The Party

April 21, 2013

Surrounded by friends, he remains silent.
There are people here he hasn’t spoken to for years;
people he had forgotten about;
people who had surely forgotten about him.
And yet they have come.
They are here for him
but he remains silent.
He never was very good company.
If anything, he would have preferred no party at all.
But then, that’s not the done thing.
So there is a party
but he remains silent.
It really is a rather good party;
but he has no idea;
he never was a lover of parties.
He’d always preferred quiet time,
private time,
and if not for these guests,
whom he had not invited,
that’s what he would be doing now.
They talk about him
but he remains silent.
Some talk to him,
but he remains silent.
Several weep at his very feet,
but he remains silent.
Now and ever.

Advertisements

Sing to me…

April 21, 2013

Sing to me
as I drift to sleep.
Let me sail upon your melody
from these shores
into the depths of unconsciousness.
May the last thing I hear
before I sink
beneath the cool surface
be the softness of your voice.
May the words
stay with me
in the eternal dream
of the hereafter.
Enshroud me with your harmony
that I be buried with your song
and have it echo through the heavens
and mingle with the music of angels.
I do not ask of you
to weep for me
for I am not sad.
We have both been waiting
and now it is time for me to go;
My only remaining wish is this:
as I drift to sleep,
sing to me.

Riding Seahorses

April 21, 2013

He stands, silent, still, staring out,
twin moons looking back;
their light bounces off the crests of waves
and the swell of clouds, spectral in the night sky.
Behind him, the dark swallows up the world,
perching him here on the edge of the earth,
waves crashing before him,
licking at his bare feet likes flames
from the depths of hell.
He doesn’t make a sound, he just listens.
Listens and watches.
He isn’t afraid – it’s more than fear;
he respects the sea.
Such formidable power,
the strength to create and to destroy,
to shape a world,
to take a life.
He remembers his sister –
how she loved the sea –
her tousled hair, her freckled cheeks, her tireless grin,
the terrible silence that replaced her.
He imagines her stricken, fighting the currents,
falling forever – down to the darkest part of this black world.
He imagines her cries stifled by salty, unsatiable breaths.
He imagines the light leaving her eyes, her body still.
He imagines her swimming with mermaids and riding seahorses.
He smiles.
How she loved the sea.

Slave

January 6, 2013

Never let them get to you
let your passion burn.
Even though they shackle you,
it’s what you choose to feel that’s true;
keep your mind away from them
and deep inside, you shall have freedom.

Keep on keeping on,
dance your dance,
sing your song,
move your merry self along.

But resolve grows thin and short
and time is tough and long.

You let them take your soul
so you belong
and never look them in the eye
never yours to reason why
just do as you are told
getting busy growing old.

Get on getting on,
play your game,
sharpen your tongue,
move your wicked self along.

Oh how time has weakened you,
when you were once so strong.

The Poet

October 25, 2012

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

And with a thousand rhymes,
I’ve lost a thousand times
for none of them did last.
Every love I ever wrote
has faded into past.
And every girl I write to life,
I take to higher climes,
with deeper loves and longer verse
but every foray ends the same
– as though I have been cursed –
for every poem ends in pain,
a trend that’s growing worse.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

But for a thousand years
or so it seems,
I’ve written only tears.
And a thousand dreams
have left me only fears,
for none have ended happily.
Just like all my poetry;
When the final line is writ
I am left with only me
and any light that might have lit,
once the poem ends, dies with it.
And the thousand loves I’ve brought to be
have all thus waned inevitably.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

Oh, I have loved a thousand women;
None of them were real.
Not one of them could feel
the love I felt for her.
The heartbeats that I wrote
were never really there
and all the forms my pen caressed
and all the faces fair,
all the golden hair
and all the moments shared
existed only on the page,
the fickle paper stage
I made for them
to dance upon,
for them to love me on –
I, the only one who ever cared.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

A thousand dreams;
a thousand lines;
a thousand rhymes;
a thousand smiling pairs of eyes;
a thousand women
in my mind.
And if my mind’s where they must be,
then what is in this world for me?
Why live on interminably
if I must be so lonely?
A thousand loves I’ve had;
a thousand lives I’ve lived
and yet I’m left so sad.
For they are all behind
but who’s to say that they weren’t real?
And who’s to say that I won’t find
a thousand more in time?
I only need to write another opening line…

I have loved a thousand women;
all of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles.
I’ve lived a thousand lives
and loved a thousand times,
all inside my mind.
So why go back outside?

 

-D&W

Read more: Poetry Here and Now

The Sun, a Ballade

April 8, 2012

No campaign could ever convince
no brave prophet, however bold
could share what his dreams did evince
Never believed though we were told
that man would ever lose his hold,
that control could ever be won.
Never believed we’d feel this cold:
The great erasure of the sun.

We tore up all offending prints
burned the heretic books of old
cast their writers out as cretins
swore as one, we would never fold
that we would never be cajoled
we believed it could not be done,
a story we wouldn’t be sold:
The great erasure of the sun.

But O, for all those ignored hints,
the day it came, the sky burned gold,
the sun burst with one final glint
flaming rains fell, the sky it rolled
lightning struck, booming thunder growled
the omen of the fallen one
coming down to collect our souls,
The great erasure of the sun.

When will you come to us, O Prince,
keeper of night, when will you come?
We wait for you here, have been since
The great erasure of the sun.

 

Originally posted in Form Focus at poetry-here-and-now.

vi. Coffee (Haiku)

July 13, 2011

Bitter black coffee –
aroma reaches across
the border of dreams.

 

Posted here.

Storm (A Gogyohka)

May 23, 2011

The rain fell
coming home
black clouds drifted
inside

the storm rages.

xxvi. Climbing Back

April 18, 2011

Sometimes,
the easiest thing to do is to just let go;
let your fingers loosen;
let your grip undo;
let yourself… fall.

Sometimes,
The darkness down below is so much more comforting
than the light above.
The sun rises –
the sun falls
but the darkness is constant.

Sometimes,
in the dark you can feel so at one with yourself,
when in the light
you feel alone,
you feel lost.
In the dark there is no alone; there is nothing.

Sometimes,
the path just feels too long no matter how far you have come.
In the dark,
there is nowhere to go,
nothing to look back on,
only the moment and eternity as one.

Sometimes,
the darkness is a place to go to leave the world behind,
to catch your breath,
to bear up,
to get back on your feet,
so that you are ready to face the light again.

Sometimes,
the darkness is the only place that you can feel strong
but do not let the darkness become your home;
find the strength
to climb back
for the light is life and the dark is a hellish place once your eyes adjust.

 

 

Originally written for the @PoetsHereandNow forum, linked here.

xix. Old

April 8, 2011

I, Old Man,
rock like a fishing boat on stormy seas.
By way of steadying myself,
I walk
with a cane
and sit
at every opportunity
like a baby just learning to walk.
The time
passes
at far too fast a pace.

 

 

Inspired by this discussion thread on @PoetsHereAndNow‘s poetry forum.