He wears a smile
Save no surprise,
If but the while
He means to hide,
His shaded guile
Woefully apprised,
In a conjured façade…
He has known wile
In angst of sorrow,
More than enough
To find not borrow,
He’d known tears
Gathered for years
Beyond subsides,
Rendered invasive
To the outer side,
Of harbouring mazes…
Thus the façade
Blurred in guises,
Holds few surprises
Be joy or sadness
That smiles disguise,
Alas but for appearance!
Should you doubt
Life’s fleeting pace,
I’ll set you right
On lifespan’s face,
The days that burn
With barely time
To see the night,
Or a full term
Of this life’s race,
Save ye borrow
Someone’s turn
Afore the morrow,
Less fate means play
A slice of mirth,
And chose instead
A bed of earth,
Be untimely stead
Tells best not dwell,
On wasteful notions
While ever nearer be,
Those waiting morrows!
The day of the hunt
Be the squeal of a seal,
Who’ll reach for a hand
Of a starved dying man,
With no choice to save
Or let live with a wave,
That another day gives
Either creature to live,
With no time for sorrow
Nor sealer to borrow,
Holds he must stride
To hunt many hides
Or shan’t morrow survive,
Nor halt downward slide
Of living the narrows,
For yesterday’s bread
And a roof overhead,
Man has no guarantee
From fated seal barrow,
Nor survival ahead
Tho finds his way back,
Before all freezes over
And frost has him dead!
ode to perished sealers,
of Newfoundland’s 1914
In an effort to be bold
I may’ve gone too far,
And now be on hold
In someone else’s mind,
Who barely seems alive,
Living on borrowed time…
There I’m to abide
On this mind’s ride,
In a kind of hell
Where Belial waits
Smirk on his face,
Knowing my fate
Be meant replace,
A mind gone cold
With past due date,
Thus in my effort bold
I may be left a mind
Said on borrowed time!
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
Poetry on a Canapé 