[x]

In MemoriamThe guardian ghosts, ghosts of our great men gone
await above, await your advent's song,
The skylark's cry has vexed this vivid morn;
her notes denote in notes that know no wrong.

The ample ale of amber allium art
is milked by million minions of her shine,
Her radiance reigned, rained ray drops dart by dart
on fallowed fields, fields flood with floral wine.

Lie you now, now lie you near no night;
The calling candles clear collected scars,
The sun still sates the sweat of sheltered sight;
You belong, belong by better stars.

War Woundthere's a war wound in my chest
that I cradle in my heart
and nurse it with parables
but,
it never,
never grows up.
sometimes I feed it vanities,
a glass of Scotch or two
but in the morning's residue
it reflects no summer truths.

there's a war wound in my chest
which sought shelter in my soul
now it lies as an attic masterpiece
for the years to unfold
the colours have aged with me
rubric to rust to puce
and this work of art upon my heart
is but
for the artist's eyes.

there's a war wound in my chest
which fell our company
but I who saw the shot and shell,
know it well indeed.
for he assigned us nameless,
no rank, no

The Artist's PleaThe fingerprints of mankind among each hill
Does the artist's eyes with melancholy fill,
A meadow unseen, untouched by time
Lends the poor poet his timeless rhyme,
The song of a lark, the scent of a rose
Bears in its womb, the birth of sweet prose,
And though man will pillage and nature abuse
Where from will he find tomorrow's muse?

By the StrandI still breathe your name by the wavering shore
And cast away to the sail winds a song
And close my eyes and evermore belong
To the unfed brine and its yearning roar.

The distant lamps polish the incensed green,
A flock of fallen stars upon the bay
Alights a dream of a submerged day
And strokes in feud a mind's browbeaten scene.

And standing by the strand I pace and skew
In hope a rising crest will fell or hide
Your voice; yet each raw spate, each rippling tide
Borrows to bestow an echo of you.

November DaysI caught her scent lingering in the wind sometime in a November rain

sweet like gardenia's blossoming under a moonlit night

I'm taken for a ride down 5th and Grant

But the thought of her leaves my mind in a jam

and my heart starts to beat again

The tick-tock from an old grandfather clock heard in the distance

I stop at the local pizzeria to fill my stomach

But I realize my stomach is full, it must be something a little higher up

So I get back into the car and drive North to North East

Remembering back to those rainy November days

InnocenceAs these dry creases cleave your cloak
And seasons past rebate your yolk,
To time, do not look forth and ask
For time; another velvet mask,
Instead applaud his youthful face
In every child; his peace returns
Astute that brimful, lively vase
Reserves its brew for marble urns.
Yet for a spell she hid your eyes
From mirrors, winters and disguise;
Such days were spent in ceaseless toil
To purge her blindfold and each coil
Which did protect you from tort sights,
Uneven senses, ample dearth,
But what her purpose truly cites
Gave everything its waning worth.
The ticking clock, a trifle thence:
A deafness we call innocence.

Scratcheswe're dancing in that narrow expanse where the only sound
is the contraction of a writhing unwilling heart;
we're finding our way back to the surface through
layers like paper ceilings and puppet strings

and we're tied out by our own shortcomings- snaked
like a noose, fangs nip at our heels and

we've lost control, and we've lost direction
and we've lost ourselves in the people that mean
nothing. we curl up like a tapeworm deep inside
esophagus' and promise we'll never leave
(oh please promise me you'll share my heart
when the anemic night comes)

leaden feet and feather eyes, I can't see what
you mean but I found an answer betw

Winter is ComingI hear the wind's raspy requiem
Bid farewell to a long lost friend,
What melancholy strains touch my eyes
As I hear the last song of a flute
Which plays in melodies of ache
From the heart of seasons past,
Nature's bled, yet ne'er this hue
And amber cloaks the morning dew.

Weakening wings that turn and tear
In hope of quietus or sunshine
Relay in fear, both near and far
A hundred tales of golden days,
And by and by, a vengeful mist
Settles over the dying land,
There are no more tales to tell
As open the gates of a colder hell.

And time shivers the night away
In spasms of rain, hail and snow,
And the feeble day lies in slumber

The Essence of Love

The little girl noticed the little boy with the cute dimple glancing her way. She quickly looked away, not wanting to give him the time of day. Still, she couldn't resist the urge to look again. There he was, smiling and waving, as if he'd known her for the entire 10 years that she'd been alive on planet earth! So, throwing caution to the wind, she walked across the playground toward him, at a rather leisurely pace, of course. When she got to where he was standing he stopped smiling, looked into her beautiful brown eyes and simply said: "I love you." Her face got as red as a tomato and she ran into the school gym as fast as she could and

That Doorthat door;
plain, mahogany plywood,
stood sentry all summer
by the rapture
in my heart.
waiting silently
with watchful eyes
overlooking the battlements
of L109.

here a flicker,
there a clutter
and wicked Eris
set aflutter
what drew my mind
away from Lenz,
Brownian motion,
Christaan Huygens,
and all the laws
of reflection
could not tell me
if this was normal.

there I wasted away July;
the ripened fruit,
the riband teal
bestowed upon that door:
an ode; a rispetto
or merely a love
for physics and math
and withdrew three weeks before
I discerned she had left,
and returned once more
in the facade of a dream.

I ac

Behind Closed Doorsbehind closed doors,
past padlocks old,
confined latch bolts,
and deadlocks cold;
the hooks still hold
and stick the hole
and often house
your naked soul.

