Recognition

But I do look sweet lover

to the ever sullen woods

in a place with no memory

with why, how, and could,

but to each that I proclaim

the volume turns up short

and every beat is twisted

into some recoiling retort,

reality it would seem

is nothing but the tale

and living is a story

as in the belly of ones whale.

 

To ponder for even a moment

that consciousness is to ‘I think’

to be aware of this surrounding

in the wonders of a place

to where no human has gleaned afore,

along the waters edge

swimming through each step

and understanding every nothing

as the precious experience

of a lingering future vision.

The cost of frontiers

Sorrow, my bitter friend

you crease my bent and broken brow

make my heart a waiting pool,

to songs of nowhere longing

each cry, this beckoning fool.

 

Everyday a single path

down the loss and ever growing

a reach just from my grasp

no path beyond the woods.

Perhaps to sway the oceans

of a never ending wade,

where the depths are nowhere deep

and the stars forever weep;

along riddles of sky

over ridges and mounts

under valleys on high.

Wills procession

Poetry, poetry everywhere

creeping as it does

grinding little dirty roads

taking flight as fluttery doves,

peaceful painful torments

etching through the brain

each gentle step a falter

the weight upon the strain,

sinking steadfast slowly

till the poison reaches the quill

spilling over onto pages,

as a daunting little pill.

Dusk upon the brow

When the time it comes

where the life is weighed

the moments all tallied

some bright and some fade,

when the world all sits in lie

and people are scattered away

the heart no longer aglow

no joy in the passing parade,

when dreams are just another day

and the mornings are filled with sigh

then the quill is quietly set aside

and one bids the page, goodbye.

A bleating wry

Signet the little birdie sings

wings a sprawl from windy spring

buds to bloom along the pave

from depth its hearty bring,

to what the day it owes to know

the shine of waxing season

perilous to the jesters trek

footing that knows no reason,

hoof upon the soiled Earth

where sorrow is interceded

casting out to broken hearts

the net is wove and meted.

Strange horizon

I have walked upon the golden roads

leading valleys and hills to dead ends

visions over fallen seas

where cuts have still to mend,

my bloodied feet a wretched set

moving with the breeze

settling onto mountain tops

as big as the smallest peas,

now slumped upon the highest low

the tempest I for to wait

counting out old new bloomed petals

as the day grows ever late.