Gather up the fragrant scents And catalogue the vapors, Searching for the vagrant sense That animates the papers. Sift the grains of vision's gift; The panorama's open Hands invite but do not lift The anchored spirit's coping. Offer to the beating rays The tenderness of bodies, And the frigid winter days The hardness of a sought ease. For a smile give in return The precious eyes of wanting; For a prospect to discern, An inanition haunting. To the music listen not, Or maybe listen too well; Open ears but chastened thought That only knows to rue hell. Drowning in the blaring drone That powerlessness broadcasts To the constant fears intoned With interlacing bombast. What is it you wish to change? Perceptions of a viewer That you feel is out of range Have made you toss the ewer. What you pour out from your soul Sounds off beside the calling Falls which, outside your control, Inspire instead your walling. Jaded by the fruitlessness, The outside world's omission; Every contact's shootlessness Ungrafting manumission. Feeling only ignorance Is what you may achieve, You abandon present tense And make as if to leave.
Author: Nick
Who defines the weariness
Who defines the weariness That weighs upon the spirit? Which of vicious fears insist That nobody will hear it? Where exists the tyrant's keep Where sorrow gluts its penchant? Who can penetrate so deep, And who will strike in vengeance? What within me cried for you? What permeable passage Gaped my heart to slide you through Where nothing else could manage? Where in you may I explore, And what could I make happen? How can I help you endure All aspiration's absence? Who can tell the dreaded day, And who foresees its malice? Who forestalls its wrathful way From deep depression's palace? On that day who will defend The soul against its peril? What external could contend To make the sickness sterile? Looking from the outside in, What cry could make an entrance? When you paint your doubt as sin, You leave slim hope for penance. Who can pierce the solitude Of self or lift the mask to Kiss the truest soul imbued; If not me, who, I ask, who?
Storm again these pelting rains
Storm again these pelting rains That blitz upon the surface Of the pond, our sheltered games, And all the corporal purchase. Remember, you had wanted Rains to drown the world without, To deafen what had haunted You in yawning lifelong doubt. None appeared so you had joked And couldn't see the reason For the image uninvoked, But now it's come to season. Some loves survive on rations, Thriving through the budding form; Some like the weather's passion, Fleeting as the sudden storm.
Eventide the woodland shook
Eventide the woodland shook. Lain beside the bloody lake Cultivated dolor's bleak, Ultimate of tolls to take. An explosion pierces night, Bending oceans generate The pervading violent shot Permeating silent state. Spent in fear and lonely loss, Twenty years in one day pass; Lips', the pistol's spurning hiss Rips through gristle, burning brass. Venom spat down in his ear Sent him rattled; blackened stars Leering down. He won't endure. Searing round in seething scars. Everything like ichor flows, Severing the grim disease Slain along with he who dies, Lain among the tender trees. Vicious lusts made him their slave, And pernicious whims that leave Deadly wonder grieving love, Sundered on this evil eve.
Diptych
Mirror of the Summer pond Reflecting all the living, Coupling calls which some respond And some continue giving. Stiller now than Summer's day When warmth becomes much dearer, Calls still echo on their way About the Winter mirror.
Roundelay for Tyler
A friend from yesteryear was here, A figure from an erstwhile dream. Companion of the times of sere Bereavement, how is it you seem To be with us despite the years, The many years, of death supreme? Companion of the times of sere Bereavement, how is it you seem In arm's reach or behind my ear? A whispery remembrance teems, To be with us despite the years, The many years, of death supreme. In arm's reach or behind my ear A whispery remembrance teems, And voices from the past I hear. Suspended loss; the eyes still beam To be with us despite the years, The many years, of death supreme. The voices from the past I hear. Suspended loss; the eyes still beam From out the photograph so clear. Sometimes I fear I hear him scream To be with us despite the years, The many years, of death supreme.
Spontaneous Combustion
Spontaneous combustion– One day existing lamely, The next in some construction Macabre explode insanely. A normal life unravels, The sudden moment's mortal Ignition casts the gavel With flaming rage immoral. A ticking bomb awaiting Beneath the surface, flicking Abruptly, detonating So many lives–a sick thing. The symptoms go unnoticed. The temperatures are seldom Surprising say the closest In contact with these venoms. Demise is now endemic, The cases ever rising, Society's aesthetic Is terror-yet-arriving. No questions, no prevention, No scrutiny, discussion, Just ever unrelenting Spontaneous combustion.
My lover the sculptor in weary creation
My lover the sculptor in weary creation, Abstracting the postures of stones and their stations, Designing oft bodies unsuited in nature, Chimeric constructions in future danger That hearken toward an internal cessation. He toils in his labors of ceaseless duration Dismayed and unnoticed, without a relation Or patron whose willing to bargain his wager; His vision remaining opaque in persuasion. More monsters metallic that mime the purgation Of every ideal he aspired to, mutation In nightmares of decades that twisted the picture With nothing to focus on but his denatured, Lamented career of peregrination, His vision remaining opaque in persuasion.
What if actions rise up swaying
What if actions rise up swaying And, unsure, outreach without base, With conceit so hungry, baying For the bloody chance to give chase On acclaim? The footprints one's paced On the sand eroding mutely Needn't overwrite sublime grace Resting soft beneath the fruit tree. They continue unallaying, As when children by a footrace Start spontaneously playing For their tiny glory. Come waste Or success we keep the same taste: Fame, and to be noticed truly For our strife, to find our own face Resting soft beneath the fruit tree. Growing from the sands, surveying, Some within, without; a sad case: Fears of stasis and of staying Hands and minds unlearned, a far place Distant from community's brace; Knowing ever so acutely That we seek mirages not space Resting soft beneath the fruit tree. When they wither will a dumb trace Still persisting resolutely Maybe find another someplace Resting soft beneath the fruit tree?
Two Roundels
His sword Joyeuse, the battle cry His noble French crusaders used. Their enemies in ruin lie Beneath great Charlemagne's Joyeuse. Through shirts of mail and flesh it hews Its fiercely killing exercise; Through muscle, bone, and sinews too. His cavaliers to battle hie, And those who see it are enthused; They look toward their native sky And cry for victory Joyeuse! Sir Roland brave and good Olivier, For God and kingdom everything they gave. They never once did hide or shy away, Not any Peer and not Sir Roland brave. Before the mountain pass they made to stave Four hundred thousand off, or make them pay; Although they each were killed the host was saved. And in the shadow of great Roncevaux lay The foothills where there is a Frankish grave. And there the shadows of high valor play, The recollections of Sir Roland brave.
A place for my poems 