Softly gaze lowly leering
Peeking and retreating
Resplendently seeking
A sullen smile slowly creeping
Constellations aligned
Silent summer climbs
give rise, to swelling tides
Weathered eyes
Sigh, abide and die
Retire supinely
Falling stars collide
As Fresh needles at the feet
Of the lonesome pine
Faintly reside as needless
Autumns faintly hum subsides
Lazily Pleasures
Vehemently fleeing,
Vying pursuits of
Sagely treasures
Agely fruits flitting On the vine
Resigning to winters
Woesome wine distilling
Sipping from the shallow cup of time
And never spilling
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Night Prose VI
In the all illusive isles of allusion
illusions ale the torid
man, calling him to the wild
to the falling tides and in the spring of life
his heart to find..or..
or to grow tepid, to pay his tithe
to cross the toll
to Narrow his eyes
"meanwhiles" fill the cracks in the foundation of his soul
Minding the signs, he is
Outwardly intrepid, but inwardly
un-reflective. He'll soon join the ranks of the collective
undecided paying thanks to the deceptive
He is, but a meme it seems
a sordid series of severed dreams
Cut his inculcated mind,
slowly the sword levies
time against the breast becoming heavy
and inundated
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Night Prose 2
Resigned Sighs lie within the souls of the unnamed mendicant voles weeping like the highest reaching palms, their outstretched alms bowls seeking their unnamed roles in the hollow malignant merchant holes . Followers of forgotten phrase find friendship among the insane, breathing verses and venomous values in to the seething vain. Vacuous vagrants vying in the bosom of the brave Franciscan friars decrying lawlessness, lying through thin veils of virtue covering their quizzical qualms with the corrupted psalms, feigning flawlessness. Lost became the truth, transposed into cloth covering callousness of an old and shallow phallus, cost became the youth.
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Night prose 1
Latently tainted acquaintances
Lay faintly adjacent, complacent saints
Seeking refrain from the strain
And tacit games of the nameless
Placid gangs roaming passively along the plains of pandering and pain.They find folly in the quaint And callow maze of their fond forgotten days, forever to remain like ghosts inside their brains. We shift our gaze and sift among the soft and sullen rays of sun and borrow songs unsung from sirens whose silence harrows and hangs along the bays in the calming waves finding respite in the morrow. We find our heroes, desperate to reclaim their minds in this desolate hour, never to regain the times of their resolute power to which they heir to nether and sorrow. Whether to try in vain, or to buy the promise of the sane, the lies remain the same. The time mutually borrowed.
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Pressing pen
Thoughts and themes
Panoply of Panoptic dreams
Beneath the setting summer sun
I sit, seeing in schemes
praying in prose
finding inspiration in the throws
of morose thought
sorrows sought solace in the trees
till tomorrow they're abolished by the evening breeze
Things I write in worry, made real by the pressing of pen.
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Silence Tanka
Summer Breeze Silent
Discarded without a thought
My cellular phone
......
..........
Its on airplane mode
But I forgot..
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1100
