Claude et Vivian

My very childhood has dictated,
to explore is my only fate;
on whatever quest I may embark,
never I fail to be off the mark.

Let us in the streets rejoice,
with music in the evening breeze;
the croaking artefact lies in poise,
like Romeo and Juliet’s final choice.

So in my embrace she had sang,
as you sat in silence, and listened;
for Joaquin or the old jazzy tunes,
your retiring eyes again glistened.

We drank chocolat at le saint-amour,
like old friends — needing no words
for our love of simply a shared rainbow
for our artful souls only we may know.

Though your legs struggled to obey,
though the smile is our only tongue;
your spirit I see in the golden frames,
in the Sicilian summits and the fabled chansons.

As rain poured down in romantic gestures,
at the window we beheld Fryderyk’s grave;
a timeless story from the Parisian leisures,
is lost in humanity’s inauthentic cave.

Advertisements
Published in: on 08/06/2018 at 1:09 AM  Leave a Comment  

The Will to Believe

Almost a revelation, almost…
The wise words of the wanderer
drifts about as a clinging ghost,
when the thrill of life is whatever.

But not for me, not for me —
the neon lights are lying,
not even the kiss of a corpse
from the memories of the dying.

We all live for but one reason —
for want of the to be encountered.
Yet what lies in this infection?
Are not the heavens so festered? 

This is almost a crusade —
a duty of the corrupted artist,
in a tornado is this parade,
playing the mortal catalyst.

Published in: on 08/06/2018 at 12:13 AM  Leave a Comment  

To Spring

Once upon a time, there was an earth;
and on the earth, there was a land;
and in the land, there was a river;
and by the river, there stood a house.

A pair of lovebirds nested in the willow
that watched over a garden of tulips,
where often two lovers would promenade,
in his black silk vest and her embroidered blouse.

They strolled along that little road,
through the sweet scent of morning mud,
where children roamed among the flowers
that were not painted by lead and blood.

By the fireplace he played his guitar,
who rose out of the fabled rosewood,
when forests had not built hills of tar,
when the peaceful skies we did not intrude.

One day that willow too perished in flames,
where the river passed lay shattered frames;
one day our little summit may also flood,
summer and winter war over autumn’s dust. 

My child, if you have seen the colours of spring,
you would forsake all for you may to her cling;
alas only amidst these corpses are we to brood
over none but legends of our silent prelude.

Published in: on 02/06/2018 at 10:34 PM  Leave a Comment  

Mujer de Bachín

The night gently fell
upon this passage of stories,
our hosts left for the theatre,
as words were replaced by airs.

My guitar softly held
the tears from those tales,
the burgundy in our glasses
faint in your flaming glares.

Melodic whispers embraced
the journeys of an unfaltering heart;
You talked of Paderewski,
and of our lovely friend.

By that quarter you dwelled,
you said, as our souls tangoed,
in the land to whom I am strange,
though her passions I apprehend.

You dimmed the lights,
as all those years unfold,
your devotion has eclipsed,
your losses and your woes.

Of love and life you spoke,
as the song came to a close;
farewell, for now, my friend,
Clarinette will keep our rose.

Published in: on 01/06/2018 at 9:41 PM  Leave a Comment