The while I seek
Familiar faces
I try not stray
Habitual places,
For I so dread
If I should roam
Too far from home
I might return,
To find them flown
And in their stead
Darkness did rent,
To a ghastly bent
Crept up from hell
To fuss my head,
In an attempt
Lure so my bones
To join the dead…
The while I struggle
With uncertainty,
I best make haste,
To join the hardy
Who laugh at fate,
Man’s transient state!
She stumbles out
Somnambulating,
Thus ambles about
In a sort of trance,
That chilling prance
Of noctambulism,
In this curious dance,
Appearing nefarious
As she moves askant,
Thru distorted phases
Knowing not where
Her journey leads,
Nor aware indeed
Of fatal dark places
From which to recede,
For this shadowy walk
Does incite discern
Disquieting deeds,
Where darkness takes
The unwary noctambulist!
I’ve found cause
Implying worth,
Yet question they
Who chose believe,
Thru blind faith,
In man made issues
That such at best
Belie substantiality,
Of purpose seems
Intended solely
For blind fools,
Who’ll ignore need
To apply reason,
Or fail to read
Neath the surface
Of abstruse deeds,
And without pause
Be blinded so
By the duplicity
That thrives exist,
In mans inherent greed!
I am the vulture,
Who seeks to feed
On what man leaves,
Now more than ever
In generous measures
Of munificent waste,
In varied assortments
For every bird’s taste,
Repugnantly vile
In voluminous piles,
Blended with progress
Of contaminate state,
Not to mention man left
All but breathable air,
And nigh potable water,
Once too pure and fresh!
This world of mine
Is now a place
Of want for time,
Its waning state
Of nascent space
I effort see,
But for the grace
Of memory’s hold
I’d ne’er again
Find to embrace
The splendour
Of its bold face,
In what now fades
Shy of a spritely pace
Amid what I did feel,
And came to know
With wisdom’s peal,
That clings to hear
From fortune’s fate,
What might yet live
Therein my world,
Increasingly a place
Of want for time!
I’ve read of life
Said early times,
Of such a world,
Was known to be
A place then free,
Though sadly now
Be but a memory…
A world held then
Counted on trees
To feed the air,
Life did so need,
Thus to survive
In nature’s ease,
Until man’s birth
Whose wily species
Would induce
All disregard,
And thusly sly
Brought to its knees
Nature’s fragile ties…
The like composed,
Man’s wily road
Would but support
Self-serving ways,
And hence reward
Who chose to play,
Depriving those
Who would oppose,
Hence rendered such
A place once free,
Now but a memory!
I’ll tell you a story
More of a tale,
May leave you sorry
For it be on a scale
Of sentient passage,
That can but come
From tears
Of a dolour soul,
Where one now finds
More than do cheers
In life worn time…
‘Tis a story of old
That reaches the soul
As awareness grows,
In life’s exchange
Of pleasure for pain,
Coming too fast
To instantly grasp,
While latter takes reign,
Tho the impact will pass
Its perception may not,
For but memory lends
You’ll endure its attend,
What life brings to the end! a reflection
I’ve a runner
Runs not,
Not even a step,
A mat of sorts
In a weave
That cavorts,
Thus so conceived
As the hall runner…
Made so to go
From end to other,
Hence down the hall
Till it can reach
The opposite wall…
If you should ask
What of its task,
It’s but to cover
A floor said under,
Thus to walk over
Free of noise bother
For ladies in jumpers
Prancing in unders,
At times without,
Down the hall runner!
I thought
I might
Be living
Smartly tight,
As I believe
In doing life,
Just as I like,
Thus so compose
The kind of play
I need not sway,
To have my say,
If I am to delay
The onslaught
Of the fated day,
Hence to decide
The when or where
I so choose care,
To tell I’ve done
At least enough
There be some left,
After my bones
Had gone to rest,
When thus so bent
The more than less,
I’d counted myself spent!
You’re overcome
For a lost friend,
And feel the sum
That will not mend…
But destined days
Be now or then,
Held bits of when
Life let us share,
Its abstract fare
Till time ran out…
So do ye well,
To recall the gift
As a cherished kiss,
Then celebrate
That while shared,
And leave tristesse
For they not missed!
Poetry on a Canapé 