The Final Note

I can it seems with efforts small
forget how the world can be
yet as the dawning terrors fall
how the world remembers me
thus deeper should I dig my grave
and there spend all my days
in an attempt my mind to save
from this earth and its ways.
Away from daylight would I lie
ignorant bliss to spend
an Eden grown behind my eyes
until this hell is ended,
so seek me not, oh troubled lands
that have brought only pain
I can no more against you stand
and can no more remain.
So in my tomb of silent mind
I’ll build my world anew
and as my rest the world won’t find
I’ll bid this world adieu.

Anthology (12.) Sunflower

He planted a sunflower
deep in the forest
one moonlit night
when he was sleepwalking,
it was a lucid
recurring dream of his
which troubled him
for several weeks
so much so
that he could no longer rest
and spent many a midnight
from there on in
searching in vain
for his lost bloom
unaware
that it had already withered
and died.

Anthology (11.) A Young Man’s Song

let me sing
a young man’s song
set to a sad guitar
let me sing it
all night long
underneath the stars
let me love
a young man’s love
and write it out in pride
to hold forever
as a rhyme
until all love has died

San Marco

the hymnal of early morning
voices in tongues unfamiliar
loud and brash and lusty
spiced in worldly profanity
yet juxtaposed
against this palette subdued
in pastel serenity
it seems not contrary,
but complimentary to the sacred.

the sun is still low
barely crowning the bronzed basilica
the shadows of which
declare the hours that pass
upon the shuttered windows
and those hidden plays within.

Omen

I dreamt of starlings
falling limp from dark grey skies
murmuring curses
in voices stifled by blood
shed upon the dying earth

The Buddleia Burns

the summer lilac
as this fragrant summer too
burns its final days
e’en the crimson
dusking sun
compares not to this dying blaze.

so away the butterflies and bees
her scented kiss is gone
and her blooming lips have faded
now these primal days are done.

Solitude

requiring no court
I am held by loneliness
akin to the grave
so spare me resurrection
for this solitude is sweet

Storm front

hell is not below it is on high,
dark clad and heaven bound
the world here finds its end
the vagaries of unknown hands
carve demons in the skies
dragons of some pre-renaissance mind
circle atop mountain peaks
disdainful of the mortal’s lot
their bellies bilious distend
and a million hopes are drowned.

Anthology (10.) Glance

my glance is told in tales yet secret
its true intent no-ones to know
behind mendacious painted eyes
unrevealed I dare not show
how my thoughts of thee unravel
in all my reason’d cognisance
thus I hold this look well travelled
as mask to hide what’s in my glance.

Anthology (9.) Sirens

the sirens sing
of lust and death
and sweet release
against the crashing
passionate intercourse
of sky and sea,
in their immoral arias
resides perhaps
my drowning damnation
if not…
…then ’tis salvation.