there is to be no summer more
nor even spring in fragrant rain
lost are the blooms expectant born
for your smile will not shine again
dark seasons wait beyond this sun
now death has but the winter won.
short poem
No Benediction
there is no benediction
but that from bloodless death
as he extracts with naked hands
every wakened breath
he allows no resolution
nor repose from the fears
that his shadow darker falls
upon us through the years.
The Bar
There’s a guy in the bar
who looks like Bela,
Lugosi, not Bartok
enjoying a large glass of merlot
I hope.
What’s Left of Sorrow (an Epigram)
the rest from all our sorrows
are held apart for joy’s refrain
though dark tonight, will turn tomorrow
into the light of dawn again
A Reverie
“Memory, hither come
and tune your merry notes”
William Blake
light reverie came upon me
in singing ayrs of that we were
and in those sweetest melodies
a lyric lost was hanging there,
and this forgotten memory
held music played so fair
of endless hopes and night less days
that did my troubles bear,
dark melancholy did away
and fled to futures far
the past held in this music’s sway
is such a light memoir.
el mal de corazón
he was stricken with the malady
of praising that which used to be
a nostalgia for the better days gone by
that seemed to hold a golden truth
but was in fact, simply his youth
blossoming before his summers died.
Sketch
evening blue my soul is you
when summer sends an eastern wind
that holds Bharati promised sighs
of such rare and golden kinds
that would the very temples fade
to nought but sand upon their breath
Morning Lake
when the light
shines right
upon the morning lake
it seems
my dreams
dance in its ripples’ wake
and from the water’s edge
I watch their ballet run
and build upon its meaning
for there are dreams to come
Incense
what is this fragrant incense
that burns within the wanton heart
a perfume that desire dispenses
such passion only you impart,
so enflame the embers bright
their soft breath to form and stir
and from their ash our lusts to light
in flames as desperate as a prayer
Garner My Grave
garner my grave with verse
or worse
desolate prose
sung of dead roses
that my sleepless rest be dressed
anoint my lifeless form
with pointless balms
though sweet perfume
shall not exhume
this lost soul that travels west
the blighters rock 