He wore the hat
To dress his head,
And tit for tat
He wares it now
To hide pilus dead,
Or gone so thin,
It fails be coaxed
To grow back in,
Thus pate regrets
That bushy hair
Of peacock fame,
Held chose delimit
Its germinal game,
Evoking sad recall
Of his departed mane!
What of the days
That tell
Of distant past,
At times so well
You almost feel
No time has passed,
As if a dream
Be made to last,
But at once there
You sadly find
Yourself aware,
You’d left a part
Of you behind,
Though long ago
A sepia’s memory
Will scarcely show,
That part of you
Did endure whole
In spite of time,
Hence of the days
That tell
Of distant past,
Lingers on your mind!
Will we hence find,
Else ne’er know
To tell ‘tis time,
We’ve need to slow
Man in a hurry,
Or soon be thence
When far too late
To tame this state…
Yet should one hold
Clocks be set bold,
To fix the pulse
A slower rate,
For all to move
At homologous pace,
Mightn’t we discover
One another,
Thus man in a hurry
In a tranquil place,
To finally face
He is doing us in,
With reckless haste!
Need I pursue
This search
For therein who,
Assume I be,
Thus when in fact
Said a reflection
Of what I see…
Must I so find
A valid line,
That reaches
Neath the outer
Of my being,
Hence to explain
Be but thin gain…
Shall I then fix
To understand
What purpose
So commands,
This searching
For the real me,
Tho assumed be
The whom ye see
Be so of held validity!
There is a buzz
Said be tinnitus,
A ringing sound
Ne’er holds leave,
Tho has no cause
Save but it does
Till seems a hiss,
Like a cicada’s
Endless kiss,
A grating bound
To drive one mad,
As could be found
Echoes from hell,
This buzz made feel
As would a bell
Of endless peal,
Wants buried be
Tintinnabulations
And thus so well,
Rather than decapitate
As the alternate stead,
To stop tormenting
My wretched head!
There’s a rote
In my mind,
That holds place
To mark time,
In a space
Said my head,
Long enough
To so taste,
In a sentient way,
Thoughts past
And ahead,
Worth the keep
In life’s stead,
Of held days
Fate be swayed
To compose in a way,
For the want
Of a longer stay!
Veiled mendacity
Ensues decry
A bent for lies,
Tho eager hide
Rather inane,
Tries brush aside
The overt shame,
Yet suffers guilt
One can but abide!
Words I scribe
Meant not forget
The road I follow,
To flee the depths
There I be yet,
If not for words
Ago inspired,
So perceived
By worthy fellows,
Who fashioned so
Words I borrowed,
Made find inspire
To thus so weave,
Lines wouldst tell
Begs you believe,
Brought an end
To wasted sorrow,
On that fine morrow
Thru words I borrowed
To touch your heart!
ode to Cyrano de Bergerac
and for Marianne
I long to see
Once more
As clearly
As before,
The faces
As I’d known…
It’s only now
As I grow wise
I’d realize,
The child then
Did think of life,
As without end,
All to be there
Just as before,
Thus so until
One’s tired eyes
Should be no more!
The who you see
May not still be
The monolith
You surmised,
And begs perceive
The elapsed time
Ought not surprise,
That who you see
Be but an outer shell
Etched so by time,
Wouldst bare a man
Of plus score years
You thus now see,
Yet seems to hide
A real me inside,
The while who I am
Matters not a damn
Who I was then,
Should mirror now
The who you find to see!
Poetry on a Canapé 