Poem – Imprisoning Images

I am trying so hard to escape. Her image is

my warden, my guard, my cell, and these

cold bars within, that imprison my heart.

Sentenced to life, I shall serve my time

alone amidst an unfathomable future

without her. Forever will I be confined

and punished by the Polaroid’s of my mind –

the snapshots of her long-lost smile.
These are the images I shall never escape. 

Poem – Halloween Clerihews

The Wicked Witch of the West

is feeling very depressed.

The hag soon disappears

as she melts in all her tears.

Alcoholic Frankenstein’s

drunk again on Merlot wine.

No, his walk is not the clue, 

he staggers when he’s sober too! 

Casper the Friendly Ghost

vacationed on the coast.

He tried his best but failed to tan…

cause only the living can.

Hungry Hannibal Lechter

is a keen cuisine collector.

He’ll welcome you into his shanty –

you’ll taste good with Chianti! 

Psychotic Mr. Hyde

is Jekylls’ evil side.

The doctor drank his evil brew

and one man became two.

King Kong combated Godzilla.

The match went to the gorilla.

The reptile ain’t quite the menace

when it comes to playing tennis. 

Poem – Grandma’s Petunias

In Spring I watched my grandma toil: 

with eighty-seven year old hands 

she pertly cupped and clawed away 

the dirt, creating auburn bowls 

in which she placed petunia seeds. 

But summer weeds and pesky moles 

have claimed that emptied patch today – 

a bouquet of petunias stands 

against a stone on sacred soil. 

Poem – Dancing After Yes

Alone and lost amongst the trees, 

the young one stood and wept.

He yearned for home upon his knees, 

in fright as daylight slept.
He knelt in wait, but night remained, 

as roaring clouds rolled in.

The skies became a beast unchained, 

as rain beset his skin.
But in that dark and stormy bind, 

the young one faced his fear.

When he arose in peaceful mind, 

the skies began to clear.
With all the doubt and gloom at bay

the rays of dawn came down.

The sanguine light revealed the way –

A homeward path was found.
A timid boy no longer now, 

he strolled beyond the trees.

Singling loud, he basked in how

he felt the sun and breeze.
His home would welcome him at last –

His goal and greatest need, 

but if he ran the route too fast

he’d miss the sights to see.
So knowing now when things go wrong, 

or if he’s lost his way, 

to face the fears by staying strong – 

Became a man today. 

Poem – Became 

Alone and lost amongst the trees, 

the young one stood and wept.

He yearned for home upon his knees, 

in fright as daylight slept.
He knelt in wait, but night remained, 

as roaring clouds rolled in.

The skies became a beast unchained, 

as rain beset his skin.
But in that dark and stormy bind, 

the young one faced his fear.

When he arose in peaceful mind, 

the skies began to clear.
With all the doubt and gloom at bay

the rays of dawn came down.

The sanguine light revealed the way –

A homeward path was found.
A timid boy no longer now, 

he strolled beyond the trees.

Singling loud, he basked in how

he felt the sun and breeze.
His home would welcome him at last –

His goal and greatest need, 

but if he ran the route too fast

he’d miss the sights to see.
So knowing now when things go wrong, 

or if he’s lost his way, 

to face the fears by staying strong – 

Became a man today. 

Poem – Part I 

I. Adopting and Adapting 
I brought the handsome animal home, 

sparing him the shelter’s syringe; 

watched the old cat acclimate 

to a place that wasn’t a cage, 

his worry-glossed eyes wide, peeking 

meekly from the open carrier, 

the massive frame of him trembling, 

his nervous nose twitching, 

sniffing the well-worn gray carpet 

while creeping forward into the light – 

curiously, cautiously touring my apartment – 

exploring the rooms of new life. 

Poem – 88 Ways to Say Goodbye

These keys beneath my fingertips 

express my soul through Musics’ lips.

Emotion fuels the solemn songs I play.
With mournful chords of black and white

I grieve the loss of love tonight.

My melodies display my disarray.
You loved it when I played ‘our’ song, 

you’d sit with me and sing along

and at the end we’d always share a kiss.
But now the voice that filled this den

has lost the fight no one can win

so here I play alone and reminisce.
With every key I say goodbye; 

they represent the tears I cried

those months I sat and watched you fade away.
So here upon this bench of mine, 

I play ‘our’ song just one last time

then blow a final kiss my babys’ way. 

Poem – A Dragon and A Hero 

Note: This is a two-part acrostic poem.
Death and destruction descends like a storm – 

…creature of legend and mythical form. 

Reaping the lives of the women and men – 

…flames of the winged one scorching their skin. 

Agony, terror and hopelessness reigns – 

…children are crying with fear in their veins. 

Giant and scaly, with hell colored eyes, 

…beast of the ancient rains fire from the skies. 

Only the strongest survive the attack – 

…dreading the day that the creature comes back. 

No man or weapon has challenged the scourge. 

…hope that a hero will someday emerge. 
Hope brings a hero to vanquish a beast. 

Evil had driven its blood thirsty feast. 

Ruthless and epic – the battle campaign. 

Ode to the hero – the dragon is slain. 

Poem – Love is so Very Special 

Love is so very special

Yet can make you feel so lost

It can arrive just like the springtime

And melt away like morning frost
You must find ways to nurture

Always grow your love with care

Never ever take for granted

The love that you both share
Mistakes are bound to happen

You may hurt each other’s heart

Yet don’t give up to easily

It will tear your love apart
Love resembles a bright flame

That lights a dark starry night

Never ever let this flame burn down

Rekindle with all your might
Take a moment every day

Look deep into each other’s eyes

Never hesitate to show affection

Small gestures will keep a love alive
Talk openly about your feelings

Take time to show that you care

Treasure each and every moment

Because to find true love is rare 

Poem – Soul of the Age

‘Art’ flies, and ‘Form’ in exile mourns.

i sing to the critics (beg their awful silence and inquires to craft ‘sublime’ and fill that vacant space) 


body of poesy has changed various forms: 

And so its norms, 

i pray to the heaven: 

to inspire my words with gentle heat; 

that could turns the muses

to dance.

I (the poet) 

speak only truth

and avoid ridiculous ‘rant’

but this Art is now

‘a slower way being dead’

By poorly phrasing

such unheard rhymes

that batters and mocks

soul of the age, 

and bless nothing but rage.


Poem – A Once Proud Man Sits Silently

This withered man

 I slowly feed, 

once held the spoon for me. 

What once were strong – 

two working hands – 

now stiff and idle tools. 
The empty eyes, 

where pride once shined 

a shade to shame the sea, 

were waned of light 

a year ago – 

now flameless, shallow pools. 
I spill some soup 

upon the knee 

where bouncing kids once played. 

