Go Sleep!

This eerie night is evocative, my dear,
as darkness engulfs our every sight,
the frosty wind – how desolate and drear,
so free your mind from all your sighs.

Let a lullaby sing you to sleep,
let the feathers brush your hair,
so that you may freely leap,
into reveries through your dreamy lair.

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Published in: on 21/12/2018 at 11:36 PM  Leave a Comment  

The Sinner

Down! Down to the burning grounds,
wallow in filth as your regrets scream;
the barks and growls of the dungeon hounds,
shivering flames atop a rusted beam.

Has the ostrich so many wrongs,
to bury her head as the sinner would;
though lamp black vapours shall hold his tongue,
the clarity of guilt under a witch’s hood.

Dissonant crows on this quest embark,
away from the self all truths are cast,
a tragic tale of an innocent boy,
who sacrificed all for a tainted heart.

Nimble steps for a scripted hunt,
though mirage is all in a silvery pond,
with each deceit her feathers darker still,
such is the birth of an abyssal swan.

Published in: on 21/12/2018 at 1:15 AM  Leave a Comment  

Homage to Darkness

What mastery carved these celestial shapes,
as they fall from the wintry sky,
dancing and weaving a beguiling cape,
painting over all colours with white.

When skeletons adorn this unholy land,
a false cadence blinds our sight,
from the birth of a returning spring,
from the passing flares of the darkest light.

From his window the airs are still,
though festive plays their spirits entice;
in this season of fluttering quills,
his papers are untainted by hopeless sighs.

With whom shall he correspond,
with a heart lost in earthly chores,
the pathos of an undying song,
is the inflation of her dying chords.

***

With each dawn more clearly he sees,
the joys of the decaying –
wherefore they wander the familiar streets,
undaunted by encounters most fleeting.

Is not life our masterpiece?
Do we not remember in awe?
Yet from penned sentiments we flee,
profess to time of a refining plot.

In dreams we face our eternal trial,
though we jester at the princely ball;
no remorseful songs of his ghostly isle,
yet youthful vigour his mournings call.

More elegant is each glorious veil,
burying the fires of a diamond orb;
though consciousness our existence ail,
life – the greatest enchantment of all.

Published in: on 19/12/2018 at 4:22 AM  Leave a Comment  

Dream Note No. 10 – Barcarolle and Ballade

If dreams are music penned by the mind,
then surely to no phrase shall I be blind;
yet a haze embraced my theatre at dawn,
for a ballade from Chopin when the curtains are drawn.

Both strangers and friends this house shall shade,
from the harsh torrents of a gushing land;
 as the fleeting quavers pour forth, and fade,
my boat arrives at daylight’s strand.

I miss you, Fryderyk; and the Parisian streets,
the passing years of our nonexistent youth;
your songs again my passions freed,
though true is winter to our unspoken ruth.

There is none to whom I cry,
for solitude is our celestial fate;
let the seasons mark my artful demise,
for love alone through life I wade.

Published in: on 08/12/2018 at 12:04 PM  Leave a Comment  

In the Wee Small Hours

Gently, your footsteps carry on,
in these wee small hours;
awaiting patiently for a sign of dawn,
a final greeting to yesterday – ‘so long’.

A glass of old whisky, or two,
would all your longings awaken,
in the wee small hours you would,
alone, dreaming as a fool should.

Published in: on 09/11/2018 at 12:34 AM  Leave a Comment  

Sonata in B-flat minor

Macabre lines to the earth they cling,
as the mourning in soaked mud tread;
tender phrases from the Tuileries springs,
whose tears they lead under a rainbow thread?

For whom the funeral march arose?
Had the deceased for it proposed?
Only the living shall the sorrows bear,
though none knows of a soul most drear.

For whom the funeral march plays?
Was she not his last berceuse?
In time shall all thoughts die and fade,
save a journey from the fated gate.

The pathos of love is death alone,
for love conquers all worldly affairs;
the pathos of death has to love been sewn,
for else would death be in peaceful airs.

