short poems

The Calming Stars

What stagnant noise this dark unrest
that beats poor time within my breast
and drums such dirges in my thoughts
but misery and woe to court,
‘tid then the night sky I survey
and silent prayers I do relay…

    “oh stars, far stars let me seize
     your calm reflection for its ease,
     which does reliant heavens place
     a silent truth, eternal grace”

and quiet may I gain from there
which sets to rest the loud despair.

Mad Poet?

Oh! for the madness of John Clare
to hear the angels on the air
and the music of their wings
to scribe the poetry they sing.

I yearn for blessed insanity
lost Edens in the world to see
to picture them in rhythm’d rhymes
and paint them with such saintly lines.

what fear do passing seasons hold
when such stories have been told
of beauty’s scars upon the earth
and how from death comes rebirth.

Oh! for the madness of John Clare
to mark the sacred everywhere
despite dark Hell’s corrupt intent
such souls define the heaven sent.

When The Rain Came

at ten, I think
is when, I think
death came.
He had, of course
announced himself
upon the grey
tipped rain
(..sudden on the window pane)
but strangely
that was all
no black
foreboding pall
(..or bugle’s dampened call)
just quiet
pregnant quiet
silence, save
the grey tipped rain
(..sudden on the window pane)
which replaced her breath
now lost,
to never, ever
sound again.

A Scattered Memory as Verse

was there then a red rainfall
my memory is not complete
the years have played with my recall
so lest my verse be obsolete
I can remember water though
black as blood streams everywhere
river crossing, gutters flow
to fountain’s crystals in the square,
there is no more that I may tell
nor will my story ever end
for recollection’s empty shell
allows what was with dreams to blend

The Oldest Song

the oldest song holds ever true
yet it’s music evades me still
that such can I with words imbue
not e’er a note with sharpened quill
but even as this silence peals
an echo of the ancient strains
calls inward for my heart to yield
unto the muse’s pleasured pains
that brought into the world their songs
of innocence and sinful tales
sagas of men loved and wronged
of happiness and sad travails
thus as these shadows stretch in mind
they in their turn bring also light
that could allow my soul to find
the old song’s words I long to write.