It’s sad to think 

the spring within – 

has no more rides to grant. 
The lifeless lips, 

where smiles once grew – 

a silent, barren glade. 

I only wish 

he’d speak to me. 

Regretfully…he can’t. 
This once great man sits silently, 

in Winters bitter glaze. 

The tables turned; our roles reversed – 

These cruel and final days. 

Poem – The Tigress

She who stands proud, strong, relentless, at obtaining her prey, 

She who is fierce, determined to have what she wants, 

She will not stop until she barricades her hidden and strong desires, 

Blood of the tiger flowing through her veins, 

She who wants it is she, who gets, 

A female warrior acting on impulse, controlled by her will power, 

How woman has a divine spirit, 

A heart, also a mind that is not consumed by stupid unnecessary provocative actions, 

She who is The Tigress, is a woman to be feared, respected, admired, you either like her or not, 

There are no exceptions, 

You are brave, The Tigress is in you. 

Poem – The Rapture Woman 

Once upon a time there was a woman who bewitched any man she pleased, 

Fiddled with his pride not caring if he’d die, 

Then one unforeseen day she fell in love with a man with an revolting facade, 

To her he was a emperor and lovely as the stars that shined, 

She cherished him like a lover and kept him always in her mind, 

They had a child and named her Chloe, 

Chloe was a gorgeous child, 

She lived up to her name, 

Her laugh was unbearably sweet, 

Looking like her mother, 

Eyes like her father, 

Her smile lit a room, 

Her giggle place love in nations, 

Invidious villagers wondered how such a child came from the seed of an appalling man, 

So they deliberated to form a plan to pilfer the woman, 

They moved hastily and broke in the house while she was sleeping, 

Hoisted her, lusting for her and wanting her to have their kids, 

Slipping the fabrication they poured into her mouth, 

Drinking them as it was the air she direly desired, 

One put his hand on her bosom, 

Her eyes drifted open to see a distort illusion, 

In her eyes, the man was her husband, 

Weeks past and she awoke like sleeping beauty, 

Knowing not where she was, 

She closed her eyes as the smell breached her nose, 

Opening them once more, 

Just a peak and nothing more, 

Her heart finally tore, 

She gazed at her plump stomach gagged at the thought, 

A child not her husband’s, 

She now knew how the men whose hearts she fractured felt, 

Shame came upon her, 

The men stared down at her, 

Her lips trembled, 

She felt alive, 

But all she could do was run, 

Run woman run for your life, 

Trembling as if the earth fell, 

A man caught her and she cried out, 

Kissing her forcefully and twisting her arm, 

Another man grabbed her legs, 

She gave in ten days later, 

Surrendering herself to them, 

Ten years later she bore six children since then, 

Escaping the men at night taking whatever help she could, 

She had to ride in places where no woman would ever want to be, 

Wanting to reunite with her family, 

She had new determination, 

Her pride had shown out, 

Once she knew where to go, 

Only one thing was on her mind, 

The place where her children and she belonged, 

Arriving home to her daughter and husband, 

She stood there with the children behind her, 

Not looking him in her eyes, 

For he knew what happened, 

She thought that he did not want her anymore, 

When her eyes did, 

He embraced her, 




She felt safe, 

Her life was back to normal… so she thought, 

A light binding her face, 

She could not hold face, 

Perilous danger was not her taste, 

A thought of disownment came to her, 

She pierced his gaze, 

That she was all she could do to keep from faltering, 

Biting her lip, 

Holding back repressed tears, 

His stroke…an angel destroying her darkness, 

The children around her started to gather, 

A circle of her story, 

He looked at her, 

Her eyes never leaving his detailed face, 

No longer could she stand, 

Crushing her between him, 

The pain of ten years came out, 

Chloe, oh how she aged, 

No longer a little girl, 

Transformed into a young lady, 

Chloe had her arms out, 

With no hesitation, 

She ran into her daughter’s arms, 

Tears as beautiful as a river, 

Chloe said no words, 

She was old enough to know what happened, 

Her husband grinned, 

She wiped tears away, 

All the children, 

Even Chloe, formed a complete circle, 

She and he was in the middle of it, 

“This is our family, Nadiaa.”

“Kayan, oh my sweet.”

The children were happy, 

Their life started anew 

Poem – Pursuits

All the folks on the pursuit of joy, 

Ride a rollercoaster across time

Finding and losing at each bend

The feel of terror in all its ecstasy

The bends, ups and downs, excite


All the folks in pursuit of love

implode in a vacuum of the self

a fight to gain emotion in another

to be spellbound in the heart’s clutter

Falling in and out of the holes of others


All the folks in pursuit of meaning

Search the corners of the their planes

To gain value in the muscles of their souls

To find something of sustenance

To bea able to brearth out life, not just in.


All the folks in pursuit of Joy

Reap the fruit from the friendships found

So that they can drink its wine in celebration

To feel the burn of life our veins

So that it may carry us through the gloom


For all the folks in pursuit of life

Panic along a rollercoaster in ecstasy

As they find and lose the emotion in our hearts, 

As meaning is found and lost in our plunder, 

So that we can drink the wine our creation. 

Poem – Like a God Like You

Like a mountain spring, 

You flow through me. 

With non-perennial waters, 

I’ll never thirst again. 
Like the sun on my back, 

Your light warms my smile. 

With rays made of gold, 

You bring worth to my day. 
Like the back of a Brumby, 

You carry me when weak. 

With trusted strides, 

We march on to victory. 
Like a knight’s armour, 

You strengthen my will. 

With polished silver, 

I will stay true. 
Like a God like You, 

You will stay with me. 

With untainted love, 

You watch over me. 
I will remain strong, 

In your arms I rest 

Poem – King of Beasts

Man has built an empire from dust today, 

a world separate from that of the beasts, 

govern by a new order, both civil and just, 

executed by mere men with precision.

Man has achieved a prestigious deed; 

He has created a kingdom to his own image.


Cultured by that what we’ve created, 

our power flourishes like locusts in the wind.

For we are the mechanics of our order, 

with facts of science and supreme logic, 

we evolve and indulge in self preservation, 

as we feast on the fruits that we bare.


No more need for outside guidance.

For we are the masters of our own world, 

We will govern our order as we see fit, 

for a God’s law are but subjective to our own.

for we’ve created a piece of heaven.

For we are almighty! Creators of Babylon.




What have we become? 

We crave blood like the beasts themselves.