Like an old friend she visits again,
bringing the keys to his forgotten notes,
of times under scornful arrows,
of a stubborn youth who embraced his foes.

Has rust or glaze the sword concealed?
A story, story under an old swan quill;
of roses he dreamt in that barren cart,
only famished soil breeds wine and art.

Published in: on 04/11/2018 at 1:09 AM  Leave a Comment  

In F minor

A lady piouretting in her burgundy dress,
makes a charm enticing even the most noble,
for princes and kings are often so slain,
her spell the youthful secrets unravel.

Such is the beauty of an evening song,
as the night courts his elusive lover;
if nightingales were to soar in figures,
beneath glorious ceilings of heroic wrongs.

On his throne the masters live,
tragedies carved onto an unfeeling stone;
red rivers the frigid glass caress,
as the concert begins with an unfamiliar tone.

From the skeletal chandeliers the notes fall,
in eerie screeches of highs and lows,
beyond diminished are the silent calls,
his heartbeat thunders in this lifeless cold.

What fate is darker than the darkest despair?
Where lies this despair no mortal could know,
for the path behind is as the heavens clear,
though the lofty heavens knows no woe.

What chaos within our hearts reside,
when frailties we with frailties deny?
What dread sleeps behind evil’s facade,
if not when our sensibilities die?

Beyond good and evil the statues stand,
but my friend, ‘what a piece of work is man!’
In quavers and doubts the pages turn,
the final cadence shall as dust return.

Recurring memories in Fryderyk’s tales,
are as waves, as life’s beautiful ails;
taking me back to the stormy shore,
the awaking darkness my passions bore.

Published in: on 03/11/2018 at 10:36 PM  Leave a Comment  

Revisiting October

This earth is embroidered with green and gold,
leaves shall leave, though the trees stand still;
who haunts this pavilion in this silent cold,
when October returns with a gusty quill?

This garden I recall from hazy dreams,
of an innocent past on copper stained pages;
an unfolding history from the celestial beams,
perhaps never was it for one whose heart never ages.

Where lies the pretty outskirts of Moscow?
Who was that woman in Kramskoi’s tale?
The old barn embraces me with fresh muddy soil,
as I hear his pen brushing against October’s ail.

29 Sep 2018, Tchaikovsky’s House, Klin

Published in: on 21/10/2018 at 10:09 PM  Leave a Comment  

Lazy Scientists Do Not Think Normatively

Fragrant is this nourishing soil,
sweet are these golden carrots,
that lay bare after a day of toil,
marked by the hares and parrots.

Alas, swift is the farmer boy,
whose burns seem rather faint,
when the hands of a defeated ploy,
are caught in muddy paint.

Set is this trial for justice,
hearing both truth and beauty,
freedom is our common premise,
so who bears the burden of duty?

‘The thieves, of course!’ yells the boy,
clear as the rightful moonlight;
is there more to be said,
if wrong is to be cut from right?

The parrots defend their ground:
‘the allures were far too strong!’
So the boy has himself now found,
charged of being very wrong!

Disbanded is the headless crowd,
revealing the stupefied hares,
to none but the nebulous clouds,
where the parrots repeat their errs.

Published in: on 24/08/2018 at 10:26 PM  Leave a Comment  

Righteous Hypocrisy

Is there a soul in nature’s call,
or are all but the works of a dreaming bard?
If justice summons the trickster’s ball,
then justice is but the solipsist’s art.

How shall we for paradise desire,
if nowhere can we to paradise aspire?
Beauty we grant upon fiendish forms,
though our eyes elude their ghastly storms.

Travellers extoll their headless strides,
graveyards laugh at their foolish parades;
is hell the recipe for their pretentious pride,
or the make-belief of our heroic raids?

Whence do judgements their chisels acquire,
sculpting each tree to our frailty’s delight?
Why do you for the truth enquire,
when truths are enslaved in our crafty eyes?

Published in: on 22/08/2018 at 2:40 PM  Leave a Comment