Woven

Every word they said

Each thing done

Have been the engineers

The architects

 

The geysers of emotion

Washed my skin

Sometimes in acid anger

And betrayal

 

Soft balms of love

And support

Rare at this stake

No blues here!

 

For every trace

On the trellis of life

Has me woven

Into tapestry

 

Each eggshell shard

Of knowledge stored

With the winter squirrels

Under the oak

 

At the point before mind

The nascent world

Is yet to become

And so still, it’s here

 

Each soft caress of fate

Has sculpted my clay

And fired me

In the ovens

 

Eyes without glaze

Look cosmos past

The aching mundane

To Sirius and beyond

 

And were it not

For each hand

Each finger

I would not be where

 

At this place

In this time

Now the eternal

The fleeting second of forever

Soft Trickles of Melancholy {boys don’t cry}

on the desert dusty parchment

soft trickles of melancholy

write their rivulets

 

falling onto the desk

to break the hymen of silence,

so that the world, can hear

 

the sanguine wine

leaks from out the eyes

and bloodies the bitten lips

 

and that melancholy ache

can never be quenched

under a searing, fiery sun

 

the scorpion of fate

curls back through time

to sting and sting again

 

the scorching wadis

of just, righteous mind

tell us always, it is so

 

the heart entombed

in the dungeon of mind

as yet, still stirs

 

it beats its timpani

off the score

to no preordained libretto

 

one day that concrete damn

will start to leak

and at that very first fissure

 

on the desert dusty parchment

soft trickles of melancholy

will start their rivulets, anew

 

the tear of dew

will rip out an oasis

a font, a spring

 

and desert lore will say

as the aeons pass,

“That is where love was born!”

Soft Waves of Regret

If I let one tiny wavelet

past the bastions of reasons

the ramparts of justification

‘t would set me all a shiver

 

My vigilance must be supreme

for to allow such a heady thing

might shake my core

to litter the ground with tears

 

That pregnant tumult

with its full quiver of feelings

will overwhelm the keep

and battering ram the heart’s portcullis

 

To feel its orgasmic climax

shaking, shuddering through me

must I myself forbid

for to taste such fruit….

 

My frail hidden vulnerability

stripped harsh, naked, human

all that I tend to pretend

shattered into shards of glass

 

Each feather tickles enticing

soft undulating waves of regret

surreptitious at the harbor’s edge

resist you fool, resist…

 

Must fend of that tender melancholy

till dawn’s alarm beckons me busy

I can make it through one more night

I can, I can…

all het up {I am fine}

deep in my gums

emotions teething

simmering

seething

 

those little bubbles rising in the pan

my three second egg is on to boil

I won’t let them out

I’ll burn them in oil

 

If I scrunch up my face

all paper balls in the bin

no-one will know

I am holding them in

 

I’ll cut up the soldiers

and chop off its head

soon there’ll be yoke

on each piece of bread 

 

fourteen billion years since

they last made me wince

I am hiding it well

my pretense doth convince

 

a Cathar’s release

how I yearn for a valve

a mere morsel of love

might yet prove my salve

 

the bottling plant whirrs

all ducks in a row

so much explosion

is pregnant and stirs

 

my pugilist’s jaw

clenched tighter than fists

if only I could dissolve

this reddest of mists

 

repressed am I no

most certain am I

can’t you tell from that look

here in my eye?

 

I am fine……..