Our order devours at the filth we’ve created

As we feed on our own decaying flesh in lust, 

for gain, to power, to sex, for hierarchy.

We have become the most savage beast of all.

As we gladly bathe in the blood of our neigbours. 

Poem – Jewels of a Desertscape

Like a flawless ruby of the setting sun, 

you radiate clearly across the skies, 

in an array of soft and tender tones, 

your splendour and warmth, ethereal.

Your warmth keeps my sorrow at bay.
Like a million sapphires eroding the earth, 

you flow through the plains of my heart, 

beyond the shifting dunes into my veins

with crystal waters of tranquil purity.

Your waters bring life to my barren soils.
Like the rounded pearl of the full moon

your light screens the void of the night.

with light glimmering in a silvery array

across the scapes like diamonds in the sand.

My beacon against shadows of my night
For your love is like a precious gift.

No Pearl, nor Gemstone or even Diamond

can match the serenity of your love for me. 

Poem – Grand Equation 

In a Grand Formula depicting our world

all variables, equate to zero, to nothing, 

for all our actions conjure in a vacuum, 

as the Sun burns out, so do we shower in it.

Nothing is ever gained, nothing is ever lost.
From the dust we’re molded

the pain of labor brings joy, new life

and from its passing comes sorrow

as we return to that same dust

A continuous cycle of recycled dirt.


For our Joy is equal to our sorrow

and the good of our hearts to evil of our lusts

but, such things are indefinable, immeasurable

For the decision we take on the immeasurable

creates the definable, the measurable, value.


For we all but variables in a Grand Equation

in the end, it’s not your worth that matters

for all values are opposed, nullified to zero

In the end; it’s your polarity that counts

and how you’ll be corrected from the Grand Equation. 

Poem – Feeling 

How does one write what one feels, 

how do you pour your heart around that 

steal ball in your ballpoint pen. 

Words have definitions, you can look them up and 

you’ll find their meaning, 

but how does one use such paraphernalia 

to explain that what is so imaginarily abstract? 

What is emotion, feeling? 

It’s not language; language is set, predictable and knowledgeable. 

Emotion is not. Emotion is individualistic, raw and disobedient. 

You can master a language but emotion has no syntax. 

What I feel is unique, you cannot comprehend it… 

Poem – Dearest Divinity

Vacant homes in a grey landscape

set against a purple sky with a tired sun

as rivers of red rages on with sick and sin 

this fills my portrait which I now share

Cause this world does not equate

as voidless shadows lurks it face
Day by day, sunrise to sunset

hour to hour, mere spaces in time

In search of that which I do not know

I wonder around as if blind

In streets with no names, 

I find nothing here, but cold
Dearest Divinity shine down upon me

As if I was your only true love

Surround me with your majesty

And repair my broken wings

Show me a path to walk along

Cause this world does not equate, 
Show me a world of enchantment

a place where the birds orchestrate 

with their songs of beauty and grace, 

as the wind waltz’s along carefree 

swaying in the branches of the trees

as they swirl and twirl in wondrous delight
Show me a place where angels gleam

as they commune in sweet unison, 

laughing, singing, dancing as they feast, 

show me a world of deliverance, 

where I can spread my wings and fly, 

cause this world does not equate. 

Poem – Candy 


it wasn’t that he tried to ruin your life, 

he was merely trying to make his better. 

He came into your life with a bang and you liked it, 

everything beyond him was insignificant. 

The moments he gave you were of liquid, 

drowning in everything so beautiful. 

You had finally found that magic glue 

that held all other things together, 

you were so perfectly complete. 

It was lethal, but you liked it. 
But, the day he left, 

was the day the sky turned in on it self, 

no more air to breath. 

Everything beyond him was insignificant 

The moments he gave you are of liquid, 

drowning in everything that should’ve. 

From glue to wax 

all other things now lost 

as you sit there so completely frozen. 

It is lethal, but you know this 
The tide has come and gone, 

as you lay there, stranded on the sand, 

What was, now is, 

once a rock, now sand. 

From Yellow, to Black, to Purple, to White… 

Candy, is no more. 

Poem – Black

Black vacuum in my sorrow, 

suck me in as if air, 

to fight, is futile, 

ever large, ever present.


Black clown in my paranoia, 

toys with me as if mad, 

fill my senses with electricity, 

to catch him, impossible.


Black general in my rage, 

poisons my blood with filth, 

fills my veins with kerosene, 

blinding resentment accumulates.


Black orchestra in my madness, 

fills my ears with deafening pain, 

distorts the filters through which I see, 

deeping wedge in my foundations.


Black Satan in my life, 

grounds me by his immense gravity, 

chained like a dog by the neck, 

amputate the life i’ve been given.


Chilling grip they have, 

after all it’s my light they fear. 

बुनाई का गीत  – केदारनाथ सिंह 

उठो सोये हुए धागोंउठो

उठो कि दर्जी की मशीन चलने लगी है

उठो कि धोबी पहुँच गया घाट पर

उठो कि नंगधड़ंग बच्चे

जा रहे हैं स्कूल

उठो मेरी सुबह के धागो

और मेरी शाम के धागों उठो
उठो कि ताना कहीं फँस रहा है

उठो कि भरनी में पड़ गई गाँठ

उठो कि नाव के पाल में

कुछ सूत कम पड़ रहे हैं

झाड़न में

मोजो में

टाट में

दरियों में दबे हुए धागो उठो

उठो कि कहीं कुछ गलत हो गया है

उठो कि इस दुनिया का सारा कपड़ा

फिर से बुनना होगा

उठो मेरे टूटे हुए धागो

और मेरे उलझे हुए धागो उठो

कि बुनने का समय हो रहा है

Basanta – Kedarnath Singh

और बसन्त फिर आ रहा है

शाकुन्तल का एक पन्ना

मेरी अलमारी से निकलकर

हवा में फरफरा रहा है

फरफरा रहा है कि मैं उठूँ

और आस-पास फैली हुई चीज़ों के कानों में

कह दूँ ‘ना’

एक दृढ़

और छोटी-सी ‘ना’

जो सारी आवाज़ों के विरुद्ध

मेरी छाती में सुरक्षित है
मैं उठता हूँ

दरवाज़े तक जाता हूँ

शहर को देखता हूँ

हिलाता हूँ हाथ

और ज़ोर से चिल्लाता हूँ –


मैं हैरान हूँ

मैंने कितने बरस गँवा दिये

पटरी से चलते हुए

और दुनिया से कहते हुए

हाँ हाँ हाँ… 

Poem – The Artist 

In deafening silence she examines

 the portraits of her begoned past, 

surrounding her entity with dark, 

pieces of life lost in every one. 
That what she has painted haunts 

the empty hours late at night, 

that what was sculpted in love, 

now brings forth tears of silver 
Back broken and barely breathing 

I deliver you a matt woven canvas, 

with pallets of joy and happiness 

And brushes of absolute precision 
The artist will paint again, 

It‘s engraved in their way of life, 

paint with your heart, to fix it, 

paint with your mind, to find it. 
Have faith dearest artist, have faith, 

The demons you’ve painted will forgive 

Poem – Achieve Your Dream

Achieve your dream today, 

For it will come soon, 

Work hard to it’s your chance to, 
Take your dream steadfast, 

You can be what you want to, 

It is your dreams go, 
I dare you to go for it, 

Like a flower you have to bloom, 

Why don’t you just show? 
How will you achieve this dream? 

