An Orphan

In a haze, where his own fingers are lost
in a white darkness. From the unknown,
as if the broken lyre of Orpheus is sought
for an intermittent melody he disowned.

The piano keys are struck and caressed
by an alabaster hand. A familiar song,
or a mourning pavane? From the silent
quarters where not even ghosts haunt. 

For the romping of a carriage he calls,
from that old cathedral — desolate, alone,
abandoned by the rampage of modernity,
by the verdant sprouts and the rotting bones.

Heartless or heartful? Master or slave —
to the world or to the will; or perhaps beyond
all good and evil? Like that eerie, suave
Idiot who loved and only loved for none
but the lonely heart, and for hearts to save
with all his blood, his sense, his wrongs.

None would hear — when the buried
histories forged his patchy mail, and honed
his eternally crumbling, burning, flurried
rub that is his mellow, sacrificial tone;
like the frame of a cello without her post,
confused, helpless, suffocating for a parlance;
or that silver string on Sor’s guitar —
improper, treacherous, knocked off his balance.

At last the piece must end, for all
the crescendos and fermatas we have yet known.
A lost light must in this world fall,
for the air across the field of tombstones.

Memories encircle as the music plays;
raindrops into the river flows — long
to return, or perhaps only Gaea’s chassés?
Still in a haze, to nowhere will he belong.

Published in: on 25/05/2018 at 12:30 AM  Leave a Comment  

The Plague

My head is heavy; my spine is stiff;
my nauseating vessel quavers atop this cliff,
as if death is the exit of this sleepless dream;
I am ill in this season of blossoms and grief.

We are moths diving into the hell of others,
for the affirmation of life they seem to bring;
to the shapes and moods of order we cling,
for none save our angst of life’s unruly slings.

Yet do you know that in this inviting gathering,
our glasses are of the same poisoned springs?
When the earth has naught save plagued soil,
our ideals shall be buried under our mortal coil.

Under a candle’s lead at this whimpering desk,
a lone soul stares into the unfathomable abyss;
even for Mahler is this too long a rest,
but the self must be forged in an illuminated bliss.

The right is untrue for beauty must be beheld,
yet beauty cannot be in the eyes of the beholder,
for true artistry has through the seasons dwelled,
our hearts for life with our hands grow fonder.

The golden leaves shall my long fermata grace,
just as Euterpe has visited Fryderyk’s court;
yet whose tears would for our shadows trace
— are we not but dreaming in a persistent fall?

Published in: on 21/05/2018 at 9:32 PM  Leave a Comment  

Recurring Reflections

I have a fault —
and the fault is no other than my overarching eyes,
a mortal disposed to reach for the skies,
as eagles looking down upon her own inky sighs.

For immortality I wish not,
for life is otherwise devoid of time and thus beauty,
of music that whispers of what words shy away from,
and the loves that grow for only fading cries.

Yet of death I fear —
no, not if I were a true solipsist or a loveless chest,
but that the thought of death tearing us apart,
more violently than all tragedies of history it crushes my heart.

My limbs are trapped,
in the swamp of the myriads of futures from infinite reflections,
given birth to by simply two embracing mirrors,
with a little light shone from the ghostly remarks.

Yet even this very note —
is a reflection too much, too pompous, a rest too long,
but as all notes do, who am I to judge its right or wrong —
when I am but a helpless pen instinctively swaying along?

Look at all those deeds —
so grand, so timeless, so artful…
Is not a day too short for all your quests and your might?
But look at yourself — to none but the Earth you belong.

Published in: on 21/05/2018 at 12:22 PM  Leave a Comment  

Dream Note No. 9

Not much is left of this fuzzy film,
I had oft dived and explored her realm;
fate has brought your presence to me,
a dark lair where only the blind shall see.

The flowering fields we were to visit,
what thrills would this little trip bring;
for the sweetness of the colours so exquisite,
for the air in which your beauty would swing.

In those little quarters of twisted rooms,
where a month bears five hundred days;
your night gown must be from seraphic looms,
I dared not disturb your sweet slumber with a gaze.

Elegant awakening has your lightsome steps borne,
as you tell me that we’d see on the fifty-fifth;
for the end of three long days — my bourne,
in starless silence I weave with withes.

Yet as my shadow over the table hangs,
you come to rest by my weary form;
upon my silver service you call,
your soft contours ease my fervid storms.

Alas music is not merely silvery sounds,
for time forgives not a fearful heart,
who dares not to traverse the ghostly bounds,
where the world herself has her history marked.

