Fear

A wind swept down the hall, along the walls,
Around the corner, where I lay bound in bed
My nightly prayers being said after eating
My last parcel of bread, and the spirit came
Once again to claim my mind and bind me
In chains of fear under cover of dark
In stark reality of being alone
With no phone to call for help;
Only the yelp of a dog nearby
Broke the silence before the voice spoke,
‘You are alone again and prone to fear, my dear,
So in sheer terror you lie as in a coffin
Prepared to die, and so perhaps you shall…’
Strange illumination filled my room with gloom
As tumescent tissue tendrils extended round
My room with effervescent smoke floating
In iridescent glow for shadowy show while
Willows danced outside my window, and I buried
My face in tear-stained pillow for some shallow
Comfort without sweet slumber…
‘Ah, no, this night you might be mine, so fine
And delicate,’ she softly whispered in my ear;
‘Fear’
‘Fear’

The Duchess and Lord of Lyricism Dialogue on Love

I have never before collaborated with anyone, but today I have had the privilege and honor of working with the very talented Nandita (Manan Unleashed) on this poetic dialogue between the Duchess and Lord of Lyricism,  the final installment in both of our respective series (due to reasons we deem unfit to divulge.) I (we) truly hope you, the readers, enjoy this collaboration! 

As Sol reigned high in the sky, the duchess did spy the Lord of Lyricism,
And she decided to fly to where he was perched on his literary birch;
“Ah! So it is the star-gazed lover who hovers in ethereal art covers!
Welcome, my dear, and what will you say that I should now hear?”

The Duchess sat herself near the Lord of Lyricism
Who looked at her with such tender affection in his wise eyes;
She could not help but spill her secrets,
Harboured within the deep cavern of her heart.
“What do I say my Lord? I had a mortal fight last night
With the Lun who refused to shine on the dark side of my duke.

“Light and dark; night and day, are they not both at play?”
Answered the Lord of Lyricism. “But dear one so near
My heart, no one need tell you when the sun does rise,
For it is no surprise; no one need tell you there is a
Dark side to every glorious lark. Every song is bound
To have one wrong key, you see, so what it is you have
Sought and at what price have you bought your love?”

“Shed some light my lord; what causes me to worry so?
All I have ever seen since love was conceived
Are seeds of stars in those magical eyes;
Alas! Last night, as we were gallivanting in the garden of
Love, a storm came and the Lun hid behind dark clouds;
It seemed to steal the stars that lit up my heart
And I was left with a disdainful black night.”

“Ah, dear Duchess, love is always planted in seeds
And needs to grow to show its worth of timely birth;
But the storms must come to transform love as it
Forms, and sometimes then the bright stars of night
Are hidden from view to the two in love; fear not!
Stars above are still shining, and pay no mind to
Luns and their unkind ways; the rays of love may
Still shine in your heart and that of the Duke, and
Then ne’er shall you part ways for the days to come!”

“My heart knows my Lord the pearls of wisdom you implant
For I was born after all from that seed
From whence my love has sprung
And so although burnt clouds may at times overcast my clear skies
And those stars that light up my world get stolen from those eyes I now call home
I must chide myself every time I doubt my heart
That I cannot appreciate the beauty of the calm
Unless I go through the storm.”

What the Lord of Lyricism Sees (Part II)

“Oh how love is so cruel!” laughed the king of fools
To the lord of lyricism, still perched as he searched.
“It seems true: One was born to be torn but not by
Any scorn of the other; ha! I wonder, does he realize
What prize is his as he mixes metaphor to score yet
Another tune? Does the duke see or is this a fluke?”
And the king of fools drooled his answer: “My lord,
Love is as tender as the dove, who flies high above
But falls quickly to hard earthen call to crawl among
Beasts of burden; love is delicate.” But the lord said,
“Surely love is also elegant and not desolate; so much
Is evident, which is why love is thus eminent… No,
He simply can’t see the free gift given by the duchess
Of stanza, who sadly stammered ‘fare thee well’ before
She fell from the sky, and ne’er did he utter ‘goodbye,’
But did he ever fly closely by? Truly I do not know
But I note that he still floats in the ethereal mists
Of senryu and such, which is not much in the manner
Of courtship.” But the king of fools quipped, “Ah! my
Lord, perhaps this was not meant to be, for there is no
Rhyme to bind them across space and time, lips to lips,
Hips to hips!” To this the lord of lyricism merely nodded,
Not in cynicism, saying, “We shall yet see what will be.
We shall yet see what will be.”

What Does the Lord of Lyricism See?

