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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
I think of 'you'Peering out my window, noticing, the lilac bush in full bloom.
Picking up one of the soft petals
and raising it to my nose;
the air is 'warm'
the fragrance sweet...
I think of 'you'.
The day is lazy.
Soft music comes drifting by my window
from the house down the road.
I notice the gentle hum of the queen bee
as she feeds off the flowers,
and the soothing monotony of the crickets song.
I am so 'aware' - of 'life' taking place...
I think of 'you'.
The cemetery's aglow, with bright flowers,
and fresh, young graves...
I walk, down the mental paths of my mind;
the sun, shining warmly upon my hair, and face.
The birds, ask and answer - the sweet questions
only 'they' understand; as, I walk.
And the tomb stones, look back at me
introducing themselves by name,
welcoming, my company;
'offering', perfumed fragrant gifts
as a symbol of life...
Lifting one, to my nose.
Smelling it's gentle fragrance, and touching it's soft
EnvisionIn my thoughts I'd 'hope' for you....
I wish we could have been...
I'd close my eyes and see in my mind
an ever so sweet envision.
The truth had come to me too late;
though looking back in the blue
the feelings stir, inside me again,
the beautiful ways in which I'd seen you...
I was as a mountain
peaked, with soft white snow;
til the Spring of 'you', came into my life;
then gentle waters flowed....
And went with me
through valleys and streams
of my life, I'd never seen before.
Our differing ways, just intensified
to show me more.
I learned a whole new world of 'me'
things, you already knew...
Of the sun in the sky
it's effect to warm.
You 'showed me' the sky of blue.
I learned of the birth of flowers
as they opened, to the dawn.
I knew then what it was to smile.
You taught me, and then you'd gone.
And slowly I looked about me
at everything that you 'were'.
All the beautiful things
of which, together; helped me
to paint your picture.
Then I understood - and felt the wa
Serenity's AngelI am she, Serenity...
Thou knowest not my beauty.
But if ye sought the face of the Lord
surely, I would come to thee.
My wings are bound and chained
to fly, only, unto the sincere;
whom have searched with the angels
of Patience, and Mercy; and Truth,
for the key to my seal.
I reside not, in the halls of vexation,
nor do I neighbor with wrath.
I know only the ways, of love and justice
and all they of whom, such qualities hath.
I flyest through the beginings
unto the ends of the earth; my candle
an eternal flame.
Given to me of the Lord
SEEK HIS FACE
and share my name.
Internal FireThis day will remain until the end
The time will dry and wilt
Soon the dawn will break
I will be remembering how I felt
My fragile soul will eventually shatter
And with ash I will be surrounded
From the flame that is burning within me
punishing me for what I have hounded
Sleepless nights have gotten under my skin
I am becoming thin and pale
My lips can hardly stretch for a smile
I am tired
I am frail
The sun no longer gives me warmth.
The moon cannot help me breathe.
My soul is departing,
I am ceasing to be.
Watching the RainI have this strange feeling
in my stomach, knots are twisting
my heart is doing its revealing
but somehow I'm not existing.
I am stuck within a lonely room
listening to the drops of heavy rain
clinging to my skin is a deep gloom
happiness is not something I can feign.
Like the rain, the solitude persists
I am being left behind again and again
all I can do is tightly clench my fists
will I be forever stuck in the rain?
The sun might not break through
I need the light to grace my skin
and it will be unlike anything I knew
perhaps I might even be able to grin.
Until then, I'll watch the rain from my view
and these vicious knots will get tighter
waiting eagerly for the sun to become anew
but thank goodness I'm a fighter.
less or morea little darkness
tugging at my sleeve
trying to bring me down
and get happy to leave
a cloud eager to rain
upon my parade
a simple game
of less or more afraid
if I doubt
the things I know
my candle will
if I fear
their empty threat
I'll lose myself
to nagging regret
Missing my best friendI can´t take this much more,
my sorrow has me on the floor.
My face, full tears wears a frown
I´m always unhappy, feeling down
I know what´s causing all of this
what has taken all my bliss.
Your absence has stolen my peace of mind
cos never again will I find.
A love that keeps my spirits high.
a loving place for my soul to reside
in perfect peace and harmony
filled with joy so lovingly.
Deep within is desolation,
with no way out and no salvation
I feel as if I´m floating in space
eternally lost without a trace.
I miss you honey, my heart it yearns
my tears flow, they sting and burn.
In this sadness I see no end
I miss my love,
my best friend.
by Suzanne Karbach august 2014
I Am, Am I?Am I to die, am I to sleep?
Am I to swim in pools so deep?
Am I to smile when I should cry?
Am I to fake oaths for the Sky?
I am the Ground that broke apart;
I am a Tennessean heart.
I am an empty ventricle,
I am a pointless article.
My chipped polish is ancient blood,
My hair bow shields me from the flood;
My scratches glimmer in the light,
My bruises—such an ardent sight!
I am pointless, I am content,
I don’t mind falling through the vent;
If others join me down there,
It will beg me to disappear.
BoyHe tells his mother his head hurts,
Clings to the hem of her dress,
Fingers small pulling,
His limbs feeling heavy.
He sits at the kitchen table,
Doing homework by candlelight,
Sweat lining his forehead,
He winces in pain.
Outside he tries to play with his friends,
Red peeks out.
His friends laugh as the red seeps,
The front of his shirt painted.
He feels tired, weak,
His mother watches him from faraway,
His grave is marked by a painted white stone,
Outside city borders,
Where passers by will never know,
This DiwaliIt'll be rather quiet this Diwali,
A dark festival of lights,
And in that darkness I'll reminice
At least light a diya they said,
For this year's Diwali,
But fire alarms hate festivities
And would not let them be.
There will be no family this year
Just pixels on a screen,
And no sweets will sweeten this Diwali,
And no Sherwanis to dry clean.
The clouds will keep their peace tonight,
The skies immune to plea,
Just a lightning bolt? A clap of thunder?
None for my De-wali.
Dear fairy light friend I must admit
I have no diyas for thee,
All I have are stars 'neath the alien sky:
Diyas for you and me.
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchin
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