The Passion FruitTease the heart in little doses,
A dash of red, not all the roses,
Fan the flame that's frail and dying,
Cull the bird that's fit and flying,
Win the sight of every pleasure,
Yet forfeit the sunken treasure,
Pull one step short of simple ration,
Hoard the enshrined conversation,
Speak in words that betray ire,
Prepare the untimely pyre,
Call out the rites in gleeful voices,
Portray a faux lack of choices,
Then leap before the burning fervor,
Await the sorrowful preserver,
Raise the stakes to hold your bearing,
Stretch the tender till it's tearing,
What is broken, makes one stronger,
What doesn't end is meant for longer,
Wha

Sonnet XIXIf I could write the treasure of her eyes
Or yet connote the music in her voice
And still descry scents of each season's prize
In her acute abode of nature's choice,
My years may yet bear me another name,
My days might yet find my purpose once more,
For in her bloom lies a lost poet's fame
And her lithe aspect provokes timeless lore.
If what be truth, exists in mortal art
Then mankind's jewel is in human birth
And to behold the work of one more heart
Resolves each question facing human worth.
Where my senses mate and perceptions meet
There my poem ends and all is complete.

An Elegy for My GrandmotherThe wind forgot its merry summer song,
The clouds swept by the empty evening sky,
The strident city stamped and strode along,
But I suppose I heard a myna sigh.

And though the violet veil of darkness fell,
Our minds lay by the lonely pacer's beep,
And though our eyes sunk 'neath their sooty shells,
We touched the void without a glimpse of sleep.

Before the sun did light the lamps of day
Upon the heathen beds that house the dead,
A nurse did whisper wretched words astray,
Yet I could not discern a word she said.

I found myself bewixt the cyclic spheres,
Amidst machines with coded prayers mum
And doctors gaunt who had no time

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BeautyBeauty is the eye's only foe
And solitary friend,
Blindsighted the eyes do follow
The muse's subtle wend,
That fatal pool that doth reflect
Narcissus till his end,
Kissed each word of poet's select
That Byron ever penned,
Which gently held with peerless grace
Raphael's tainted hand,
And scripted upon Helen's face
Fair Troy's fall to sand,
And blessed man's immortality
In his loyal pursuit,
Yet, restrained sweet Aphrodite
And man from Eden's fruit.

For PatriciaWere the years to fall away
From your sunlit summer days,
Or race mine years at once, avast!
Spring forth from my feckless past,
Would we stand on even stones
If we had, together grown?
Like two trees in a silent glade
Which caress, in each other's shade,
As two streams concoct the sea
Would our love ever come to be?
Had time not played a bitter hand
And tipped over your clock of sand,
Woe on mine eyes in a trifling trice
To set upon such a cureless price,
And live each day and watch you die
And live to only to say goodbye.

All Will EndThe violet sky
And verdant sea
Will sink into
A world of blue,
The setting sun
Shall come undone,
Futile to mend,
All will end.

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Goodbyes

by ~Zark123, Jan 8, 2013, 6:36:56 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Traditional Fixed Forms

A shy hello begins the tale,
Two strangers in a play,
A quiet word, a moment's care
Brings back the mirth of May,
And then a smile, a borrowed laugh,
Perhaps a happy tear,
Life's woes are few, its gifts renew,
But they don't last, my dear.

Such weeping I have often seen;
So many fruitless tears,
And yet a question I have asked
Met silence through the years.
Alone the crave, alone the grave;
All pain is pleasure's loan,
We come with naught, and thus depart,
Tell me, what do we own?

We are wildflowers in the breeze
A breath of father time,
And in the hue, in wanton dew
Perhaps there is some rhyme,
And for a spell, we briefly brush
And love and live in vain,
But one by one we must wave on
To never meet again.

Goodbyesby ~Zark123

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Traditional Fixed Forms

A thought on farewells.

Critique by ~shehrozeameen Jan 8, 2013, 8:07:31 AM

I will give you credit for a flawless meter, and a vision as clear as seeing a `zancan oil-on-canvas painting come to life. For that, I will give you credit on your effort in this poem. Well done.

This was, to me at least, one of your few poems that I understood, that I liked, and I feel... was perfection in a very straightforward theme put into a form that was clear (I won't go into the details about the stanzas, because that would mean alluding to literary references. Its fine the way it is) and did give a weight to goodbyes...

What do you think?

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Critique by ~TheNAUGHTicalLife Jan 8, 2013, 7:44:51 AM

I want to start off by saying your meter was nearly flawless. Very lyrical and a good juxtaposition between the content and the delivery which gives weight and thought to the themes

This is one of the better poems I've seen, not just on this site. It could do with some more polishing but it seems you put a good amount of time into it already. There's nothing glaringly wrong with this poem so I'll just add some thoughts:

-You bring out a lot of natural imagery. Could you possibly fuse that with the suggestion of life as a play in the first stanza?
-The question at the end of the second stanza seems awkward.
-

What do you think?

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~musicgypsy Jan 10, 2013 Hobbyist

Oh goodness. Usually I tend not to deel the emotional depth in fixed style poetry as much as in free verse, but this poem here is just absolutely magnetic to me. It has the most beautiful, steady metre and the most organized thought pattern, but it's as strong emotionally as it is technically. I feel odd saying "well done" because I am in awe of your talent. I especially love the last stanza, and the finality of your tone. Wonderful work. I'm going to look through the rest of your gallery

~Zark123 Jan 11, 2013 Student Writer

Thank you so much!

I'm really glad you spent your minute to type out this lovely, elaborate comment!

Please do take a look, and let me know if you have any topics that you particularly like. I'll try to hand pick one of my works that will suit your taste.

~tommyboywood Jan 9, 2013 Professional Writer

finally, a poet's poem!

~Zark123 Jan 12, 2013 Student Writer

Thanks

~Astro-Creep166 Jan 8, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

I love this one.

A breath of father time? Genius work, my good sir

~Zark123 Jan 8, 2013 Student Writer

Thank you, my friend!

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