Bored, the lord of lyricism looked from his literary perch
In search of something entertaining, merrily sustaining,
Not constraining or draining, perhaps inspiring without
Being tiring; and, lo, did his eyes finally light upon quite
An intriguing sight that would frighten some but rather
Enamoured him: One stout duke of metaphor, a duchess
Of stanza together creating quite the regal extravaganza!
Together they wove their words in their fine poetic cove;
Weaving and weaving more, heaving sighs of satisfaction
Known only to lovers under covers in a blanket of night;
But as the lord of lyricism looked on he could not help
But wonder, was this an heavenly blunder or the thunder
Of fate, for the duke and duchess shared the same heart
But were very far apart in space and time; and the clock
Chimed eleven and heaven rumbled ill-content o’er what
Was meant to be after Cupid bent his bow to sow love
In two hearts, not in parts, but in whole, soul to soul;
He contemplated this, searching his mind, as he perched
And continued to watch this unique scene of what’s rarely
Been; and his smile was not one of hard trial or guile
But delightfully real; ah! what would fate here seal?

Did I Lose Your Love? (In Lune)

Did I lose your love
Precious Dove,
Fallen from above?

Oh, can I regain
Once again
One who has been slain?

Will you have mercy
Toward me;
Will you hear my plea?

In this universe
Life grows worse,
With love the inverse.

Please come back to me,
Wild and free;
May we now agree?

Can you see my pain
With no gain,
And my blackened stain?

Come again and stay
In your way,
I do hope and pray!

to BE iN my poeTry

It’s hard living on the downside of a right-side up world,
Always living on the flip-side of the spiritual coin,
Never able to join in any form of the norm;
So the safest place for me to be is in my poetry.
Here I live and move and have my being,
Seeing everything in stranded riddles,
Birds playing fiddles in the fair air,
Swimming thru the blue sky while whales fly in the sea below,
And I know nothing of anything makes any sense —
I make no pretense — I just write my fine lines
And something pretty shines here to which others can relate
Without any bait and hook to come and feast with the beast
That is me, no; every reader is free to be or not to be
With me; to see or not to see that I’ve something to offer
From the coffer of my soul, an ethereal bowl of fruit
To feed mind and spirit, and here it is at no charge
And not large, but small and delicate, all I have to give
As I live upside-down in this right-side up world.

And On the Eighth Day

We ride the tidal wave of hope toward the coastline of inspired vision;
It is our destiny in proportion to our dreams spun in the halls of heaven.
Our eyes are wide open to the myriad possibilities of grand, living life,
As we grab hold of the mystical hand to walk now on the water of miracles.
No evil wraith taunts our minds, nothing wicked haunts our open hearts,
For we have taken the higher way — rough and rugged and narrow but true.
Blue skies become our ocean with slowly floating, wispy white islands,
Burning Sol our guide by day, serenely sweet Luna shepherdess by night…

Tell me, pilgrim, do you know to where we journey on this the eighth day?

Saga of Sara and Emma Jane

In courtroom large, the high charge stuck:
Sara’s man could not buck the stolen horse,
So chained and off to prison, the course
Of her life changed, radically rearranged;
Could she manage alone, fields newly sown?

Meanwhile, Emma Jane wept where cold body slept
In silent keep of death, and no one else would weep;
So what else could she do but sell out and bail out?
One man was tied as the other died, and both cried,
But Sara kept her claim and so Emma Jane came.

CosgirlsAnd the two bright, strong women would fight
To keep their only plot of land — not a lot —
Sara and Emma Jane plowed and prayed for rain
Again and again to adorn their field with corn;
Work, no play — the pay was strong bond of love.

Out in the wild, wild West they would survive,
Hope kept alive by burning backs, aching arms,
And no time for charm till dinner bell chime;
Sara and Emma Jane would climb up into bed
And lay their heads down with very little said.

Ah, they had their land and crops, home and slop
For hogs and wood to chop in a virtual sweatshop
With no whistle-stop — work begun had to be done
Under the sun — and they rarely made it into town;
But these two had their space on their own place.

Sara and Emma Jane, given to one another, could
Never be won by man passing by, try as he might;
Light of love bound to survival in ever revival
Of one spirit in two bodies married these two
In true love forged above and sealed on earth.

Sara and Emma Jane stood their ground, so profound,
Against so many hounds of hell striking warning bell;
They would not sell, no, not Sara’s land to band
Of thieving men bent on sin to win what belonged
To two women so strong, who’d chosen the long road.

And Beauty stood tall, formidable, nothing biddable
As Sara and Emma Jane tamed the wild, wild West. . .

.

Too Young, Too Young

Achlys_goddessToo young to see such horror; are we ever old enough?
Too young to sing funeral dirge, of death to be told;
Too young to bring flowers to dress the coffin cold;
Too young to ring the funeral bell for Reaper’s hold.
Too young to wing your way to Mors for life to mould;
Too young to kneel by dying frame, expected to be bold
Beyond your years, to shed no tears lest someone scold.
And who will hold you right tight against such fright
As night rolls on till beam of light in Sol’s stream?
Too young to withhold free scream at such fright-sight;
Too young to be old enough not to care at death bare.
Too young . . . too young.
Your life has just begun.

Note: Dedicate to my two children, who have seen too much too young