Lost Seasons

the seasons of man
hold no real significance
save the final one

The Cursed Poet

what heaven’s beauty in his lines
this poet of the open skies
wonder lives aside with madness
in the ballad monger’s eyes
as how can simple flesh extol
for its peers nature’s rich ways
to try, an odyssey so senseless
can but insanity relay.

They Are The Lost

they are the lost
who revel in the dead gods
and will deny
all but the stories
that validate old lies

they are the lost
who live in yesterdays
of fetish to bronze
and stone and the scorched earth
of glorious pasts

they are the lost
unable to find a place
within the run of time
which has passed them by
and left them lost

Flowers Know

the trains can’t break the backs
of the wildflowers on the tracks
they bend, they sway
but seldom cry
I cannot even wonder why
they tolerate our haste
perhaps because they know
our time too will soon pass.

A-Verse

for sure, I’ll mix my metaphors
and scramble similes
sometimes you’ll find, I force my rhymes
it matters not to me
form and function often clash
and verses wander free
yet I beseech thee be not rash
to judge my poor poetry

Time

time slips away
forgotten and ignored
not in chimes
or waking bells
but in seasons lost
and flowers felled
by the turning
of no clocks
save those we mould
from memory

Storm

a storm wrings the night
and after, all peace is left
scattered on the street

Absolution

In your words
I find benediction
you speak to me
of absolution
not for sins
nor condemnation
but a simple sense
of affirmation

Songbird

a dark dusk descends
yet the nightingale cares not
it knows torch songs too

Towards The Windmill

he watched her skip
towards the windmill
and her dancing hair
told him
its sails were chained
and simply for display