a falling eagle
sings sad songs to Hercules
in the northern sky
Month: October 2019
The Coppice
these woods hold secrets none behold
away from roads and trodden paths
behind each blade of grass untold
a history of forgotten pasts
each step forward leads me back
to times before the wheel or cart
a verdant womb below their tracks
lulled from sleep by primeval hearts
Woods
so spins my mind in darkened woods
damp in the rains of long ago
underfoot the undergrowth
allows no steady thoughts, nor should
as here is time still as it was
before we stood to contemplate
all that exists beyond our fates
and questioned the world and its cause
these trees grow wise without our mind
to be that which we are or not
they have remained as we’ve forgot
their silence pleads as a reminder
we were their sacred progeny
now grown and lost eternally
Forest
there is a forest
at the end of all my dreams
its leaves fall each dawn
The Creature At Year’s End (unfinished)
from deep slumber he awakes
death lives in the breath he takes
to blacken earth on his first dawn
as summer ends, so winter’s born,
claws cold from Stygian depths
chilled from voices of the death
throes of a million sinner’s woes
across the land the cancer grows,
to consume love and fire and light
and leave but fear and ice and night.
Undreamt
what torments can the darkness glean
that does not bring thee to a dream
but leaves you unattainable
a phantom inaccessible
which even in all concentration
allows not my imagination
right of way to fantasies
of your kiss in sleep’s reveries
Words
writing of her eyes
with mine reflected within
the words misbehave
Lines Incomplete
he yearned to touch her satin skin
to feel the velvet warmth within
his eyes would gaze upon her form
allowing passions to be born
which no command could contravene
before desires had passed between
Halloween Limerick
there was a young woman named Sandy
eating sweets had her feeling quite randy
so each halloween
we were all rather keen
to see what she’d do with her candy
The Dark Sea
the dark sea
can make a madman of the sane
rippled ink,
painted by the moon
tearing at its calm
forced this way and that
its depths desire peace
yet no reward or respite
is forthcoming.