free verse

Dreams

Does Goya mark my rest
there is though
no reason
to my dreams
just broken rhyme
and bloody desires
looking to be coupled
in frenzied abandon
with me as mute witness
impotent to affect their will
yet cursed in the darkness
to be their chronicle.

Light

the moon
sings not sweet songs
to shame the music
of the stars
she strives not
to prove them wrong
nor does she
in whim
vain pride impart
with lyric fair
their sparkle dim
for her light
enough is art

Prophecy

I saw grey angels
draped weeping
upon the scattered bones
and broken stones
of man’s hubris.

They had lost all will to fly,
no glories more to sing
and their sacred tears
brought forth black ivy
to imprison their desolate wings

The Dream Of Hands

I dreamed a dream
of henna painted hands
which seemed
at first
to defy all understanding
yet upon a further thought
as I a settled meaning sought
these hands were heaven’s prayers
assigned
to calm my troubled
brow with kindness
while I slept
to ease them all away.
Thus these hands,
though of the night
did with gentle fingers
stroke away the darkness
to reveal a new found light.

Prayer

I ply no lords with platitudes
if divine they need no praise
from this simple mortal flesh
this mess,
of animated clay
better to extoll the sun’s ingress
for gifting us another day.

When She Wakes

when she wakes
the whole world breaks
into shards
a million shapes
which in countless colours shine
as the night is left behind
and brings forth calico dawn
of patterned sunlight on the morn
a tapestry of passion born

Monuments

our monuments are nought
but earth and shit and blood
that only scar the world
moreover
where no sore ever should,
and I see not ruined stones
nor former glory
with blinded awe
but the broken souls
of mankind shamed
sealed within their cores.

Life.

what is life
but the daylight in midwinter
when for but the briefest time
the last songbirds sing
and the low sun
gives us hope
of yet another spring.

A Ritual

these lines betray ceremony
a composition’s liturgy
which determines
if these words
are ever to be heard
or if the page in time
will burn
discarded
but should they form the poetry
of those emotions known to me
then the rite
of how I write
will find its rhyme
and remain unto the world
regarded.