Are you like a strong oak tree? 

Or just a sapling? 
Don’t let you dream defer like raisins, 

Have you decided yet? 

You crouch inside of my hand, 
I whisper words to you, 

The world is your hands now, 

Make it what you will. 

Poem – My Native Land

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!

Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,

As home his footsteps he hath turn’d

From wandering on a foreign strand!

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;

For him no Minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch, concentred all in self,

Living, shall forfeit fair renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung. 

Poem – Border Ballad

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order! 

March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 

All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. 

Many a banner spread,

Flutters above your head, 

Many a crest that is famous in story. 

Mount and make ready then, 

Sons of the mountain glen, 

Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. 
Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing, 

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; 

Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, 

Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 

Trumpets are sounding, 

War-steeds are bounding, 

Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order; 

England shall many a day 

Tell of the bloody fray, 

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 

Poem – Bonny Dundee

To the Lords of Convention ’twas Claver’se who spoke. 

‘Ere the King’s crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke; 

So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me, 

Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,

Come saddle your horses, and call up your men; 

Come open the West Port and let me gang free, 

And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’ 
Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, 

The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat;

But the Provost, douce man, said, ‘Just e’en let him be, 

The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee.’ 

Come fill up my cup, etc. 
As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, 

Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow; 

But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, 

Thinking luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee! 

Come fill up my cup, etc. 
With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market was crammed, 

As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged;

There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e’e, 

As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, etc. 
These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, 

And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers; 

But they shrunk to close-heads and the causeway was free, 

At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, etc. 
He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock, 

And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke; 

‘Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three, 

For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.’ 

Come fill up my cup, etc. 
The Gordon demands of him which way he goes— 

‘Where’er shall direct me the shade of Montrose!

Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, 

Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, etc. 
‘There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth, 

If there’s lords in the Lowlands, there’s chiefs in the North;

There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three, 

Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, etc. 
‘There’s brass on the target of barkened bull-hide; 

There’s steel in the scabbard that dangles beside;

The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free, 

At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, etc. 
‘Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks— 

Ere I own an usurper, I’ll couch with the fox; 

And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, 

You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!’ 

Come fill up my cup, etc. 
He waved his proud hand, the trumpets were blown, 

The kettle-drums clashed and the horsemen rode on, 

Till on Ravelston’s cliffs and on Clermiston’s lee 

Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, 

Come saddle the horses, and call up the men, 

Come open your gates, and let me gae free, 

For it’s up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee! 

Poem – Bonaparte 

From a rude isle, his ruder lineage came.

The spark, that, from a suburb hovel’s hearth 

Ascending, wraps some capital in flame,

Hath not a meaner or more sordid birth. 

And for the soul that bade him waste the earth—

The sable land-flood from some swamp obscure, 

That poisons the glad husband-field with dearth,

And by destruction bids its fame endure, 

Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and impure.
Before that Leader strode a shadowy form,

Her limbs like mist, her torch like meteor shew’d; 

With which she beckon’d him through fight and storm,

And all he crush’d that cross’d his desp’rate road, 

Nor thought, nor fear’d, nor look’d on what he trode;

Realms could not glut his pride, blood not slake,

So oft as e’er she shook her torch abroad—

It was Ambition bade his terrors wake; 

Nor deign’d she, as of yore, a milder form to take.
No longer now she spurn’d at mean revenge,

Or stay’d her hand for conquer’d freeman’s moan,

As when, the fates of aged Rome to change,

By Caesar’s side she cross’d the Rubicon;

Nor joy’d she to bestow the spoils she won,

As when the banded Powers of Greece were task’d

To war beneath the Youth of Macedon:

No seemly veil her modern minion ask’d,

He saw her hideous face, and lov’d the fiend unmask’d.
That Prelate mark’d his march—On banners blaz’d

With battles won in many a distant land.

On eagle standards and on arms he gaz’d;

‘And hop’st thou, then,’ he said, ‘thy power shall stand?

O! thou hast builded on the shifting sand,

And thou hast temper’d it with slaughter’s flood;

And know, fell scourge in the Almighty’s hand,

Gore-moisten’d trees shall perish in the bud,

And, by a bloody death, shall die the Man of Blood.’
The ruthless Leader beckon’d from his train

A wan, paternal shade, and bade him kneel,

And pale his temples with the Crown of Spain,

While trumpets rang, and Heralds cried, ‘Castile!’

Not that he lov’d him—No!—in no man’s weal,

Scarce in his own, e’er joy’d that sullen heart;

Yet round that throne he bade his warriors wheel,

That the poor puppet might perform his part,

And be a scepter’d slave, at his stern beck to start. 

Poem – Ancient Gaelic Melody

I.Birds of omen dark and foul,

Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl,

Leave the sick man to his dream – 

All night long he heard you scream.

Haste to cave and ruin’d tower,

Ivy tod, or dingled-bower,

There to wink and mop, for, hark!

In the mid air sings the lark.

Hie to moorish gills and rocks,

Prowling wolf and wily fox, – 

Hie ye fast, nor turn your view,

Though the lamb bleats to the ewe.

Couch your trains, and speed your flight,

Safety parts with parting night;

And on distant echo borne,

Comes the hunter’s early horn.

The moon’s wan crescent scarcely gleams,

Ghost-like she fades in morning beams;

Hie hence, each peevish imp and fay

That scarce the pilgrim on his way, –

Quench, kelpy! quench, in bog and fen,

Thy torch, that cheats benighted men;

Thy dance is o’er, thy reign is done,

For Benyieglo hath seen the sun.

Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, and deep,

O’erpower the passive mind in sleep,

Pass from the slumberer’s soul away,

Like night-mists from the brow of day:

Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim

Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb,

Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone!

Thou darest not face the godlike sun. 

