Upon Lost Belongings

Bend and gather the lose and the last
Of my belongings, as they shall,
Pass amid those rising masts
Those drift them afar and swell,
By the broken wind and word,
That stood gaping against the shore,
Treading upon the sands no more.

While my belongings break their customs,
And rise high and low, like dancing sails.
For once in their raising, lay unaccustomed
By their meandering and manners pale.
Pearls and pearls -measured in stooks.
Why their say be a languished truth?
Like bartered conceptions of the youth.

In the gathering the lost is lost,
Founding only in the memory, remains.
Yet I seem to carry the cost
Of the losing and it’s following claims.
They be set for a journey now.
The journey of mine, broken, ceased,
Bend to gather – belongings or peace?

Upon Wandering Thought

I have left a thought wandering,
In placid silence and reflections.
While the dust lays, timidly, gathering,
I seek pleasure among other creations,
That float and stir the peace within
And mellow with those falling debts.
Have they been those sights unseen?
Ah! The conspiring soul of mine! It lets
Them inside that tranquil place.
Unknown to all, where the ripples they,
Move farther and farther to embrace
A thought left wandering at the bay.

From Pages Of A Fool

The Narration:

A voice there remained so unsung
That it saddened to depth the day.
While marching men’s armors wrung,
He ate on a hill with wine and played.

The Marching Men:

The tapping of our feat is one,
You fool, you fool and your flute
Pray rot with your wine and bun.
It’s to our names folks sing and salute.

Our blades are fine and arrows sharp
Our strength is greater than of any beast
While with wine and bun you lark.
We shall march for an eternal feast.

We roar louder than any thunder
Come! Enmity with all its may.
With your wine and bun do wonder
Against us immortals what is your say?

The Fool:

I saw the men of song and salute.
I saw the men of eternal fest.
I saw men claiming immortality
I saw the men of souls unrest.
I saw them all lost, not won
I, therefore, play over my wine and bun.

“I have been a king.
I have been a slave.
Yet I know
Same taste of the grave.”

Upon Reasons Of No Questions And Answers

To see more than the depth of the day,
Its extended hand over the longings
So profound, yet they voice-timid and small
But brave enough to gather the length of
The morn, the noon, the even...while all
May succumb to the lost light; the brighter one;
To the light found, only enough to draw
Lines around the solid self’s, of mine and
The one's I have left long behind.

What it becomes to wear a reason
For a question untamed? What it
Becomes of reason that cannot
Conceive an answer.

A Passing Thought

Trace to me the losing words
Grasp them with a hint of pain.
Never together...never the same.
The falling be so cruel yet kind
It offers a lesson in nothingness, so
What is it to you that binds
Over the courteous fragments-low
Hung over the even sky
And the curtained mist and aimless rain.
Benevolence be so graced so rhymed
To sooth away the will of pain.
But has the dusk ever chased
Anything else but the dying sun
Or the dawn have been in play
For a chance to man to be the one.

Upon A Prince Who Is Set To Be A King.

Flaming cornet of the orange bloom,
Come my prince…have you come soon?
The winds are yet to leave May’s bosom
And the cackle of the infant blossom.
So stretch and stretch your majestic hand,
To hold the flames of the withering noon
And the times of the gray sands,
As they cover your gentlest passions,
So be not timid; be all you can stand
And you shall have your kingly lands.

Upon One Rainy Evening

The rain-she rebels again and again
Against the window glass though,
The gallantry falls all not in vain,
As a few trickle down my brow.
Careless she is; once carefree she was-
Last spring; come mid August
She claims the rattling leaves, alas!

The myriad streams carve their trails,
On the glass and off on the lea.
Not from the clouds do all they hail,
Hark! I grow too blind to see.
So I wonder ‘bout that graying stone,
Standing against the crossing brook,
To drown without a sigh or a moan.

Dear twilight of a misty shade,
Falls clamorously yet steady, so
All that stays from all that fades-
Whispers of the bent trees’ woes.
Their pride, now, wears not the grace,
Of the days of their purple bloom,
They be no greater than the thunder’s mace.

The night’s colour remains unbothered,
Unlike the changing moods of the day.
Upon the glass my imprints are cottered
To the trails slowly waning away.
Though, by the wee hours I forget my rue.
And know the night as it is-
The night is true…the night is true.