Dream Note No. 12 – The Lark

Empty handed on an empty stage,
fingers frozen in a distant past;
forgotten melodies on an empty page,
forgotten friends in a wooden cast.

Which notes recount the summer days,
when dreams of winter imbue my heart?
Which, songs would autumn praise,
no more, he hears of the youthful lark.

For whom, the rainbow? They ride a gale,
riding along an unmarked road;
defiled by his vulgar flail,
redeemed by his Opheliac abode.

Cherished in his bloodstained hand,
memories to their gazes chained;
before the homely gates they stand,
that began with the windows stained.

By the balcony the lovebirds part,
with sweet murmurs of delicate love;
as she falls toward the lavish pines,
as marble before a labyrinth he stands.

The silent intruder the libraries hail,
in arias from his nightly ghost;
down he spirals on a silvery trail,
what courage he finds in this abyssal host.

Still the larks are in peace asleep,
as he steps onto the reminiscent rug;
urgency calls for a unexamined sweep,
for the night too shall return to sleep.

Yet reveries stun his capricious mind,
as old age returns with a blissful light;
as the silvery trail become diamond steps,
from his cello the lark takes flight.

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Published in: on 12/09/2019 at 4:54 PM  Leave a Comment  
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Reluctant Waves

At a walking pace,
the waves gently sway,
a cat naps in her cradle
above a restful lake.

The flowers happily bloom,
the swans open their wings,
to welcome the summer days,
when the air coruscates.

Yet my days are overcast,
for none but the lonely heart,
for the darkest shadows are,
by all other shadows marred.

My heart longs for winter,
when the shy roads are draped
in a shimmering furry coat,
beneath a silent black cloak.

Published in: on 09/06/2019 at 11:47 PM  Leave a Comment  

Summer Mist

In the mist I see,
a hand skipping to the summer romance,
lost in the overhasty wind,
never arriving at a cadence.

Fazed at this dissonance
with no intention of taking leave,
drowning in the shimmering fire
that seems almost immortal.

Unreflective is this mirror,
banished from his trance,
in this summer mist,
where the heart plays chance.

The long days are divided,
with light taking her side,
yet for the night I long,
when muses would bring my bride.

Art! The calling from a soul
who murmurs from afar,
leaving this spiritless ghoul
atop a spellbinding cart.

In this wasteland,
I trudge my way forth,
fighting my mortal self,
who had left spring behind.

Published in: on 09/06/2019 at 11:08 PM  Leave a Comment  

How Life Works

How life works, I wish I know,
before I am too frail and slow,
before I forget how eyes could cry,
in the seasons when rivers flow.

How life works, I no longer know,
how a word into stories grow,
though have voyages me well scarred,
her secrets are buried inside the snow.

Where is the youth I cannot recall?
Why is wisdom more distant still?
For what quests did my spirits drudge?
For what on earth do I plough?

What love is I wish I know,
thus so knowledge may knowingly go,
above my fifth the ravens sing,
marking my unresolvable woe.

Published in: on 04/03/2019 at 1:34 AM  Comments (1)  

Dream Note No. 11 – White Moscow

Nothing stirs in the early hours,
save the silent falling of moon dust,
onto the windows of the Kremlin towers,
into white hills on the red square.

We trod along the silvery road,
marked each path with our toiling past,
yet the holy tears are silent and cold,
blotting out our fervent errs.

In the outskirts the rustling leaves,
are swaying with the howling gust;
the uninvited guest they must receive,
quivering in the wintry air.

Than deific voices colder still,
silencing silence with mortal casks,
swiftly it faded by the heavenly will,
into red hills on our white despair.

Published in: on 26/02/2019 at 12:43 PM  Leave a Comment  
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Snow Waltz

Thus so again I stand before
the gates of my dear old friends,
a wordless song for the days afore
the glory of your perfect cadence.

Gently the pastel airs enshroud
our peace from all mortal affairs;
as we pace o’er the earthly cloud
under a golden chandelier.

Through a lyrical haze I recall
flowers and fences above my grave;
sighs of your virtues and my fall,
in white letters the paths they pave.

In crosses the skeletal trees they guard
our sins beneath the livid air –
the troubles of a fleshly heart
in romances of the silence we share.

Published in: on 04/02/2019 at 4:10 AM  Leave a Comment  

Kuda, Kuda

Is love an innocent flame
or saviour for a beaten soul?
Does love leave innocence aflame,
or bring life to the bitterest cold?

For what does the heart crave
in the flaring shadows?
For what does the heart rave
in the heartless hollows?

So often do the pages turn
to a tosca for the pages turned,
for the flares in a diamond urn,
for courage that fear had spurned.

Such are the seasons of buskin,
when snow falls upon October;
the flattering waistcoat of Pushkin
has parted with September.

If love must by jest be earned
and pass on their inky cloak,
alone shall his soul be burned
and perish in his nightly abode.

Let the roaring of the waves
take me into the deepest folds,
so that her most merciful graves
may bear our earthly sorrows.

Published in: on 03/02/2019 at 2:06 AM  Leave a Comment  

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.

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