Poem – An Hour with Thee

An hour with thee! When earliest day 

Dapples with gold the eastern gray, 

Oh, what can frame my mind to bear 

The toil and turmoil, cark and care, 

New griefs, which coming hours unfold, 

And sad remembrance of the old? 

One hour with thee.
One hour with thee! When burning June 

Waves his red flag at pitch of noon; 

What shall repay the faithful swain, 

His labor on the sultry plain; 

And, more than cave or sheltering bough, 

Cool feverish blood and throbbing brow? 

One hour with thee.
One hour with thee! When sun is set, 

Oh, what can teach me to forget 

The thankless labors of the day; 

The hopes, the wishes, flung away; 

The increasing wants, and lessening gains, 

The master’s pride, who scorns my pains? 

One hour with thee. 

Poem – A Serenade

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh 

The sun has left the lea, 

The orange-flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 

The lark, his lay who trill’d all day, 

Sits hush’d his partner nigh; 

Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, 

But where is County Guy? 
The village maid steals through the shade 

Her shepherd’s suit to hear; 

To Beauty shy, by lattice high, 

Sings high-born Cavalier. 

The star of Love, all stars above, 

Now reigns o’er earth and sky, 

And high and low the influence know— 

But where is County Guy? 

Poem – The Village Schoolmaster

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way

With blossom’d furze unprofitably gay,

There, in his noisy mansion, skill’d to rule,

The village master taught his little school;

A man severe he was, and stern to view,

I knew him well, and every truant knew;

Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace

The days disasters in his morning face;

Full well they laugh’d with counterfeited glee,

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he:

Full well the busy whisper, circling round,

Convey’d the dismal tidings when he frown’d:

Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in fault.

The village all declar’d how much he knew;

‘Twas certain he could write, and cipher too:

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

And e’en the story ran that he could gauge.

In arguing too, the parson own’d his skill,

For e’en though vanquish’d he could argue still;

While words of learned length and thund’ring sound

Amazed the gazing rustics rang’d around;

And still they gaz’d and still the wonder grew,

That one small head could carry all he knew.

But past is all his fame. The very spot

Where many a time he triumph’d is forgot. 

Poem – When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly

When lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray,

What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,

To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom, is—to die. 

Poem – Mrs Bean 

If there were only a table, 

With a glass on top, 

Nothing else in the room, 

I still would manage to drop.
On the corner of a desk, 

I just cannot miss it, 

Wandering past I come to blows, 

As my thigh takes a hit.
I take a stroll round the shops, 

Down the main high street, 

There’s a crack in the pavement, 

Taking a tumble tripping over my feet.
Clumsy I have been described, 

Knocking over a cuppa coffee, 

When rushing out the door, 

Screaming as I bang my knee.
My party piece has to be, 

Me and stairs we don’t gel, 

I need a hazard warning sign, 

As it never ends well.
From holding a tray of drinks, 

Flying into the air as I tripped, 

To landing at the bottom flight, 

Leaving my front tooth chipped.
I’m that bull in any situation, 

Knocking anything off the shelf, 

From bumping into and bruising, 

Bubble wrap required to protect myself.
I really am the female equivalent, 

Of that character you may have seen, 

On the TV and in film, 

That’s it they call me Mrs Bean. 

Poem – Monsters Ball

Each Halloween the doors of evil open to, 

Ghosts, monsters, witches, ghouls intent to fright, 

Creeping around like the werewolf, 

With fangs so sharp and bright.
Starts with knocking at the door, 

Then I hear footsteps to my right, 

Then tap tap at the window, 

Adrenaline pumping fight or flight.
I peer through the key hole staring, 

At a witch in the porch light, 

Broomstick in hand and cackling aloud, 

I decide to hide try as I might.

I see a spirit dancing in the shadows, 

In search of a new host this night, 

My mind is racing and cannot, 

Quite take in the demon in sight.
The things that go bump in the night, 

On Halloween you get to meet, 

To terrify and invade your worst nightmares, 

There is no trick, there is no treat. 

Poem – Message in a Bottle

My heart spills over onto the page, 

As I write the words I dare, 

Not say as by hearing them, 

It becomes real you’re not there.
I do not have the will, 

And do not know the way, 

To learn to live without you, 

By just existing day by day.
As I have hidden my emotions, 

The truth I’m not ready to face, 

That I had and knew true love, 

I know I can never replace.
My heart is consumed with loss, 

Of my dearest and beautiful wife, 

Who lost her battle to cancer, 

With no dignity taking her life.
As I roll the tear stained pages, 

So I can push it through, 

My message in a bottle, 

Ready to send to you.
Releasing my words into the sea, 

Til there is a time when, 

My life is spent and done, 

And I will see you again.
, , , , , , , 

Poem – The Clown’s Reply

JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers

To tell them the reason why asses had ears?

‘An’t please you,’ quoth John, ‘I’m not given to letters,

Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;

Howe’er, from this time I shall ne’er see your graces, 

As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses.’ 

Poem – The Haunch of Venison 

THANKS, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter

Never rang’d in a forest, or smok’d in a platter;

The haunch was a picture for painters to study,

The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy.

Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting 

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating;

I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view,

To be shown to my friends as a piece of ‘virtu’;

As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,

One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show: 

But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,

They’d as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.

But hold — let me pause — Don’t I hear you pronounce

This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce?

Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 

By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
But, my Lord, it’s no bounce: I protest in my turn,

It’s a truth — and your Lordship may ask Mr. Byrne.

To go on with my tale — as I gaz’d on the haunch,

I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch; 

So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undress’d,

To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik’d best.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose;

‘Twas a neck and a breast — that might rival M–r–‘s:

But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.

There’s H–d, and C–y, and H–rth, and H–ff,

I think they love venison — I know they love beef;

There’s my countryman H–gg–ns– Oh! let him alone,

For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 

But hang it — to poets who seldom can eat,

Your very good mutton’s a very good treat;

Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt,

It’s like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.

While thus I debated, in reverie centred, 

An acquaintance, a friend as he call’d himself, enter’d;

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smil’d as he look’d at the venison and me.

‘What have we got here? — Why, this is good eating!

Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting?’ 

‘Why, whose should it be?’ cried I with a flounce,

‘I get these things often;’ — but that was a bounce:

‘Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,

Are pleas’d to be kind — but I hate ostentation.’
‘If that be the case, then,’ cried he, very gay, 

‘I’m glad I have taken this house in my way.

To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me;

No words — I insist on’t — precisely at three:

We’ll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there;

My acquaintance is slight, or I’d ask my Lord Clare. 

And now that I think on’t, as I am a sinner!

We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.