Published in: on 01/05/2018 at 12:30 PM  Leave a Comment  

Olga’s Violin

As he lolled around the square circus,
on the pavements below the city tower;
through brassy displays of gold and hocus,
a stream of sound rose above the hour.

Melodies of Bach atop undisturbed strings,
dancing and floating with the gentle breeze;
though rowdy winds the passers-by fling,
her music guards this sanctuary of peace.

Her Mozart stirred his dark oblivion,
when worldly frets were the zeals of youth;
those duets with friends — now in obsidian,
for a time long gone are his tears and ruth.

What vivacity of life her Vivaldi inspires!
Though suffer we must for a truthful art;
to the gutters and glories of life he aspires,
The Street — is life before our unseeing eyes.

Published in: on 30/04/2018 at 11:45 PM  Leave a Comment  

A Night at the Café

Sitting by the candlelit table,
with a company of guests;
I feel almost like Mr. Gable,
with charred cigarettes from the west.

Disco lights are flashing,
as the amplifiers protest;
a glass of zombie is brushing
off my unhappiness in jest.

In the dark cold night we sit,
with deep senseless conversations;
the people’s eyes all meet,
with bewitched, bewildered imitations.

The night hosts a good life,
so much for the old Beatles;
spirits with spirits revive,
writing the modern fables.

Published in: on 30/04/2018 at 11:00 PM  Leave a Comment  

O My Adorable Munich

Restless nights have sapped my blood,
but fatigue cannot subdue this bliss;
indeed my nature is a thrilling corpse,
though surely she greets with the sweetest kiss.

My case for love is the people — I thought,
only now I see that you need them not;
as I amble along in your warm embrace,
serenaded by your charm and grace.

Bittersweet at the rumbling station,
as my feet onto your pavement step;
no joy surmounts your lovely presence,
no dole is bluer than my assured absence.

Silly posters have my return peeved,
faces wearing ridiculous kohl;
though all memories may from me leave,
still you shall be my familiar scroll.

The vendor who has for years there stood,
remindful of a sepia childhood;
the grandeur of the scholarly walls,
upon my past and future she calls.

Fountains spring at the clear blue sky,
the bakeries leaven the gentle air;
the old town’s early affairs I pry,
with breakfast at the market square.

Purple tulips enliven the garden,
who sit by her theatre as a lover would;
though seasons shall as her carousel turn,
her beauty both snow and flowers allude.

Farewell, for now, my adorable dear,
the drawing room of ghosts I hear,
at the window the artful Alps had stood,
behind clouds and rain your beauties elude.

Published in: on 30/04/2018 at 12:53 AM  Leave a Comment  

Jazz Waltz

Four is to the artists’ kind,
as a suite of cards in a joker’s hand.
 Like Puccini’s humour in the Parisian street?
No — this is of a different fleet.

The first is the apprentice so very virtuous,
timid yet heedful in the drawing room;
with each bellowing furnace far too studious,
every feathering edge was groomed.

The second is the poet very hopeless,
sustained by spirits in a rampant flow
— impoverished — improvised — helpless —
 untamed are his inky cloak.

The third is the majestic maestro,
whose secret wears an empyrean robe;
‘Genius’ — the name of mystery’s swains,
is but mastery over passions and pains.

Published in: on 28/04/2018 at 12:57 AM  Leave a Comment  

The Miserables

Look — at all the lonely people,
toiling the fields for perhaps tomorrow;
to slaves the fires and arts are foreign,
their tears for flat and lifeless reasons.

Look — at all the lonely people,
fighting for perhaps fabricated glories;
uneasily alien are the distant miserables,
their tears are none but bloody flurries.

Look — at all those discarded corses,
who fought for perhaps noble frills,
or for our lives with remorseless remorse;
their tears gave life to lifeless hills.

Look — at our epicurean lives,
yet we cherish not love nor beauty;
unkind we are — our hearts we rive,
and tears we shed for our own stupidity.

When we forget the grandeur of time,
or forsake the world beyond our hive;
be trapped we shall in empty pleasantries,
trapped we are in our moonless miseries.

Yet listen, you all — slave or master,
a brave heart shall the heavens conquer;
succumb not to boredom’s torture,
still — be driven not by boredom’s irk.

Published in: on 27/04/2018 at 2:03 AM  Leave a Comment  


Like a major second in Mozart’s quartet,
or a tango dancing Parisian Musette;
the unbidden visit of the summer sun,
a world had risen from Escher’s mind.

Home is not where home resides,
for dreams are but short-lived delights;
paralysed by this limbo I face,
awake in a play on this pathetic stage.

Published in: on 24/04/2018 at 10:12 PM  Leave a Comment