Poetry

Tea with Sir Walter Raleigh

We sat on the veranda of his hotel room
and sipped some tea while he lamented
about the continent he had just crossed.

I asked him how Elizabeth was doing
and if she was still a virgin…

He replied—

“She lost her maidenhood
and I, my head. We don’t
get around much anymore.”

He talked, while I listened
and sipped my tea.

Nostalgia—comes
with the smell of tea, you know.

© Literary Remains

Poetry

The Raven’s Lair

From the nightmare ere the last,
locked within the shadows cast,
unfathomed are the reasons why,
he who glares and lingers nigh.
His eyes obsidian, fixed on me,
in pensive thought, so silently.
He’s a mystery cloaked in night,
from betwixt the dark and light.
“Oh! What secret dar’st he keep?”
asks the poet deprived of sleep!
The key to this lives e’er there,
buried beneath the raven’s lair!

© Literary Remains

Poetry

Mask

They grimace behind their mask —
amalgamated, inseparable,
like serpents unable
to shed their skin.
Narcissists —
egos rage like a tempest,
cold as carp without eyelids;
their soul pickled and embalmed
in venom, barren, ascending
pinnacles of their heart.
Manipulators —
intentions twisted;
coiled like a ram’s horn.
Tongues loiter; stammering
in absence of integrity,
trapped in the stench
of their own breath —
they consume their
prey with a side
of entitlement
while it worms
its way through
their hollow selves.

© Literary Remains