Month: September 2016

The Treasure of Us

I found it quite by accident,

long after

you were gone.

A sunbeam

through the dirty window

was resting on it,

a celestial beacon

like

a navigator’s star,

or a savior’s herald.

Emotions stirred,

slow and sluggish,

a snail waking from sleep.

I hesitated, standing in

the acrid, arid attic dust,

my heart warring

with my mind,

Do I open

the treasure of us?

Long buried memories

of times past,

of youth and strength,

of love and passion,

of you smiling,

of us, in love.

I could open

the creaky wooden lid,

softened, like me,

by age.

I could grasp

the rich fabric to my cheek,

and twirl the bright coins in my fingers,

admiring their sparkle and flash

in the fading light.

I could let slip

through my fingers

the bloody cloth and the fool’s gold.

But  it’s all of a piece, isn’t it?

And I would have

peace now.

I wiped my tears,

and left

the treasure of us

unopened.

I will hold it

in my heart,

in these last days.

For that is enough,

and somehow

more than riches.

Broken Bells

Hear the toll of broken bells

Over hillsides

Down the dells

Angels sing in seven hells

Dead things crawl up out of wells

Demons crack their human shells

Ringing din at midnight swells

Night air’s rife with graveyard smells

Devils laugh discordant knells

At the sound of broken bells

 

Flowers for Wishes

Flowers for wishes

Flowers for dreams

Flowers for nothing

is all that it seems.

Flowers are falling

from heaven above.

Flowers are given

when one is in love.

Flowers for loneliness

Flowers for tears

Flowers for happiness

driving out fears.

 

Flowers are falling

in fields green and gold.

Flowers for young children

soon growing old.

Flowers for wishes

from out of the blue,

wishing you’d love me,

if wishes come true.

Of Muirgen, Lost at Sea

And now she wanders ‘neath the waves,

her raven hair pulled tight,

dark eyes upon the ocean floor.

She walks it through the night.

The ship she rode was shattered

on a rocky coral shore,

And now poor Muirgen, lost at sea,

will ride the waves no more.

Loved lass she was, and passing fair,

the sailors all did say.

No favor gave she when they’d stare;

she sent them on their way.

A new start was her final wish.

The village grew too small,

and passage bought with man and fish,

they sailed into a squall.

The vessel fought it bravely,

but the waves kept rising higher,

and cracked the mast and broke the deck,

and lightning started fire.

And there was Muirgen, lost at sea,

to bear a bitter fate.

She never would see land again,

but had no one to wait

at home upon the seaside shore

to grieve her soul’s demise,

no family or caretaker.

For Muirgen, no one cries.

They say that you can see her

when the moon and stars are nigh,

serene beneath the rolling surf,

the southern wind her sigh.

We sing of Muirgen, lost at sea,

the world no more to roam.

The current of her passing soul

will guide us safely home.

The current of her passing soul

will guide us

safely

home.

 

Cara-Cell

 

As autumn dies,

the bitter night wind

seeps into the stone walls

of what has become my

new home.

Hope of leaving

abandoned me.

She peers into the defeat

replete within my gaze,

and smiles

with

pleased and mocking scorn.

Dressed in midnight,

she comes,

a cream-skinned shadow

in silvered fog,

and tells me her name

is

Cara,

as if I cared,

as if defeat had somehow

changed to affection.

A Murder follows her,

and obeys her every gesture.

Her lacquered black nails point,

and soft eyes are

plucked like jewels from bone settings,

the screams

drowned by the eldritch music

of their raucous cries.

Why do you stay? she whispers in my mind.

Do you not see there are no stones to bar your path?

No chains, no locks, no guards to block your way?

Blind,

I stumble past

the warring scents

of lavender and carrion,

to roam

the shrouded night.

Exhausted,

helpless,

and alone,

by dawn

I find myself

returning

once again,

to where she freed me.

And barefoot, shivering,

crying ice-laced tears,

I walk the frigid riverbed

back to my

Cara-cell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Winged Moonlight

 

 

This pale raven,

prepared to shine,

this ivory plumage

s p a n n e d

beneath

the cobalt sky.

Alabaster wings

scatter stars,

red-gold talons

grip tight

the silver moon.

In silent flight

rising

above the

shadowed world,

breaking chains

of spirits,

herald of the

mist,

and emissary

of a

sunless realm,

nevermore

to shine.

 

 

Vanquished

Vanquished now,

I return

to find

all bare of life,

and stilted, stifled purpose

laces the air that has

disguised her

earthy scent,

rank loam in the ruins.

The stones of my home,

my fence,

tumbling

atop each other,

as my men

from their horses,

ungainly unseated,

and skewered

for their lack of skill,

or a champion.

Grasping, bare, black branches soon

reach to pull me into

the shadows

of my mind.

As did she.

Merciful

was the

headsman’s ax,

and swift.

The sky and ground

joined hands

to somersault

in sun-dappled motley

 before my eyes.

And

I returned home,

now

Vanquished.

A Changing Season Marking Time

A changing season

marking time,

Another silly ‘season’-rhyme,

Another sun-splashed

Autumn day,

A leaf-strewn path

to run and play,

Another golden light

to see

Another day

with you and me.

 

I love to spend

the seasons here

though slowly

they leak life and youth,

But you are constant

as the seasons

and I hold to it as truth:

That will never change.

 

 

 

These Vaunted Halls

The history

of the world

decays within

these vaunted halls.

 

Bones of men

whose legacies

have long passed into dust,

now scattered,

or drifted into drains

to swirl and sink

amid the sewage

 

These vaunted halls

of vainglorious scholars

and savage soldiers,

 

This labyrinthine lair

of painted women

and holy mothers,

running children

and feral dogs

 

This ornate gauntlet of

open secrets and

private trysts,

 

This once- proud venue,

where learned men

hammered out their thoughts and beliefs,

vociferous in their ferocity,

gesticulating like tribal dancers

 

This enviable marketplace,

with its bright colors, shady deals,

and the rush of winning a well-wrought

haggling session,

 

Is now the place I skulk,

and stalk, and catch the rats

that bite me in my sleep,

and take the bodies and coin

of unwary travelers.

 

My kingdom,

a silenced ruin of

damp and crumbling marble,

dim sunlight,

and solitude.

 

These vaunted halls

will return to their glory,

stone by stone, page by page,

man by man.

 

But for now,

I feast.

 

 

 

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