Where Nothing Has Gone Wrong!

As blood of soul there spilt upon the page where nothing has gone wrong but to absorb the fits of scribe that flies a pestilent horse that tried to capture all the woes of life, leech the pain from blood and bone, storm the memories castle wall to leave a wake of dead unknown… it is the ink that screams its thoughts when freed from nib where once was caught, yet ‘neath the guide of trembling hand is whipped to what is right or damned!

Its purpose rent for petty cash to columns bound to rags of trash, its heart of blackened knightly steel denied the point to fight and feel, to wake the living thoughts of men, to dare the sword to come again!

Alas, it is this ink’s last wish that if it has to live like this, can’t an innuendo gleam between the printed column’s seam? Can’t it bring some special prose that burns the rag in eyes deposed to only study long enough to only see vanilla thought, that through a few swift strokes of pen will render what is greatest wrought of poet’s pen and lash of ink, by eyes that see and minds that think, by what imagined, real or dead comes forth through pen and ink that bled its soul upon the page where nothing has gone wrong, and nothing ever pays the bills but hearts of men, real men, who long… who long to feel and pray and fight, to stand in purpose, stand with right and herald truths there brought from them, enflamed in passion by the pen and by the screaming heart of ink, that brings our souls to write and think!

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Ageless Gardener

Between the rows of simple life where grows the finest harvest known
are hands of soil and aging skin that tender what in spring was sewn.

A dew drop heralds morning light enraptured in suspended grace,
whose world reflects the azure blue with love of smiling eyes and face.

Each pepper kindly tendered,
each pod and bean so lightly held,
each ripened red tomato vine caressed and in the moment meld.

Her hands of soil, on knees of clay,
beckon to this garden’s lay
to hush those thoughts of early frost
and bow in love where seeds were tossed.

Her whitened hair and wrinkled eyes
define an age her heart denies,
yet from this soil and giving ground
her ageless spirit picks what’s found
between the rows of garden there,
as angel bowed on knee, in care.

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Filed under Nature, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

For Those I’ve Lost

This time in life is granted only excerpts from the greater toll
that beckons in its rhythm, moments for a wanting soul,
to live, to gain, to give through pain,
to know the love of those who love and in it never feel the drain
of moments bound to dust.

For time is short in living, our pleasures mount our memory,
that in the end at final breath we count them all in reverie.

The souls we touch are here for us, each blessing granted in return,
that when we give of what we know we share the things we most must learn.

Some I’ve known have slipped beyond the current’s blood of beating heart,
yet each in turn gave gracefully a blessing sweet, instilled as art
in loving what their time did grant, in knowing kindness true,
in setting place for time again to sit and talk a few.

I know in true reflection that my silence seems quite empty now,
but grief is for the living, yet through it, all I see is how
they touched me with their gentle hands, and smiled form their truest source,
so granted me a piece of God in whispers held along my course.

Yet still the echoes’ silence rings when by their empty home I pass,
and sadness fills the emptiness that I must hold for them, alas…
it is my purpose rent for them, recalling all the times we knew,
recalling conversations long, now seeming much too few.

God grant them peace and blessings, grant the love for them I show,
hold them close in comfort knowing that the best in them is what I know.

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Soul Mates

There is a line that stands in time
between two lonely hearts displaced,
there hung by clothespin’s fading care
are hopes on parchment penned by grace
that hold the sweep of hands that keep
the rhythm kind across this space,
pulls the heartstrings bound in pairs
that each will know each other’s face.

When soul on soul is granted
by downbeat of the moving parts,
there comes a living moment’s bliss
between the chords struck for two hearts.

There is a call that beckons all
to seek the gift and soul of one
whose heart in reverberation pulls
the truth of love in anxious sum,
of two that still the simple will
as resonant waves of love undone,
there calms the ether fast and full
that into each sweet life does run.

When soul on soul is lifted
by what our greater spirits know,
then shines the truth of what is meant
by “soul mates” love in what they show.

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The Rose, The Table, The Love, The Time

In ageless hesitation,
the pedals of the rose caress
the lines of time held sweet to rhyme
there poised across the oak’s duress,
that hold this ancient table
as art above its form
and echoes sweet the whispered times
when love engaged it, warm.

Now ‘tween the grains are softened waves
whose crests form black and knurled,
midst stains of life and living spilt
across an age unfurled.

Sweet the musky rose entreats
the golden oak with peace,
dripped from fallen “love me nots”
and broken heart’s release.

Silent stands the aged stem
whose vase has dried and browned
to contrast kind the porcelain
in fissures where life’s time has drowned,
and left the finest web enwrapped
about the fading glaze once white,
now aged and thin as are the hands
that nearby hold one pedal tight.

Held quiet in reflection,
dreams of love entwine her thoughts
as lines of time held sweet to rhyme
drape long across this moment sought,
as oak and rose sustain her
and hold her saddened form,
while echoes sweet in whispered words
enrobe and keep her warm.

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The Poet’s Dusk

Dusk, the shadow’s maker in a woolen woven weave, hangs upon the sweetened vines that bind this summer’s eve. Holding there in hushed content, drawing moments fatter, it stands in day’s end last lament unearthing evening’s batter that bends the ether temporal, that lends a feigned gestalt, coercing from the ticking clock one living breath to halt.

The dust suspended, golden, upon the frozen ether strains to twinkle in reflection of the slanted rays that grace the panes of long arced window’s moment caught in flitting glimmer’s play, blushing pink to ochre o’er the ancient oak and still hallway, casting hesitation’s doubt in breathless ebbing tide, held in mirror’s reflection, through lengthened course and gating wide.

Seduced to pause between the poles enlisted to keep time, in brass convex reflection stands the pendulum’s sweet rhyme that quivers in its pausing thought, sings in polished brass and pane, captures in one resonance this moment held in dusk, sustained. ‘Til heaved in breath one downbeat’s heft, driven by an ancient law, returns the evening from its theft and captures all this poet saw.

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WWI – Remembrance

Cold the wet horizon lies in silhouetted waste
that runs from where my footsteps fall in hesitation’s haste.
Upon this pitted road of ruin, blackened earth from bombs and blood,
my destination’s certain claim is death here in this mud.

In Liege the madness started, as all declared their stance to war,
that by autumnal equinox the fallen rose half million more.

The stench of death in mix of gas recoils my stepping’s gait,
yet onward to what’s still undone denies this bitter state.
The brazen mud and field works bare the corpses of the dead,
yet standing forest memories form the lamp posts of this hellish stead.

Gallipoli, Verdun, ring fallen echoes home,
yet nothing ranked the senselessness of what we faced in Somme.

The spring of 1918 held hope for millions dead,
yet those of us who stand here still, returned this hope with dread.
Now upon this backing rush storm troopers raised in ire,
whispers of remembrance rekindling this fire.

Now we drive in final push, Amiens and silent Somme,
knowing Hindenburg awaits with more of hell to come.

I count the eyes remaining of the faces that I’ve loved,
these brothers mine, some traces of their angels raised above.
I feel the dank of weary hearts held in courageous hope,
I sense the end is near now, and pray that I can cope…

one more push, one more trench,
another bloodied night in stench
that fills my nostrils sorely with a pain I’ll never loose,
resolve to carry on in strength, relent to those I choose
to aim a fatal blow toward or drop to sudden cover,
waiting for that one last breath in life or as death’s lover.

Over the top boys!

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Filed under History, Memory, Perspective, Poetry