No such thing as either,
Save me from myself.
My soul is lost
Is lost on me.
My heart is gone
Into the woods,
The forest of fateful curiosity.
The scribe is dead,
All record lost
Of my past memory.
Has vanished for good.
Destroyed in their right way.
And clever cheats
Were played upon my mind.
I tried to run,
To get away.
Was cruel and sharp,
Shoving me out
Into the cold.
Alone am I,
I am not crying,
On the wrong side of my face.
A Kiss All Painted Grey
A pillow for her bleeding head;
A tissue for her crying eyes;
A love unto her broken heart;
A dream into her battered mind.
Her shattered soul lay on the floor,
The tiny pieces trembling.
The shards of heart were trouble-torn
As she lay remembering.
All thoughts are gone,
Lost in fog-mist,
All feelings of the heart were lost,
In the painful-sweet melancholy kiss.
Her dreams now sit crumbling
Like a castle torn by waves.
The last thought before her death
Was the kiss all painted grey.
They buried her in a watery tomb
Beneath the water’s waves,
As her beloved sweet bridegroom
Sees her pass away.
Away from him her coffin drifts,
Down beneath the water’s rifts,
And through his troubled mind he sifts,
Remembering the final kiss.
A kiss all painted grey.
Far away, in some far land
There is a forest, vast and grand,
And, though it seems in eternal sleep,
Many a murderous outlaw band
Sneak and crawl and hide and creep
Through the forest’s darkness deep.
Creeping flowers, crawling vines
Carpet this fine forest of mine,
And I could tell you quite a bit
Of the tall and extremely divine
Trees that stretch o’er rocks that sit
‘Neath a sky that is star-lit.
Trees are gifted naturally
With powers that do magically
Bring them to their height so tall,
And ‘twould be a tragedy
If one ever should happen to fall
Out of this great ancient hall.
An ancient hall of lords and kings,
Graced with diamonds and emerald rings,
Used to sit ‘neath this canopy,
Conducting royal feasts and things
Until all mythic monarchy
Perished of such vanity.
Back to the murderous band of red,
All outlaws, they were born and bred.
They used to hide their camps quite near,
And around these roots they buried their dead,
Both those they killed and held dear
They buried then, they buried here.
But now gone are kings and thieves
With their swords and golden sheaves,
Leaving behind the forest silent,
Except for rustling boughs and leaves,
To forget the robes of regents
And the robbers, dark and violent.
Spring is visiting here again,
Whether there be mice or men
Residing on the forest floor,
Near the glittering crooked bend
Of the stream of ancient lore
Running here from the vast grey moor.
In this Spring, while flowers bloom,
Lovers walk beneath this moon.
Slowly, walking hand in hand,
Thinking of when hopefully soon
They’ll get a little piece of land,
And there will raise a family grand.
When Spring has gone, the Summer comes
With children beating on their drums.
Marching ’round in little groups,
Bright heads shining in the sun,
Playing their little lyres and lutes,
Skipping over logs and roots.
They scramble ’round, swift and fast,
Constructing a ship, with sails and mast,
To sail away, that they may behold
In their imaginations vast
The lands and places in tales untold,
Complete with gilded toys of gold.
When the Summer has departed,
Autumn arrives through branches parted.
The children scamper off to school,
Leaving unfinished what they started,
The ship left in a moon-lit pool,
In the evening dark and cool.
In Autumn comes the visitor best,
A solitary writer on a quest
To seek and find some inspiration
To write quite constant, without rest,
Until he arrives at the destination
Of a story that captures this fascination.
He’ll walk the path that’s dark and lovely,
Sad and strange and melancholy,
Studying nature till he receives
Something of worth, not just folly,
Sent to him from these magic trees,
Or perhaps a mysterious deity.
He’ll wander aloud, sometimes talking
To nobody while he is walking.
Or perhaps he will sit,
Completely still or slowly rocking,
As he composes bit by bit
The most magical story he’s ever writ.
When the writer’s written his masterpiece,
Autumn’s loveliness will cease,
And Winter comes with drifts of snow.
The chilliness will soon increase,
And, as everybody knows,
All is quiet down below.
Now the forest has a chance
To take that quiet stillness stance,
As only I, myself, will creep
Along among the winter’s dance.
This forest is lovely, dark and deep,
While it and I fall to silent sleep.
A Song That I Remember
There was a time that’s now forgotten
When the ancient ones were young.
They toiled tirelessly in the fields
Where songs were always sung.
Years seem as days to those
With bodies young and souls of old.
They are the ones who passed down knowledge
Through the songs and stories they told.
Wisdom known beyond their years
They convey to those with none,
Every day that they have breath
And are shone on by the sun.
Ancient now are they, forgotten,
With none as their defender.
I try each day to recall
A song that I remember.
Untitled No. 8
And vagabond soul
Don’t believe all you’ve been told.
Lies and half-truths,
Cheats and tricks.
Many paths that I have crossed.
Whispered words and
Your troubled mind,
And red-rimmed eyes
See together dark and light,
Different from the day and night.
Say dark as day in small light nights,
Trying not to get in fights,
Thinking your poor beliefs are right,
Wearing masks of failed might.
©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.