The Man Who Lost The Rose

Burning papers into ashes, what a season
How they fly high from the ground up
There is yet another fountain
Flowing over, as the night falls
Keep dreaming away
* * *
He wanders this desert wasteland
Footprints ephemeral in the settling dust
The rose is forgotten in his hands
As he falls in love with the memory of her.
Oh, she must have smelled like
The opening of heaven’s door
Even as he tried to remember, and failed.
Oh, each thorn, dripping with
Her venomous wit, must have
Stolen his breath or stilled his heart.
Each petal caressed, brushed with
A fingertip, must have been the soft of
Caterpillars feeding on leaves and of
Butterfly wings kissing the breeze.
He stops his traipsing, choosing
Instead to be lost in the labyrinth
Of memories both imagined and real.
* * *
If you hold on to that past
Don’t you lock yourself inside
Nothing has been done before
It’s the most virgin dress you could possibly wear
Mess it up
Time is up
* * *
With the setting sun, dust settles
And everything looks like the landscape:
Brown and bleak, dead and desolate.
He stirs to life grasping at fleeting dreams;
The taste of love with peculiar flavours,
A bed of memories strewn with rose petals,
The heady aroma of her nearness,
Of holding her in a lover’s embrace.
Waking, he stumbles after an ignis fatuus,
A ghostly phosphorescence fading into
Neverness to discover he is once again
Lost, as he always has been yet this time
He feels there is hope only to discover
Her absence knowing one cannot misplace love.
Even though he is lost, he finds that
He’d forgotten what it felt like
Being lonely. His steps falter
And he wonders if he can carry on…
* * *
Hold your memory for a moment, with a blind hand
Write some stories for tomorrow
From the bottle of amnesia
Find instructions, to salvation
To oblivion supreme
* * *
He wanders this desert wasteland dazed
And deprived of the drive that living
Demands. He becomes an automaton,
His mind separate from his body, His soul
The black of abyss. Her fragrance lingers
In the air, and he sees a resemblance of her
In Everything. The rising dawn reminding him
Of the blush of summer in her hues
But the sun never could match her
In glory.
He never saw beneath her veil, although
He saw the true depth of her beauty when
He spied her unguarded soul. Where else
Could true beauty reside? In the fog of
Loneliness enshrouding him, a steady
Warmth suffuses him, spreading outward
Like the dawn itself. Be it from the
Knowing that he had loved and been loved
Or that he had temporarily had something
Unpurchasable, something exclusively his,
He never could tell but it burnt the fog away.
His mind soon finds his body, his soul
Finds a light, Feet find their rhythm
And he finds himself.
* * *
Don’t be tempted to look back
It has all happened before
Someday miraculous spread
Will forgive every cowardly thing that you’ve done
That I’ve done
Dust it off
(That you’ve done
That we’ve done)
The Dø “Dust It Off”

A Donkey Rides a Dragon: A Love Story

Snake dances on the branches of an apple tree
With an eye for a fruit, red like prey’s blood
And offers it To the Three Blind Mice
As her gift for Saint Valentine’s Day!
Elephant indulges in her kinky fetish
Allowing a million ants march in formation
In the folds of her ancient skin, nipping at her wrinkles
As she Trumpets away with delight.
The Lion is not the king of the jungle
Preferring the lush Savannah grasses
Where, hidden, he stares lustily
At the rumps of gazelles and antelopes.
The Tortoise takes every step gingerly
As if in remembrance of his bone-crunching fall
From the birds’ banquet in the heavens
That broke his lovely shell
Lying prone on his serpentine form
Each scale warm like dying embers
Her hooves caressing her brilliant reflection
A donkey rides a dragon.

