Writing

The Value Of Lions

Majestic under the canopy of Heaven’s sky
in sovereign silence, he can be found –
guarding the throne of Eternity
from which nothing vanishes
or becomes expendable.

The tracks of his pride, now imprinted
and sheltered deep within his heart
beyond the horizon of his lament
when hunts on Serengeti Plains
were replaced by a caged
and exploited existence –
always obedient
to his master…
displayed
for profit
while pacing
a mimicry of life
until his final breath.

What price must a beast
pay for homage?

© Literary Remains

Writing

Sound Of Silence

It is the calm before the storm —
and the deepest of feelings
before being expressed.
It is the 3am
in the arms of a lover —
and the pause
before the kiss.
It is the sun
being swallowed
by the ocean —
and the watchful moon
robbed of speech in solitude.
It is the thought before the prayer —
and the lips that are closed
over all that love cannot say.
It is the shadow that falls
upon a gravestone in twilight —
and the sound of grass
as it grows.
It is the rose petals
that yawn
in the morning sun —
and the clock
that ran out of time.
It is the hummingbird
that lost its wings —
and the rainbow
that pierces the sky.
It is the star
before it turns to dust —
and tears
wept in sleep.
It is the feather
that falls to the ground —
and the lamb
soon after the slaughter.
It is the sound
of a snowflake melting —
and the taste
before the swallow.
It is the wink of an owl —
and one moment
after someone
has taken
their last breath.
It is the sound a bird makes —
after it has fallen
dead from the nest.
It is the canvas
before the paint —
and the promise
that’s unfulfilled.
It is the contemplation…
before the poet’s next word —
and the candle after the flame dies.

These are just a few of the things I hear.

© Literary Remains

Writing

Spare Change

Nobody sees us two, I know
our world, weighed with woe
people walk by turned face
our lives not worth a trace
not always seeing our pain
our hearts, a scarlet stain
whatever our crimes may be
I only ask you stop and see
life battering a dog and man
more than we thought it can
wondering, what went wrong
in this cold, for how long?
Life, once sweet, simplicity
just survive, now, futile be
asking modest comfort blest
spare change to eat and rest
beneath some blankets might
warm a man and dog tonight.

© Literary Remains

Writing

Old Soul

From Pleiades and Pegasus
to Cassiopeia and Centaurus –
our Souls are Seeds of the Cosmos,
cultivated from all that is infinite.

I am from the clay of ancient lands –
sculpted by Viking, Celtic, and Saxon hands
in forgotten times, forgotten history…
long and long ago.

From my longhouse to my longship,
I sailed upon cold Nordic Seas
‘neath a procession of stars
to navigate the night,
and drinking light…
from the Moon’s
immortal cup.

I’ve traveled far to every temple,
obelisk, and pillar of mystic stone
where I bled, and perished,
and rose anew…
paying passage for my homage
with ancient gold coins
stamped in the mint
of my memory.

Beneath the Celtic sunsets
of amethyst, topaz, and crimson reds…
I walked in tangled fields
of thistle blue
and primrose brimmed with dew…
all of it veiled under
every Equinox and Solstice
and Midnight Star…
they were the jewels
that I wore.

I’ve heard the murmurings
of Saxon benedictions –
as they broke
my bread
and heart…
my head bowed
while on bended knee
in St. Æthelwold’s hall.
I whispered in supplication –
a prayer by candle light dim….
my shadow, humbled against the wall.

The Ancients eclipse me ‘neath waxing moons,
sharing their wisdom, like Oracle Runes –
scattered upon my primeval spirit
through the strands of years…
brushing me, hushing me,
shifting, yet whole…
writes the poet,
in sanctum,
old soul.

© Literary Remains

Writing

Night Watch

Ten past sunset, scythed moonlit sphere –
‘neath; a tyrant, which hath no fear.
Roosting on branch with sternly glare;
wise feathered sentry in nature’s lair.
He nods with wink; bidding ‘morrow sun –
Now dark! How dark! This day is done!
Steadily embraced, in arms of his tree,
duty beckons at Midnight, perhaps Three.
Which side, the darkness, night watch lie?
When the dead arise? Or the living die?
Scarlet stains, an earlier hunt, now paled
whence talons swiftly caught, then impaled.
Suddenly vanquished, by bird of prey –
foe mortally wounded, breath fades away.
Nature’s rule dictates, as above, so below –
this, cycle of life, for both prey and foe.
Silence breaks, with creatures conferring –
throughout the trees, a scattered stirring.
A curse to them all, with forbidding glance,
those hastening, in wooded happenstance.
He is guardian of night, and forest keep –
until dawn, when even, the owl must sleep.

© Literary Remains

Writing

Durability Of Stone

I am a stone
steadfast in rushing water
smoothing and honing
year after year
I watch the future come
and the present go
around and behind me
stately and still
I have been witness
to the seasons
in all their majesty
Fall leaves in topaz orange
and brilliant reds
Spring lavender fringed
with morning dew
and moonlight shadows
on the Winter snow
and oh, how the evening
breeze sighs in the Summer.
On the bank over there –
to the left of me
is a flowering tree…
I’ve witnessed
lovers kissing
and initials carved
inside a heart…
never was there
love so fair
and every June
the blossoms return
along with all
the lovers.
I have been here since
the beginning of time
steadfast in rushing water.
I am a stone…
and can never die.

© Literary Remains

Writing

Drinking Poetry

I am unable to Poe
and thinking of Plath
as I listen in darkness
to Longfellow’s serenade
drinking absolute
torch and Twain
as Ayr’s bard Burns,
like Dante’s Inferno
sliding down…
down… my throat
ere a chilly Frost,
while daring to walk
on The Road Not Taken
with Tolkien’s Hobbits
running Swift and Wilde…
Sexton coughs, “Live or Die!
and Cohen croons, “Hallelujah!
until the night is over and Donne.

© Literary Remains

Writing

Geisha

From the scarlet Sun of the distant East,
she’s an almond-eyed porcelain goddess –
draped in fabric slowly spun
by five-thousand silkworms.

Rice paper fan clutched in gentle hand,
she postures for her miyako odori –
a graceful cherry blossom dance.

Groomed for this moment since childhood,
she’s the perfection of etiquette.
In the centuries of old,
her ancestors danced
as concubines
for the Emperor –
virginity on sale
to the highest bidder.
Out of respect for them,
she dances in their footsteps –
daughters of fallen cherry blossoms.

© Literary Remains