Outside the Window Inside

Outside the window there is fury;

The oaks torturing at their root

While their flailing branches brush strokes across the sky

Into a miasma of grays, blacks, yellows and reds -

The wind's low murmur interrupted by thunderous drum rolls

While white flashes illuminate the fear that blinds

The virtuous and the sinful alike.

Inside the window there is all to see

And yet, the blind brute

Stumbles around groping at the why

Of his naked sense that covets the cloth threads-

He doesn't understand the audience of souls

Who are witnessing the fuse of external and internal winds

Of a mind that blinks open and close with each strike.

Crossing Paths at the Twenty Line

Crossing Paths at the Twenty Line

She held the white tea cup up close

so to treasure the warmth of the moment

as cleansing wisps of steam

gathered around her youthful face

featuring the prospects of promise

and framing passions of anticipation.

It was a cold day in November

Waiting at the twenty line

And holding on to remember.

His uncertain hands grasped at fate and froze

at winter’s turbulent call of torment

as both curses and prayers are in a scream;

his weathered face strained and lined with grace

his eyes seeing calmness

the way here; the way there; the unknown a linear equation.

It was a cold day in November

Waiting at the twenty line

And holding on to remember.

Crossing paths at the twenty line

Number nine - number nine – number nine

Blink

Blink

The blinks alerted that there is extreme

Storms abounding the surface of Uranus

The image a very puzzling dream

And this is certain to become ruinous.

The currents moved life along the rivers

The depths are a murky mirror

Mad ideas pierced the mind breaking into slivers

And equanimity certain to become less nearer.

The twinkling moments across the walls

Come and pass as the days; circles in turn

Whether thoughts are lucid appalls

As even the sane universe is in churn.

Arriving in November to Leave

The skies have long taken on a sad grayness

hence, the colours of autumn have turned to a drabness

and, the crisp air brings a chill that provokes the skin

awake to a heightened level of awareness.

One must walk the paths away and within

with more expedient steps as the candlelight flickers.

Noting that a sense of containment may forgo all past sin

one must still account for all that is and that may have been.

Whilst the bear may sleep away in the cave’s wickers

the sparrows nonetheless must work with a quicken beat

as winter’s grip will neither forgive nor forget the frail and the sicker;

stoke up the cinders and log the fireplace so to warm the cider liquor

For if, thy name is called, be it to a heaven’s seat

Or be it to an eternal torment laid upon an inferno’s bed,

One must relinquish to a sense of being; a celebration in total replete

As November’s melancholies are driven ghosts chased in retreat.

Marines

Marines are gathering in formation

uniforms as crisp as the morning air

eyes focused with absolute resolve

squared shoulders are broad to carry a country

yet,  gentle enough to hold an infant’s hand.

They march as one and stand alone

and with military snap – a salute

as the bugle calls back the souls

at the perimeters of threat

standing their diligent watch

on the line

on edge

on the ledge

because there is the 239

years of pledge:

“Semper Fi”.

Bluer Than...

Somehow, the skies seem bluer than blue

in these short long days

I am not certain how this can be true -

Wrestling with thoughts that plunge into infinite stays

then again, the horizons seem greyer than grey.

In this time of free falling

while waiting the night’s wrawling

to cease echoing in the ear’s hollows

until precious sleep slowly swallows

all reality and churns it over into a hole of insane dreams;

turning and turning while the caged bird screams

Awake all of heaven into a rage

somehow, the old acquaintance

seems to want to take a younger age -

Of a youth I can barely paint into words that make any rhyme

nor think about any longer - without losing even more time.  

Beside the Hollow

A lilting voice rhymed an augury in a message:

“This train will soon depart unto the edge

what you bring - is what will save you in this final passage”.

And thus, I left behind all that was beside

myself; the point in truth’s dredge

for even with blessing’s light I may fall over the ledge -

As time’s face faded into the darkness; vanishing

unto the hollows of the presage.