My Reluctance to Write

Hello Blog, and you who reads this, Hello.
I have a question for you. Yes, both of
You: Friend, Blog. What do we call Poetry?
Would you call a poem an abstract thing or…
(Apparently, I lied. I have more than
Just one question) …or would you call a poem
Concrete? Can you define Poetry with
Absolutes or do we dwell in a world
Of relatives? Do you say Poetry
Is Poetic? What does that even mean?
* * * * *
I see a boy on his knees, battered and
Bruised by men who should have protected the
Boy from battery and bruises. Kneeling,
The Boy struggles to breathe, I imagine.
He stares at one of those men, refusing
To acknowledge their values and accepting
What could possibly be the end. His end.
Somehow, the Boy becomes more than the Boy.
He swells with pride and defiance against
Wrongdoing. He becomes incorrigible.
He is the beating heart of justice held
With an iron grip in the withered fist
Of corruption and evil, still he beats.
His swollen eyes hold not a glimmer of
Hope, I wonder if he sees at all… In
Those same eyes I see a glow akin to
Both dawn and dusk, a birthing and a death.
Already, there are candles lit, in his
Name and his memory. The silence of
The night broke easier than his nose and
The only sentinels witnessing the
Shattering were the dead Street Lights standing
As blind heralds and a teeming audience
Of Dilapidated Buildings. Cop lights
Zoom off into the distance when, at last,
A body hits the floor, released, set free.
* * * *
I’ll leave you to draw your conclusions but
Tell me, does that count as poetry? Does
It seem poetic? Rouse you to feeling?
If it does not? Why then do I write or
Claim to have that divine grace that makes men
Poets? Why then should I write? Why bother?
If it does, do you feel the glory of
The moment? Do you feel as I felt when
I watched the motion picture and I thought:
Poetry! Somebody? Poetry Please!
* * * *
I was moments away from asking How
exactly do I capture your essence
In words. How do I tell them what I’ve lost.
Because lost as I am, where do I begin?
You are The Veiled Rose and I, the only
One to have had and lost you. You were dops
Of rain and I was a thirsty man. Then
You became a stream and I was scared of
Drowning. Scared of losing myself in you.
Now I am lost in my losing you. I
Am thirsty again. I have become the
Despoiler of Innocence, Corruption
Manifest. I was less than you deserved.
* * * *
I have lost my muse. She did not leave me,
I let her go. Now, the world is less bright,
The colours dull. I have been gathering
Momentum in my descent into a
World of greys. How can art survive without
Colour? How can poetry exist without
Emotions? How can I write without you?

Woman of Colour (The Bar 1.5)

In a washed out world of black and white where
People are one thing and that thing only,
Comes a woman with a million hues. A
Rainbow of rainbows. The unicorn who
Runs with horses. Never to be ridden.
Never to be fully revealed if seen
Only through a filter of your own thoughts
And emotions. She is the Blindfold of
Justice. The Arbiter between Good and
Evil. The Voice of Reason. Divider
Of Right and Wrong. Moral Compass. She holds
Your thoughts in her womb, where they hold court and
When roused she tumbles them against the walls
Of her belly, echoing to you their
Intirinsic value before her salient
Parturition. The Mother of Society.
She is Black, She is Brown and She is White.

Hectic

Written by Seashell and I.
* * *
Starry night, balmy breeze,
The wind caresses your skin
And its susurration whispers of pleasures unknown.

Let the down feathers kiss your face
As they flutter everywhere.

The bed holds your body in an embrace
And your soul finally settles in your skin.

It has been a long day .

Love Is Hardcore

I say love is something that he cannot
Afford. He said riches and gems he has
Aplenty, Diamonds to build an empty
Heart, Rubies as corpuscles and Silk to
Contain this flow of material wealth. He
Claimed this the greatest seducer of men
And women; see how readily they shed
Their clothes like onion skin. I said although
He buys their bodies, their flesh, he never
Would be rich enough to own their love with
His heart of Precious gems and Silken skin.

I say love is sweet and hardcore like the
Fruits of the date palm dipped in honey.
He said to love a woman is soft and
Hustled for by the weak and the needy
But he is none of those. He named himself
The man who kills lions barehanded and
Proceeds to lay with lionesses. His
Strength a thing of legend and his name a
Metaphor for bravery. What is love to
A man like him but a burden unneeded?
I name him a coward. He who’d rather
Desecrate, plunder, but is too weak for
Surrender and love is nothing but that.
The Greatest form of sacrifice there is.

The Last Straw

No man is an island of himself
Because no man
Admits that everybody else is the sea.
Because we can’t all be islands
Somebody must be the sea
Somebody must
Be able to hold us in her depth
And no one person is that deep.
I have unwittingly burned bridges
Thinking the fire looked inviting
Yet there was no one to share with.
Today I decided
To drown the sea in a haystack
This epitaph of my social graces
Is the last straw.