What say you — a pasty? it shall, and it must,

And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.

Here, porter! — this venison with me to Mile-end; 

No stirring — I beg — my dear friend — my dear friend!

Thus snatching his hat, he brush’d off like the wind,

And the porter and eatables follow’d behind.
Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,

‘And nobody with me at sea but myself’; 

Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,

Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,

Were things that I never dislik’d in my life,

Though clogg’d with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.

So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, 

I drove to his door in my own hackney coach.
When come to the place where we all were to dine,

(A chair-lumber’d closet just twelve feet by nine

My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb,

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come; 

‘For I knew it,’ he cried, ‘both eternally fail,

The one with his speeches, and t’other with Thrale;

But no matter, I’ll warrant we’ll make up the party

With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.

The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, 

They’re both of them merry and authors like you;

The one writes the ‘Snarler’, the other the ‘Scourge’;

Some think he writes ‘Cinna’ — he own to ‘Panurge’.’

While thus he describ’d them by trade, and by name,

They enter’d and dinner was serv’d as they came. 
At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen,

At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen;

At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot;

In the middle a place where the pasty — was not.

Now, my Lord as for tripe, it’s my utter aversion, 

And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian;

So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound,

While the bacon and liver went merrily round.

But what vex’d me most was that d–‘d Scottish rogue,

With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue; 

And, ‘Madam,’ quoth he, ‘may this bit be my poison,

A prettier dinner I never set eyes on;

Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curs’d,

But I’ve eat of your tripe till I’m ready to burst.;

‘The tripe,’ quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 

‘I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week:

I like these here dinners so pretty and small;

But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all.’

‘O–Oh!’ quoth my friend, ‘he’ll come on in a trice,

He’s keeping a corner for something that’s nice: 

There’s a pasty’ — ‘A pasty!’ repeated the Jew,

‘I don’t care if I keep a corner for’t too.’

‘What the de’il, mon, a pasty!’ re-echoed the Scot,

‘Though splitting, I’ll still keep a corner for thot.’

‘We’ll all keep a corner,’ the lady cried out; 

‘We’ll all keep a corner,’ was echoed about.

While thus we resolv’d, and the pasty delay’d,

With look that quite petrified, enter’d the maid;

A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,

Wak’d Priam in drawing his curtains by night. 

But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her?

That she came with some terrible news from the baker:

And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven

Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven

Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — 

And now that I think on’t, the story may stop.

To be plain, my good Lord, it’s but labour misplac’d

To send such good verses to one of your taste;

You’ve got an odd something — a kind of discerning —

A relish — a taste — sicken’d over by learning; 

At least, it’s your temper, as very well known,

That you think very slightly of all that’s your own:

So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,

You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 

Poem – The Rover’s Adiew

weary lot is thine, fair maid,

A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,

And press the rue for wine.

A lightsome eye, a soldier’s mien,

A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green—

No more of me ye knew,

My Love!

No more of me ye knew.

‘This morn is merry June, I trow,

The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow

Ere we two meet again.’

—He turn’d his charger as he spake

Upon the river shore,

He gave the bridle-reins a shake,

Said ‘Adieu for evermore,

My Love!

And adieu for evermore.’ 

Poem – The Truth of Woman 

Woman’s faith, and woman’s trust –

Write the characters in the dust;

Stamp them on the running stream,

Print them on the moon’s pale beam,

And each evanescent letter

Shall be clearer, firmer, better,

And more permanent, I ween,

Than the thing those letters mean.
I have strain’d the spider’s thread

‘Gainst the promise of a maid;

I have weigh’d a grain of sand

‘Gainst her plight of heart and hand;

I told my true love of the token,

How her faith proved light, and her word was broken:

Again her word and truth she plight,

And I believed them again ere night. 

Poem – You Said 

You said you’ll never make me cry

Then  why do I have tears in my eyes

You said you’ll never hurt me

Then why am I in pain

You said that you’ll never let me go

Then why do I feel like I’m falling

You said that you’ll always be there 

Then why aren’t you here

You said you didn’t need anything else

Then why do you keep wishing for more

You said you’ll love me forever

Then why is your heart not with me 

Poem – My Love

It’s hard being so far from you

But my love for you will always stay true

My heart will be with you till the end

And I’ll be your truest friend

I wish we’ll be together forever

Will I stop loving you? I’ll never

You say you’ll always love me

Then I wonder if we were meant to be

I wonder if this is a sign

That you’ll forever be mine

I hope you won’t ever hurt me in the inside

Because if u do, I’ll feel like all you did was lie

I wish we weren’t so far apart

But you’ll always be here in my heart

Sometimes I feel I’m so crazy to love someone on the other side of the world

But I’m hanging on to your every word

I’ll do anything for you

Because…I LOVE YOU! 

Poem – What If 

What if we never  met 

Would  you have found someone like me

What if you didn’t say those three words

would we have lasted this long

What if all of a sudden, I was gone

would you erase me from your life

What if you walked away after our first break-up

would you be living a better life now

What if you decided to stop loving me

would you ever have regretted it 

Poem – I Love You So Much 

I love you so much……

to travel around the whole world non-stop. I’ll walk forever all over the planet if that is what I had to do to find you…
I love you so much…

…to lie in the darkest corner of the world. I’ll sit blinded in the dark, cold and shivering on the bare earth if that’s where you wanted me to wait for you…
I love you so much…

…to fight an entire army by myself. I’ll stand before thousands of fierce warriors and battle each one with a single sword if that’s what I needed to fight for you…
I love you so much…

….to give up my life for you. I’ll leave my body lifeless on this earth to free my soul if the world had to choose between us who had to go… 

Poem – Hard for Me 

I wish I could say ‘I Love You’ without any doubt

I want all the problems inside of me to just come out

But it seems they’re held in my heart, so deep inside

And with all that hurting, it makes it hard to hide

How did this crazy life came to be? 

