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The Cycle of PassionNever knowing eyes never did haunt us
’Tis our own ditty which fails to daunt us;
The amorous rose or the lovebird’s lustre
Leaves but two shades for a season’s fluster,
Yet the poet’s pen is perchance guided
With rabid romance, nature unprovided -
For summer songs are bare conversation
Betwixt life and long winter’s predation:
Pale thirst for passion or higher power
Quenches its quaff in the quiet hour,
The soul’s tragedy is in demanding
Liberty lost from body remanding
Creation’s cold woes and callous joys, cannot grace
Vanity’s visage or the selfsame face,
In vain, we swallow the daily smother
To love ourselves, we love another.
Sleep Well, My SoulSleep well, my soul, the light has passed
’Tis dark, this closing hour,
Rest in peace, sweet life, at last
Let your toils awake a flower.
Dream deep, asleep, of each roving wraith
Which sought a home in thee
And sigh a little, for the wasted faith
Which were born of you and me.
And smile beneath the mourning ground
As the world clasps morning’s glory,
For the moon still dotes the earth around
And the sun gilds another story.
And then, in a squall of rain and rue
Lament life’s sole severance;
For god and men, we wept them true,
Slighting our Reverence.
The Fall of EpithilinonI
Let no man speak of wars whence
No answer graced our call,
Let man remember gods thence
Gods, watchful of our fall;
Speak in silenced sighs, men,
Dead men hither sleep,
No flag here flails, amen, amen!
Who can ever beweep
Our brethren in the deep.
Frightened colours breached the sky,
The church bells played a dirge;
The bustling hills and vales so nigh
In crimson rage did merge,
Archers with crescents held high
Keen arrows fell like sin,
The portcullis in sorrow, shy
Interred our fathers in
The last grave of our kin.
Wailed the night in thunder blare;
The mangonels did come,
Lonely trumpets singed the air
When Earth ravished our home;
The eastern tower, wasting wear
For a trebuchet did bow,
Fallen stone and ballista bare
Broke its stony vow,
As the beadle mopped his brow.
Mildly armoured, men at arms
Stormed the brazen fray,
Howled the castle’s cold alarms:
Ladder men up the brae!
Blazed in ire the fields and farms:
The winter’s yield was spent;
A Slice of EntropyLife is not form or symmetry or a stack of hours
on a dustless shelf
falling, hovering, floating, flailing
feeling comfortably numb
in a lover’s grasp
is the autumn of an ancient anarchy
knowing all these affections are temporary
and as they cease, so shall I
from a star to a star
streaks the dye of the unending night
shedding colour on what is alive
basking in the ambivalence of creation
wondering what is the great purpose
of existence, survival, procreation;
Why must life go on?
life goes on
fantasy, excess, poverty
of objective, of reason
naught lasts a season,
gravity is the do all end all
in the cosmos, time rules god.
Wishes and wills, thoughts, sentiments, impulses,
cannot slow that unforgiving arm,
or plug that black hole of impendence,
victory and defeat
will meet at square 1;
the cheers and the jeers will die away
in the violence of that
Life – 0. Death – 0.
Vita incerta, mors certissima.
My Knight in Formal ArmourNobody loves Monday, but she was not Nobody. Monday mornings meant a host of official emails, a swarm of new themes to gossip about and a cup of tea that couldn’t quite wake her from the torpor instilled by the weekend’s laxness. Her boss would come up to her desk and take a progress report of her current projects and by the end of the day she would have to type it out send over once again. She would often order takeaway to brighten the fated day but it did little to change things when you have to be professional while eating your fricassee or your fries. A potpourri of “social synergy” events often took place on Mondays, but to know that that was another excuse to boost employee efficiency conveyed a heart of emptiness.
