every night
in black and white
come dreams to light
pre-raphaelite
of silken hair
devil may care
a siren fair
who is not there
yet comes to stay
a morn’ foray
my thoughts to sway
as dawns the day
rewriting
Pietà
She cradled his head
he’d bloodied himself
on the stone steps
stumbling
over cheap wine
and desperation,
the world walked by,
she cried in broken notes
but her words were lost
as was his blood
mixed with her tears
on the rain sodden pavement,
as the world walked by.
Rossetti’s Woman
with cream roses fair
she combed her auburn hair
and left this life as naked as it found her
pale like stone of skin
no breath remained within
his canvas but a death’s shroud to entomb her
Breaths
like breath
on a broken mirror
memories begin to fade
as soon as born
leaving behind just
shattered reflections
of what they
once had been
The Shadow Prowls
His shadow lived
a second life
separate to his own,
each night
out of sight
when the light
disappeared
it would prowl
the golden pools
of reflected
refracted
street lamps
and closed store neon
hoping to catch
a new host
to feed upon
until the dawn.
Rain
she falls lightly on my lips
though unsolicited
each kiss instilled with promise
an elemental recipe as old as time
I open myself to her quenching embrace
and taste life.
DREAM #17,730 revisited
I dreamt of comic books in braille
and naked ladies riding snails
and trains, because I always dream of trains,
and birds that spoke of countries new
court jesters painting their towns blue
and that French film with all the kissing in the rain.
I dreamt of eyes that stole the world
and as my dream slowly unfurled
I understood the symbols I could see
at first glance each vexed up my mind
so I let them completely unwind
and each image breathed a sigh of you and me.
Just The Trees
the pine trees sing a sombre song
their ballad draws the fog to lay
from times when just the wind had sung
forgotten mists of yesterday
before a single bird took flight
and stirred those lowered tones
before the undergrowth knew life
when just the trees sang all alone.
As Do The Flowers
oh! nature, hast thou changed thy face
for time has played its wicked hand
whereby once youth was fast in place
the aged ocean’s swept over sand
from days long past I thought eternal
my mortal frame will ne’er be saved
this debt for which was presumed vernal
becomes forthcoming by the grave
so to accept the years will sigh
as they tread with practised guile
across my footpath by and by,
and meet them gladly after a while.
For I, like all men, have my hours
as do the birds, the trees and flowers.
Brahms
A demon’s fire ring in the forest
as these passioned stories told
sensations heightened in the flames
only the devil’s fingers hold
midsummer air dry stokes the fires
soon the woods themselves ablaze
and the madness in crescendo
seems it could the whole world raze.