I wonder how all of this could happen to me

I’m tired of secretly crying every night

I know that I can’t change the past and make it alright

I want to believe those sweet words you say

But they always seem to just come and fade

Feeling like I’m drowning underwater, I’m almost out of breath

Struggling to swim to the surface, I feel I’m getting closer to my death

I’m sorry if you’re hurting inside too

But sometimes I can’t really say ‘I Love You’ 

Poem – The  Trial 

During his great speech the prosecutor 

kept piercing me with his yellow index finger 

I’m afraid I didn’t appear self-assured 

unintentionally I put on a mask of fear and depravity 

like a rat caught in a trap an informer a fratricide 

the reporters were dancing a war dance 

slowly I burned at a stake of magnesia 
all of this took place in a small stifling room 

the floor creaked plaster fell from the ceiling 

I counted knots in the boards holes in the wall faces 

the faces were alike almost identical 

policemen the tribunal witnesses the audience 

they belonged to the party of those without any pity 

and even my defender smiling pleasantly 

was an honorary member of the firing squad 
in the first row sat an old fat woman 

dressed up as my mother with a theatrical gesture she raised 

a handkerchief to her dirty eyes but didn’t cry 

it must have lasted a long time I don’t know even how long 

the red blood of the sunset was rising in the gowns of the judges 
the real trial went on in my cells 

they certainly knew the verdict earlier 

after a short rebellion they capitulated and started to die one after the other 

I looked in amazement at my wax fingers 
I didn’t speak the last word and yet 

for so many years I was composing the final speech 

to God to the court of the world to the conscience 

to the dead rather than the living 

roused to my feet by the guards 

I managed only to blink and then 

the room burst out in healthy laughter 

my atoptive mother laughed also 

the gavel banged and this really was the end 
but what happened after that – death by a noose 

or perhaps a punishment generously chained to a dungeon 

I’m afraid there is a third dark solution 

beyond the limits of time the senses and reason 
therefore when I wake I don’t open my eyes 

I clench my fingers don’t lift my head 

breathe lightly because truly I don’t know 

how many minutes of air I still have left 

Poem – The Tongue

Inadvertently I passed the border of her teeth and swallowed

her agile tongue. It lives inside me now, like a Japanese fish. It

brushes against my heart and my diaphragm as if against the walls

of an aquarium. It stirs silt from the bottom.

She whom I deprived of a voice stares at me with big eyes

and waits for a word.

Yet I do not know which tongue to use when speaking to

her – the stolen one or the one which melts in my mouth from an

excess of heavy goodness. 

Poem – The Rain 

When my older brother 

came back from war 

he had on his forehead a little silver star 

and under the star 

an abyss 

a splinter of shrapnel 

hit him at Verdun 

or perhaps at Grünwald 

(he’d forgotten the details) 

he used to talk much 

in many languages 

but he liked most of all 

the language of history 

until losing breath 

he commanded his dead pals to run 

Roland Kowaski Hannibal 

he shouted 

that this was the last crusade 

that Carthage soon would fall 

and then sobbing confessed 

that Napoleon did not like him 

we looked at him 

getting paler and paler 

abandoned by his senses 

he turned slowly into a monument 

into musical shells of ears 

entered a stone forest 

and the skin of his face 

was secured 

with the blind dry 

buttons of eyes 

nothing was left him 

but touch 

what stories 

he told with his hands 

in the right he had romances 

in the left soldier’s memories 

they took my brother 

and carried him out of town 

he returns every fall 

slim and very quiet 

he does not want to come in 

he knocks at the window for me 

we walk together in the streets 

and he recites to me 

improbable tales 

touching my face 

with blind fingers of rain 

Poem – The Power of Taste

It didn’t require great character at all

Our refusal disagreement and resistance

we had a shred of necessary courage

but fundamentally it was a matter of taste

Yes taste

in which there are fibers of soul the cartilage of


Who knows if we had been better and more

attractively tempted

sent rose-skinned women thin as a wafer

or fantastic creatures from the paintings of

Hieronymus Bosch

but what kind of hell was there at this time

a wet pit the murderers’ alley the barrack

called a palace of justice

a home-brewed Mephisto in a Lenin jacket

sent Aurora’s grandchildren on into the field

boys with potato faces

very ugly girls with red hands


So æsthetics can be helpful in life

one should not neglect the study of beauty

Before we declare our consent we must carefully


the shape of the architecture the rhythm of the drums
official colors the despicable ritual of funerals

Our eyes and refused obedience

the princes of our senses proudly chose exile 

Poem – Look at Me

I want him to notice me

To realize the things I can be

Sometimes I feel like he’s always wanting to look the other way

I just don’t know what to say

We’re together, yet I feel as if we are apart

I wish we were good friends from the start

Maybe if he had to choose between me and a game

I’ll just be the one left in pain

I wish he’ll look at me

look in my eyes and see the hurt I’m going through

See that I need him

Open his eyes and realize that all I want to do is be with him

We’re not together every second of every minute of every hour

I only want him to make the best of the moments we have together 

Poem – Architecture 

Over a delicate arch–

an eyebrow of stone–

on the unruffled forehead

of a wall

in joyful and open windows

where there are faces instead of geranium

where rigorous rectangles

border a dreaming perspective

where a stream awakened by an ornament

flows on a quiet field of surfaces
movement meets stillness a line meets a shout

trembling uncertainty simple clarity
you are there


art of fantasy and stone
there you reside beauty

over an arch

light as a sigh
on a wall

pale from altitude
and a window

tearful with a pane of glass
a fugitive from apparent forms

I proclaim your motionless dance 

Poem – Daedalus And Icarus

Daedalus says:
Go on sonny but remember that you are walking and not flying

the wings are just an ornament and you are stepping on a meadow

that warm gust is just the humid earth of summer

and that cold one is a brook

the sky is full of leaves and small animals
Icarus says:
The eyes like two stones return straight to earth

and see a farmer who knocks asunder oily till

a grub which wiggles in a furrow

bad grub which cuts the bond of a plant with the earth
Daedalus says:
Sonny this is not true The Cosmos is merely light

and earth is a bowl of shadows Look as here colors play

dust rises from above the sea smoke rises to the sky

of noblest atoms a rainbow sets itself now
Icarus says:
Arms hurt father from this beating at vacuum

legs are getting numb and miss thorns and sharp stones

I cannot keep looking at the sun as you do father

I sunken whole in the dark rays of the earth
Description of the catastrophe:
Now Icarus falls down head first

the last frame of him is a glimpse of a heal childlike small

being swallowed by the devouring sea

Up above the father cries out the name

which no longer belongs to a neck or a head

but only to a remembrance
He was so young did not understand that wings are just a metaphor

a bit of wax and feathers and a contempt for the laws of gravitation

I cannot hold a body at an elevation of a great many feet

The essence of the matter is in having our hearts

which are coursed by heavy blood

fill with air

and this very thing Icarus did not want to accept
let us pray 

Poem – Elegy of Fortinbras

To C. M.
Now that we’re alone we can talk prince man to man

though you lie on the stairs and see more than a dead ant

nothing but black sun with broken rays

I could never think of your hands without smiling

and now that they lie on the stone like fallen nests

they are as defenceless as before The end is exactly this

The hands lie apart The sword lies apart The head apart

and the knight’s feet in soft slippers
You will have a soldier’s funeral without having been a soldier

