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Monthly Archives: August 2016

She Is Not The Rain

She is not the rain,
tho’ she may oft cry
with such thunderous wail,
that one may suffer sorrow
as if standing waist deep
in a sea of all her tears.

She is not the wind,
tho’ she may oft sigh
with such fiercesome gail,
that one may beg or borrow
from her breathless keep,
and breathe away their fears.

She is not the sky,
tho’ she may oft fly
with such wonderous sail,
that one may see tomorrow
in dreams, within sleep,
thus winged, fly for years.

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Posted by on August 27, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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And I, Of Oblivious Need

In a church outside of Boston,
a lone candle holds a flame;
it burns e’er for some lost son,
tho’ no one knows his name.

In town, ‘ere is a circus show,
and ‘ere, in the center ring,
stands a man who seems to know
he could have been a king.

In bed of some forgotten stall,
an orphan girl weeps a while;
she stands barely three feet tall,
and she never seems to smile.

In the sky, I see stars go out,
as of those souls spent in vain;
and, one by one, I’m left without,
ne’ermore to sing their refrain.

 
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Posted by on August 27, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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So Fell The Night

Scarce, was she wrought vain,
when none but bashful hands
would pass a moment’s need,
her eyes captured the fray.

How drawn her wanton breath,
exhaling sighs of glatial air,
only quick resolve detained,
thus breathing, she did stay.

No youth needed of her womb,
yet, virgin, was she beloved,
given me as fortuned sojourn,
no hunt e’er captured as prey.

‘Twas I fool not to love her,
tho’, in wild abandon, did try,
yet in weaker approach to love,
did fall, and let her get away.

 
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Posted by on August 27, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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Gratefully Laid Waste

Were it not for gravity,
would I but lay wretched,
wasted in some hedony,
quite ill-crest o’er sky,
as a child, ignorant of day;
and I, strewn ‘cross clouds,
as but wreckage of a man,
with barely scarred breast,
as with her pressing heat,
would I be anesthetized,
squandered to my bones
as her vehicle of flesh;
would I then give praise
to the gods who sent her,
that I was but her wake,
privileged to be wrought
ardent ‘gainst her shore.

 
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Posted by on August 24, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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‘Neath A Tarnished Sun

It was not but golden air
when I last felt sun on my back,
squandered upon the ground
as a sea of untamed hands
weighing me down, helpless;
not undressed, nor as bared,
but unmade to tarnished sunlight,
and it wrecked me upon the sky
like a fugitive of summer,
yet it was not golden air
when I last tasted her lips;
where she had met my hand
far into that summer sun,
and had shamed its warmth
with that of her own,
tho’ it was not until
her lips were but parched
from my stealth approach,
did I then sustain her breath,
and she, mine, a while away;
in our unfettered moment,
we walked again, along,
amid the brashness of light,
untouched by the winds,
yet were fully undone
by mere breezes at our feet;
where sweet morning dew
had gathered and cooled,
while soft in the shade,
we danced thru’ wicked thistles,
only to find home again
in the open eye of the sun;
where again we walked on,
despite absence of golden air.

 
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Posted by on August 23, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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She Remains Therefore

She flies, therefore love is winged flight;
she plies, therefore silent is the night.

She sighs, therefore, remembered, breathes;
she tries, therefore, in waiting, grieves.

She cries, therefore love must have tears;
she dies, therefore life has no years.

 
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Posted by on August 23, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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What Cost, War

Come hither, brother, rest from throng,
thou hath worn this mettle viel e’er long;
time hath pleaded for cessation of war,
tho’ none but sages hear it, therefore.

And how hath thee but altered in form,
say I none but of this armor now shorn,
clasped stern o’er thy breast as wilting,
yet, wielded loose o’er tempered gilting.

I say none were bolder, nor brave as thee,
none e’er worn of this pride, this dignity;
let then gilted armor, shed now in vain,
cast mercy o’er this errant knight’s pain.

 
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Posted by on August 18, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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