Writing

Return To Innocence

When our faith has frozen
upon roads, we’ve chosen
for every hope that’s gone
we continue to journey on
passing wrecks among graves
washed by treacherous waves
as life storms cast us down
yet still, we do not drown
determined with our might
we forever dare to fight
with courage, senses wake
for this is blessings sake.
We choose faith or doubt —
what’s to believe without?
Fear won’t rise or quicken
no matter how we’re stricken
the past may leave its trace
despite moments, we chase
the four winds of our world
ever remaining uncurled
live in wonder, like a child
in our sum of years compiled.

© Literary Remains

Writing

Tour en l’air

Dancing at dusk
a trance upon the clouds
I stand and gaze at what can be seen
from those heights contained within
the boundaries of heaven
as they blur the earth
and blot the sky
the starling ways are free
as are the wandering clouds
that float gently by.
They have kept the freedom
that Nature gave them
sundown splendid
and serene
oblivious
to the observer
as they freckle the sky
like flurries of snow —
ribbons of movement
through morphing nebulas
wings against blue
yellow and orange too
and winding passages
nimble, circling, soaring,
swooping ever so lightly
drawing the air of heaven
in every breath.
I watch their beauty
with a peaceful eye
knowing that their
souls are free
as they silently
flutter their sable wings
wavering here and there
wordless and wondrous
through tranquil air.

© Literary Remains

 

Writing

The Vikings

Lured by greed for silver and gold,
they journeyed far, like Sagas told,
against bitter winds and salt of sea,
that rocked their longship endlessly.
With flaxen hair and bearded chin,
blue eyes soaked new horizons in,
they walked on soil of foreign land,
to claim the prize, at their demand.
With battle axe and bloody sword,
each took their share of Viking hoard,
war of Northmen and Kingdom throes,
with both sides losing, this story goes.
Voyaging home, a gale storm sprung,
capsized their boat, iced water stung.
The Vikings sleep, ‘neath sea and sand,
their swords forever, clutched in hand.

© Literary Remains

Writing

Stonehenge

Beyond the moonglow, there a star
floats on a fold of space afar
between those open arms of stone
embraced pagan, druid, and crone
from north, south, east, and west
seasons change on solstice crest
this is the chalice of the night
and the cradle of sunrise light
still eclipsed in yesterdays
mark the passing of ancient ways
above, center, and below remains
great mysteries upon these plains.

© Literary Remains

Writing

Nirvana

There are no boundaries
in this cosmic kaleidoscope —
only limitless expression
to be experienced
on every level
and through all realms
of space and time.

Emptied of distractions —
to rely on inner focus,
instead of eyes
to listen with heart,
instead of ears.

Here, we release the past
to move forward
unlike life; a
journey of pleasure and pain.

This place is… just is.

We are the masters of our journey
to complete synchronicity
where no other
may navigate on our behalf.

Here, we reclaim and become sum…

having nothing —
yet having everything.

© Literary Remains

Writing

From Where I Stand

For all the love I’ve chased —
a collection of small tragedies
blinding me, as love will do;
and all the life I’ve lived,
some was a waste
made in haste —
and the sun never waited
for my good senses to rise,
much to my surprise.
And so, lessons learned —
a shoelace snap back to reality.
There’s been so many times,
when the brightest thing
in this room was the lightbulb
that glows a Van Gogh yellow —
and my temples
would often scream
like dog bark echoes
in an alley;
obsidian shadows
climbing the wall,
with sleep a step
or two behind —
as though it limps like one
with an ingrown toenail.
Standing at the window now,
as it mocks my reflection —
here, a moth on the sill…
dead on arrival, belly up
with snow angel powder wings,
so beautifully still;
this cold coffee, I drink
with a wax museum stare.

From where I stand,
I think.

© Literary Remains

Writing

Ghost Of Avalon

Tremulous sound under hooves of beast
the equine ghost, now finally released
his freedom found, after war of kings
in battlefields of crimson red scenes
he gallops and pierces past misty veil
on greater quest, since the Holy Grail
unbridled and swift, his nostrils flare
with withers, and back, saddleless bare
he visits the resting place of his Lord
a Knight laying silent next to his sword
his Master killed, by soldier from Rome
is left alone now, to find his way home
this Ghost of Avalon, shall never cease
after long battles, a well-earned peace
home, the greatest, treasure now sought
a return to green pastures, his Camelot.

© Literary Remains

Writing

The Journey Through Hell

When the Renaissance was being born, and the Dark Ages were giving way to a new era, society was becoming more cultured with music, and the arts and scholars were founding schools and universities to further the study of science and philosophy. It was during this time in the year 1265, Dante Alighieri was born in Florence Italy. He began writing the Divine Comedy in 1308 and completed it a year before his death in 1321. While the Divine Comedy is perhaps one of the greatest works of poetry in history, for me, it’s written with astonishing imagination and passion and poetic genius with his deep perceptions of the human existence. No matter how many times you read it, it will speak to you wherever you are in life’s journey, and changes as you change. Continue reading “The Journey Through Hell”