we are become as lotus eaters
in which our suffered graces
are numbed to true sensation,
force fed with base esthesis.
Imprisoned by unreal desires
blind to the world around
behind walls of false design
shackled hostage bound.
Dare we look at all beyond
that which is placed before us
for in searching is release
from the bland anonymous.
We are no longer who we were
devolved as much as lost today
where once the world had bloomed with sweet perfume
here now the lotus eaters play.
In choral turns their pleas are heard
the weary finch, the proud blackbird
round robin bold, shy hatch and hen
a starling insecure, and wren
from song to song and tree to tree
no ear can match this symphony
nor pen, nor pipe or soft tapped string
could hope to vie with feathered things.
the throstle wakes
as so must I it seems
her song invades
yet not disturbs my dreams
there may be clouds
uncertain in the dawn
yet the song thrush
seems to minds not
and greets the coming morn,
but will her lover
duet to her cries
soulful from the barest trees
beneath these youngest skies
or has the night before them
driven death’s dark veil
between her plaintive arias
sung sweet to no avail.
Above this sea
of Tyranny
in air
so fair refined
my words fly free
from inside me
and bare
themselves to rhyme.
Here on high
in azure skies
the world
unfurls unknown
fine or profane
’tis all the same
to gods, and I
alone.
I walked through purple heathers wild
their heads washed fresh with dew
and in their perfumed boudoir
I wrote this song for you
I sang it as the sun gave way
to fogs upon the glen
and even o’er the mists of time
I’ll sing it now and then
whenever heathers breathe the air
and sigh their last bouquet
my thoughts within these simple words
is all I’ll have left to say.
If there be a sound to sorrow
it will not cry in shedded tears
but joyful birdsong on the ’morrows
when I am gone and shall not hear
how dreams the maiden
of whom my dreams writ’ fair
could it be
in her sweet reveries
’tis me, that she finds there?
the winter weeps its last
yet it is plain to see
its former youth is passed
and ready to sleep is he
who but short days ago
had such teeth and claw
to rip the world with snow
but seeks to hunt no more
the tears of ice have dried
with spring’s new born ascent
and days of darkness die
though not their vowed intent
to someday walk again
and hold reign o’er the earth
to waste this world of men
in bitter death’s rebirth.
first, the air is dry and still
it wakes and breathes
and upon its breath
a thought is borne
then no more tranquility
for you are come
all heaven stirs
as do my senses,
tumescence rears
within, without
a storm.
into the darkest night it seemed
I dreamt a bird of purest verse
and that she was all but a dream
is why she was my sorest curse
for true this bird of reverie
would songs to me in sleep relay
but come the morn’ her poetry
would be lost forever to the day,
thus to the muses do I pray
that this nightbird’s song will stay
with me when my senses rise
and not to dawning sun demise.
the blighters rock 