The Ancient Fever

With the fever of a claw, protracted briskly before the

North day’s sun—bristling leaves of ancient flora rain subtly from below—Until, swiftly, the deeds are followed through

Resting peacefully adjacent to the

Covered toes of an intendeds step—resonates the fallen ivories genuflecting upwards from the hollow lake

Fangs of sincerity, biting woefully unto

A leathering type of skin—Poring over—are the Jagged excursions of remorse—in code—yet willfully exorcising the last institutions interred upon kismet’s forlorn smile

Sovereign territory.  Gated, in unrelenting irony, alive within—tenuous fibers of scarcity unchained—the whispers of the weakest heir—(Calling)—Daring for its unlocking sigh

The wisdom that is dwelling herein should be received as wisdom, not fact, but intelligence beyond assessment—just as

Circumstances offer inference, so do the intermittent cries that strain melodically underneath the windswept overture

A Disconsolate Turns to The Dark Arts for Emotional Support

Tranquility harnessed, by the reigns of fatigue

Birthed by void, cold and terse

Inner-cynics, sparring foot and knee

Balance wavers, so moves forth this curse

Of vapored redress, dark clouds disperse

The covens held, in primal view

A razor shakes, verse to blackened verse

Scratched tongues affirm, each the fears are true

The cauldron’s bewitching path

Its secrets revealed at last

 In highest boil the water finds

Prophecies, both cruel, divine

And standstill you become, paralyses renew

As stake-laid fibers rise again, turning circles will the rope

To tighten knots secure to throat, letting pressure guide its noose

Upon the stains of past, memories faucet empties hope

Paler does the skin then cry, fraying urge faint to cope

As suffocation screams for air, fastest ever beats do start

Strain to push blood’s flow, in this, life’s final trope

First the limbs lilt in languor, and then cede does the broken heart

I thought about composing something especially for Valentine's Day, but instead went this route.  Stop on by to D'Verse for their weekly Open Link Night, read all the great poetry linked up and even link up one of your own.  Pub opens at 3pm.  See you there.

Ghost Orchard

Three days from here

A ghost orchard lives

A border of wrought iron,

As would be seen, ironically,

In a cemetery, conceals

The specters within,

From the ghouls outside

Beyond the fence

With eternity on their side,

Time is a non-concept, it

Just is

Without a purpose to pander toward,

Meandering is the common activity

Of an entire species unseen

Where lifeless living does abound

The reddest of apples tend to

Surround

Another Working Title

I may not have the answers

To many of life’s questions

Yet I do have the knowledge

That experience had suggested

I never cared much for

All those things I didn’t need

What I had was how things were

And how things are explained to be

I may not have the directions

To many of life’s immeasurable deceptions

Yet I do know,

That one-foot comes before the other

And regardless of which heel steps first

I always end where I’m meant to be

And where I’m meant to be,

Has always been with you next to me

Moles

Moles

Burrow

Seeking

The

Moist

Dark

Morsels-out of reach-

The child

Enamored

By shiny things

The brat who would not share

The tempest that would soon ensue

The forgiveness

That shall take

All of a minute

Or spanning several years

A lifetime?

Moles

In-hiding from scary thoughts and scarier sights

Lady I Defend

Star Spangled, Etch point eyes,

cross hair to the cranium,

from both side,

tomorrows welcome,

fore tonight I die,

A philosopher and a peasant,

sat beneath a crumbling home,

next to the spot where mail once would go,

the wisdom transferred in that hour,

devoured all the knowledge

that boy had known,

My country, I honor you amidst the showers,

I devote my every hour,

my bountiful, I sacrifice my youthful days,

blessed I am to have seen lime coloring in this life,

tonight and for forever,

in dying I survive,

Beautiful lady, I confide,

my queen of liberty, in which I cry

I do not question, yet in this final moment,

left for me to honor you, I request your ear one last time,

I am dearly scared of what shall greet me on the other side




For this week at Open Link Monday at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, Kerry mentioned the idea of revisiting a poem that's gone forgotten, which was one of many options to consider this week.  So, because it is Memorial Day here in the States, I thought I'd look back through the archives and see about finding a piece that hopefully fit the Soldier theme I wanted, plus did go relatively forgotten.  This piece was one I originally posted in March of 2011, about a soldier's return.  Make sure you stop on over at Real Toads, check out all the great poetry on display at Open Link Monday, and while you're there, link up a poem of your own.

Scars From A Tablet

Naivety towards location

Instinctual drives reference the prototype

As the primary preoccupation, yet it should have recalled the productive pedagogue

Like a tourist caught in isolation, begging for reprieve,

Falling for routines ranging from Crucifixion to Nativity,

 A native never would have, an actor couldn’t know,

Each soldier, flamboyant and free, single file in unison,

Marching forward, stumbling sideways in search of, secrets in plain view,

Earthbound and elementary, jaded curiosity clouding the thoughts of the forsaken man,

A procedure without envy, awe necessary to remain under wraps,

 The Penitentiary of denial would be on high alert,

Tonight it appears an inmate gains a chance to prove his worth,

How and why this all transpired will not be addressed,

 It is information we’re certainly not privy to, 

And knowledge, in this case, would create a cancellation; result in the invasion of privacy,

For all those secrets buried deep; hidden treasure of the home,

Shake the specificity of design,

 It’s not as if, in this designated abnormality

A person of your stature would ever find something,

As the interwoven index fingers, the pressing of the palms,

Dangling in the open air, convection with conviction

An intimate connection with but one condition