She worked on seventh grade textbooks, filtering through its content with the keen eye one develops as an editor and looked forward to that first cup of tea that would give her a few minutes to stare at the day’s excited sensex. The cup of
CancerI remember the time that you touched the stars
Stark white, skin-tight; they hit you too hard
With a splintered cry, falling from sulfurous Mars
And the Fates ran screaming back into the dark
I remember the sound
The thrum and the pound
I remember the morning you woke in blood
When the lies in your eyes were unbearably rough
And the marks of the hypocrite far from enough
'Til you wept as Moses e'er fires and flood
I remember your song
You thought you were strong
I remember much further than Man ever dreams
You forced out your flesh, and I wept at the screams
The soul and the sorrow to memory clings
A light in the night, like Insanity, beams
I'll remember your cry
'Til the day I, too, die
Go Sing the Night to SleepWhy do you wear a heavy brow
And keep your eyes upon the ground
While wishing rain would come fall down
Go sing the night to sleep
Can't rest, you say, too much to think
Though as you ponder, eyelids sink
Your mind is slipping to the brink
The clouds roll in, gray-blue
I've lost it all, you whisper last
I lost it all, I lost it fast
Theres nothing in the net I cast
Slipping stars, a cover of dew
Rain can't wash away your grief
But can it bring you some relief?
Rinse away your false belief
The night sings through the rain.
It beats your back, bleeds through your shirt
It finds the wounds that ache and hurt
Rinse out the blood, the puss, the dirt
Moon hid to not get wet
Now rest your eyes, and go to sleep
There's nothing left for you to keep
Inside, no point for you to weep
Rain dances come the night.
cursethe glass's sand, to our chagrin,
spills fast away and ne'er again
will life subsist as it has been;
may you live in, may you live in...
we're forced to watch forces align,
to our communal world malign
and lay to waste our plans contrived;
int'resting times, int'resting times...
The fence in my yardThere’s a fence in my yard
My father taught me to build
With a gate in the front
And a back strong-willed
Where the inside and outside
Love and hate of the world collides
Just like my face
It has two sides
One of welcome and safe inclusion
One of absolute defiant seclusion
Both built to last paid with sweat
Nails driven with pounding regret
But isolation has left this yard alone
No laughter of children echo as of late
Because as they all matured
They walked out the gate
UndecidedPandora's box of love's young dream;
Hopeless hearts preserved, pristine;
Airtight nightmares, crystal-clean;
That fall or fly or wait unseen.
In our dreams, we make excuses;
Hopeless hearts with hopeless ruses;
Ballpoint hearts around our muses;
Not to know is what she chooses.
Waiting boxes stand to blame;
She'll never ask, for fear of shame;
To choose one path would end this game
And stake her life on chance's name.
Three words to him she'll never say;
While she can dream, it's all okay.
Preserve a dream for one more day;
Now turn your feet
And walk away.
Express YourselfAn opinion is not a fact,
It’s a way of expressing what you believe,
Some people just overreact,
And they do nothing else, but deceive.
You either concur or deviate,
People’s beliefs deserve a lot of respect,
Everyone has a right to differentiate,
It doesn’t necessarily mean they are correct.
A person’s view could be knowledgeable,
Just appreciate what someone has to state,
An opinion doesn’t have to turn into a debate,
It’s a shame when people are intolerable.
I wish the world could be a better place,
For the entire human race,
A place where we can care,
A place where everyone is fair.
Now before you go on and criticise,
An opinion is not a fact,
It’s a way of expressing what you believe.
StoriesWhen you walk by
and see someone,
do you ever wonder
about the story behind that person?
What put them on the road
to where they are now in life?
How did they gain their fame and glory
or why are they filled with pain and strife?
That homeless man
lying there in the street
may have at one point
served in our naval fleet.
When he came home,
his wife had divorced him
and that is the very thing
that completely destroyed him.
Then there's that secretary
who's flirty boss is her pet peeve,
and you may wonder
why she doesn't just leave.
Her family is poor.
They need the money.
So she is stuck with that job
and her boss's promiscuity.
Of course there's that boy
who sat in the corner
and the girl who spoke to him
despite what they told her.
Many years later,
they are happily married
and have two kids
named Robert and Sherry.
Every person you see
has a story to tell
about how they reached heaven
or how they're damned to hell.
So the next time someone
talks about their life,
Sonnet XVIIIThere goes another hour;
We have too many to keep.
To hoard away time and sleep
Ha! But we have the power!
Aye, though the sun may glower
In the evenings he will reap,
His warm gaze will lastly sweep
Amidst each field and flower
And perhaps he is thinking,
Though I cannot tell for sure,
What we think is certain cure
For all the defeats tasted,
People with clocks are clinking:
Another hour wasted.
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