Thank you to Deborah Edgeley of Ink Pantry: Curator of Fine Words for publishing my three poems today.
In The Murky Hours There Was Still Hope
In the murky hours are the murderers,
freshly convened,
flippant and fickle,
with whines and snivels.
Malevolently intent on revising the rules,
and lopping off the light.
Deeply resentful,
always resorting to cunning,
enabling complicity in their crime.
Crushing an incalculable number of vexing secrets
set for the future to be told or heard.
Their annihilation
all enacted with feverish haste.
A sacrificial onslaught of hostility,
the appointment of a shadowing stab,
leaves them rapidly breathing around the stench of bloodshed
from wounds to be overcome,
leaving graves shaped like bulbous domes
hidden under silk.
They try to beg meaning from
haphazard blackbird dreams
that burst into flames upon awakening.
They hone mosaic transmissions,
coded in sombre shades
within the gloom and seep of murk,
encrypted to discredit legends.
When all is torn, crushed, spilled,
when fume and reek have become the prize sought,
it is the poets’ job
to exhale inky breath across paper landscapes,
to bring back life to thought,
to find the almighty past man’s destruction.
Express Mark
In sunlight, we pass through gates,
hung in the middle of rush-clad walls,
gates which once bore
the bruise of broken door hinges.
Everyone observing stones cut into
concrete images,
brimming with geocentric activity.
The once imposed form of empty vessels,
strewn about long ago,
currently to be filled with
a bioluminescent blue-violet thick jet of light,
unconfounded,
in its aim toward an express mark
of interwoven destinies.
There’s apparent understanding hoped for,
and to a considerable extent,
we relish the recovery of our strength,
after the feel of shipwrecked bodies,
and we will complete a sojourn
rather than be held in complete confinement.
All due to the impressive profusion
of one large empire of artists.
I Paid A Visit
I paid a visit to a person of certain origins,
who, after hearing the clarion call,
became determined to get past vague language,
and dip us into a charming melody,
using an eloquent speech.
From the brushing of clouds
comes that melody,
an etched rhapsody,
once confined by a back door locked,
where a few of its remnants were left on a stoop,
the entire symphony now recovered..
The majority of those troubled
and alarmed by the liability of war,
by the havoc of battle,
those clad with a doctrine of fear,
those who have theorized some popular notion
of who is to blame for the catastrophes,
to them goes this speech.
Live
to be better off emotionally,
with a higher sense of people’s’value,
than corruptible vicars,
sultans, chancellors, and counts,
causing formidable misfortunes.
Live
to hear more tender strums within all seasons
than all the above who forget the names,
by sterile fail,
of all the living and the dead.
Live
to burn hotter in the quest to cleanse one’s soul
than these short-sighted,
who will trade music and science for occupational malevolence.
Let them not be those who lead the charge.
That being said, you now know
what we need to do to preserve the peace,
and win the song of the world.
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