A Zealous Autumn Gardening

How barbarously the sun doth lash
at unclad limbs and face;
and are these not mine own hands
that doth so brutally toil
thru’ the withered, seething wretch
of this weed-strewn earth,
and with each chafing of foliage,
as most oft bitter bared;
their barbs and thorns ‘ere doth pluck
streaks of blood from flesh.

And how well resounded, mine ears,
‘twould then prick in earnest,
but to catch sweet winsome music
of some remnant summer wind,
as it doth toll ill-fallen o’er the vale,
and but touch upon this garden,
that with its tendril voice singing
‘ere thru’ the withered leaves,
bringing with it some small favor
of distant, sanctuaried scent.

 

Let The Skies ‘Ere Go On Crying

Let the skies ‘ere go on crying,
raining down o’er weathered soul;
in my days of endless sighing,
let me wane from crowded shoal;
let this heart, now so much older,
follow thru’ with rendered furl;
that my eyes may yet behold her,
Sorrow’s child, this tenured girl.

Let this breath ‘ere now last a while,
that death cannot prevent;
and let airs between us beguile,
her breathing is my advent;
let stars collide, as we two
meet with unfettered emotion;
losing ourselves as we do,
let Earth then know true devotion.

 

Grant Me This Life

Give me the unspoiled riches
of this most beauteous earth,
and let me not breathe vain,
nor make light of its genius,
but to think better of myself,
tho’ I am still mere mortal,
I may marvel at its wonder,
thus envisioned, understand.

Toil my hands toward the sky,
that I may grapple with stars;
‘ere but leave, scalded by fire,
and left blind by their light;
give me then wings as hands,
and those same stars as eyes,
so I may then know the wind,
thus breathe life, now content.

 

After The Rain

The earth is soft
and wetted warm
beneath my feat,
like a matted lawn
in deep summer days;
and I stand idly by,
at the very summit
of this waning eve,
somewhat unstable
in my usual footing
as I reach the crest
of a rock-knobbed hill;
and would I disembark
from this tender sojourn,
but for the sweet scent
of this naked earth,
splayed out ‘neath me,
saturated by the rain,
that now gilds the air
with ejaculate dew;
and ‘ere I, alone,
reaffirm my stance
and thus, I behold
the last sliver of sun
as it breaks itself
o’er the horizon;
and then, the night
begins a sultry dance
among sweetened air,
and I walk slowly on
to find patch of earth
upon which I may rest,
and ease my weary bones.

 

This Rose

This rose, it withers so,
its petals have aged away;
‘ere its once brazen thorns,
now cast brittle and broken,
bearing no trace of blood;
having not the fortune
of either beauty or pain,
having ne’er been adored,
nor pricked love to elate;
it lies bloodied and cold,
untouched by maiden flesh,
unadorned by kiss of sun,
unloved by morning dew;
nay, it dies, wearily wan,
and ‘twould ne’er have
breathed this life at all,
were it not for the sake
of some patch of earth,
wanton of floral array.

 

I Am Her Painted Earth

Autumn ‘ere now finds me
weathered silt of her days,
tho’ amassed and seasoned,
am I gilded sweetly o’er
of all her gentle breezes;
she is, to me, like the sun
to my vague, meandering,
albeit incongruous vale,
and I, of obedient palette,
in gradient shades of red,
as her blood spills anon
o’er my once virgin fields;
I am her infinite canvas,
unwed to either sun or moon,
but splayed in acquiesce;
I am her only due course,
for I am her painted Earth,
and she, incessant tide,
inexorable, causal change.

 

A Form Of Oneness

Hold me now, so oft,
for I have this breath;
kiss me now, as soft,
for our lips’ caress.

Bask with me, ‘ere stay,
’til summer has wane;
dance with me, ‘ere sway,
’til music plays vain.

Burn in me, your fire,
no light but our own;
wake in me, desire,
as none I have known.

Speak for me, so clear,
for your voice, divine;
breathe for me, my dear,
for your breath is mine.

Let us live, so vast,
as none shall e’er know;
let us breathe, ’til last,
and let our love flow.

As for life, we’re young,
’til time is no more;
as for love, we’ve sung,
what music is for.

 

Bear Me Not Wings, But Wisdom To Fly

Nay, I cannot fly.  Pray, I dare not try;
for e’en wings would ne’er hold me aloft,
and the air up there would not be as soft,
were I to ride freely o’er its tenderest gale,
or task the wind charge to abound my sail;
nay, dare not I give such command to sky.

Nay, I’m e’er content, upon this parchment,
to thus splay my fancied thought to word;
true, my soul has wings, tho’ I am not a bird,
merely mortal, and bound to this gentle earth;
tho’ I sing of gods, and see stars at their birth,
I am mere sentient of e’er questioning ardent.

 

A Poem For World Peace Day

Peace is an issue, not a concept or a dream,
let this world be at peace, for its own sake;
let justice preside as it may, but with keep,
tho’ martyrs may call for war, as they deem;
let the world slumber, but in peace to wake,
as fallen soldiers now have eternal sleep;
let freedom be a badge to wear with pride,
but let solace reign, let peace find us whole;
let us know values of peace for all its worth,
lest we forget those who suffered and died,
those who paid for peace at the cost of soul,
whose dreams shall not perish from this earth.

 

Woman, In Her Unveiling

And she, with charging, rules the day,
with bartered dress and chartered way;
she, the maiden, mistress and queen,
wrought not of gaze, but sighs unseen.

And she, woman borne, nurtured soft,
with factioned wiles bestowed too oft;
she, pallor blush and gilded crest,
eschews heat ‘neath sheltered breast.

And she, with night, becomes the sky,
her rage of day turns twilight sigh;
she, this woman, unveiling tides,
now spills her flesh ‘ere she resides.

And she, with night as her unveil,
her flesh enraged, yet wanton pale;
she, outsourced to ways of men,
now sates her soul’s repose again.