Stone cold bedfellow.

On retiring to bedtime

The clock struck ten

And my bedfellow turned to stone

Right by my side,

No turn, no voice and fled of all affection

The clock struck twelve

And the stone grew colder

Froze my fingers on every touch

And skin once warm and soft

Was as hard as it was smooth.

The clock struck on

The longer the colder

So I turned to my mud wall,

And swept it away with bitter tears

In all hopes when sun rises

Would streak its beams through

And scorch my bedfellow back to life.

The clock struck countless hours after

And still wide awake as ever

the morning birds went on

and I sent them murmuring whispers

”O you feathery creatures

Soothe my desire,

And tell my beloved of my longing.”

 

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A boy’s dog.

When the dog limbed and whined,

The boy wept and cursed,

At the vile fiend that hit his dog.

When the dog ailed and died,

His little heart broke,

But his eyes shed no tear,

He’d suffer no more.

A requiem mass of two.

One above the ground,

And the other laid down deep,

Beyond the world’s reach.

And when the storm brewed,

A single nailed cross

Loosened on the evening wind,

And swirled like a windmill.

And the rain poured.

Flattened the mound,

And healed the wound.

 

My twisted muse.

I am bewildered artist

An advocate and scribe of mystery

For this muse of mine

She is twisted and bent

Around my pen like ivy she climbs

Spilling my ink and plucking my quill

At the slightest sound of music

She taps, whistles and nods

Dances around me bare feet

And am dazed and confused

 

She sparks embers of flames

And I am a wood of kindling

She is a cool flow of spring

And I a traveler between life and death

She freezes and thaws my heart

A thousand times in a second

She is a fire cracker

And I a tamer of fire.

 

To the thickest of forests am led

And loudest of laughers to join

Being a captive of this free spirit

Causes my poor heart to wander

Into this self-indulgent misery

That gives me a taste of the divine.

 

Remember me as I was.

I am leaving you the torch,

Don’t let it off like I did.

I am letting you out of the pouch,

Don’t keep the light hid.

 

I promised to keep the high road,

Instead from fellow men withdrew.

And now a tired old toad,

I leave you on account to start a new.

 

I gave everything to man,

But received nothing in return,

And so from this you should learn,

Give unconditionally and from hate turn.

 

This is the sound of agitation,

Saw myself become everything I despise;

Faint hearted, lost faith, lost imagination.

And now regret doesn’t suffice.

 

Thus I lived and thus I’ll die,

But the good I did was no loss,

So don’t think of the man that here lie,

But remember me as I was.

 

 

 

 

 

We Were Rich.

We were rich

The loveliest picture in my mind

Was mama in the kitchen

Of her gaped teeth smile

We were rich

The rest of the world didn’t matter

Only thoughts of food and play

Delighted on bitter herbs and smoked fish

Our bellies were warm upon mats

And our heads on folded arms

Soft till morning light

But thanks to adulthood

You are now miserable

Poor in joy and spirit

To you little things matter not

Clouded with thoughts of wealth and plenty

You thankless dissatisfied souls

Detached from what is beauty and pure

And I am appalled

At how easy you thought

It could be to bribe me

To join your wretched lot

Little letters

I am writing little letters

Of love lost or won

Of moments gone but dear

Of such memories vivid and true

Every cubic inch of paper

Every atomic drop of ink

Laden with vastness of heart

And boundless goodwill

And just like the benevolent rain

Falls on all yards alike

So shall I deliver my little letters

On every door mat

Under every bed pillow

To easen all dawns

Of a healing world