they only ritual I am acquainted with a little

There will be no candles no singing only cannon-fuses and bursts

crepe dragged on the pavement helmets boots artillery horses drums

drums I know nothing exquisite

those will be my manoeuvres before I start to rule

one has to take the city by the neck and shake it a bit
Anyhow you had to perish Hamlet you were not for life

you believed in crystal notions not in human clay

always twitching as if asleep you hunted chimeras

wolfishly you crunched the air only to vomit

you knew no human thing you did not know even how to breathe
Now you have peace Hamlet you accomplished what you had to

and you have peace The rest is not silence but belongs to me

you chose the easier part an elegant thrust

but what is heroic death compared with eternal watching

with a cold apple in one’s hand on a narrow chair

with a view on the ant-ill and clock’ dial
Adieu prince I have tasks a sewer project

and a decree on prostitutes and beggars

I must also elaborate a better system of prisons

since as you justly said Denmark is a prison

I go to my affairs This night is born

a star named Hamlet We shall never meet

what I shall leave will not be worth a tragedy
It is not for us to greet each other or bid farewell we live on archipelagos

and that water these words what can they do what can they do prince 

Poem – Episode 

We walk by the sea-shore 

holding firmly in our hands 

the two ends of an antique dialogue 

—do you love me? 

—I love you 

with furrowed eyebrows 

I summarize all wisdom 

of the two testaments 

astrologers prophets 

philosophers of the gardens 

and cloistered philosophers 

and it sounds about like this: 

—don’t cry 

—be brave 

—look how everybody 

you pout your lips and say 

—you should be a clergyman 

and fed up you walk off 

nobody loves moralists 

what should I say on the shore of 

a small dead sea 

slowly the water fills 

the shapes of feet which have vanished 

Poem – Loving You

I don’t care what people say

They keep telling me that I’m just wasting my time

Voices wanting me to break it off

Convincing me to save myself from the hurt

The hurt they think you’re going to put me through

I’m crying inside, breaking down

Because those voices are those of my friends

I can’t let go of you though

Somewhere in my heart

There’s something that doesn’t want to leave you

I’ll let a million tears stream down my face

Before I’ll let myself be forced to calm down

I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing

But I’ll take the risk and go with my heart

Maybe I’m not supposed to, but I can’t help loving you 

Poem – Lost & Confused

I’m so lost right now

So lost in a world that’s so unknown to me

I’m falling from the skies

and don’t know whether to fight for survival or to just keep falling

Seeing darkness ahead I stand in wonder

to move through the shadows or turn back towards the light

I can’t think straight anymore

and I can’t hear what my heart is saying

I try so hard to find my way

But it’s hard when there’s a storm in your path

I can’t sleep because there’s always this dark figure 

laying besides me, 

laughing at my pains

Standing in the pouring rain

I cry till I’m left standing in an ocean of my tears

As I lay on the bare ground

I wish and wait for someone to come find me and help me…

Save me from this dreadful place 

Poem – Three Poems By Heart

I can’t find the title

of a memory about you

with a hand torn from darkness

I step on fragments of faces
soft friendly profiles

frozen into a hard contour
circling above my head

empty as a forehead of air

a man’s silhouette of black paper

living- -against

I reproach myself for the sin of forgetfulness
you left an embrace like a superfluous sweater

a look like a question
our hands won’t transmit the shape of your hands

we squander them touching ordinary things
calm as a mirror

not mildewed with breath

the eyes will send back the question
every day I renew my sight

every day my touch grows

tickled by the proximity of so many things
life bubbles over like blood

Shadows gently melt

let us not allow the dead to be killed–
perhaps a cloud will transmit remembrance–

a worn profile of Roman coins
the women on our street

were plain and good

they patiently carried from the markets

bouquets of nourishing vegetables
the children on our street

scourge of cats
the pigeons–
softly gray
a Poet’s statue was in the park

children would roll their hoops

and colorful shouts

birds sat on the Poet’s hand

read his silence
on summer evenings wives

waited patiently for lips

smelling of familiar tobacco
women could not answer

their children: will he return

when the city was setting

they put the fire out with hands

pressing their eyes
the children on our street

had a difficult death

pigeons fell lightly

like shot down air
now the lips of the Poet

form an empty horizon

birds children and wives cannot live

in the city’s funereal shells

in cold eiderdowns of ashes
the city stands over water

smooth as the memory of a mirror

it reflects in the water from the bottom
and flies to a high star

where a distant fire is burning

like a page of the Iliad 

Poem – To My Bones

In my sleep it rips throughmy meagre skin

throws off the red bandage of the flesh

and goes strolling through the room

my monument a little incomplete
one can be prodigal

with tears and blood

what will endure here the longest

must be thoughtfully provided for
better (than with a priest’s dry finger

to the rains which drip from a cloud of sand)

to give one’s monument to the academey
they will prop it up in a glass display case

and in Latin they will pray before

the little altar made from an os frontalis
they will reckon the bones and surfaces

they will not forget not overlook
happily I will give my color of eyes

pattern of nails and curve of eyelids

I the perfectly objective

made from white crystals of anatomy

Poem – Why The Classics


In  the fourth book of the Peloponnesian War

Thucydides tells among other things

the story of his unsuccessful expedition

among long speeches of chiefs

battles sieges plague

dense net of intrigues of diplomatic endeavours

the episode is like a pin

in a forest

the Greek colony Amphipolis

fell into the hands of Brasidos

because Thucydides was late with relief

for this he paid his native city

with lifelong exile

exiles of all times

know what price that is


generals of the most recent wars

if a similar affair happens to them

whine on their knees before posterity

praise their heroism and innocence

they accuse their subordinates

envious colleagues

unfavourable winds

Thucydides says only

that he had seven ships

it was winter

and he sailed quickly


if art for its subject

will have a broken jar

a small broken soul

with a great self-pity

what will remain after us

will it be lovers’ weeping

in a small dirty hotel

when wall-paper dawns 

Poem – What Our Dead Do

Jan came this morning—

I dreamt of my father

he says
he was riding in an oak coffin

I walked next to the hearse

and father turned to me:
you dressed me nicely

and the funeral is very beautiful

at this time of year so many flowers

it must have cost a lot
don’t worry about it father

—I say—let people see

we loved you

that we spared nothing
six men in black livery

walk nicely at our sides
father thought for a while

and said—the key to the desk

is in the silver inkwell

there is still some money

in the second drawer on the left
with this money—I say—

we will buy you a gravestone

a large one of black marble
it isn’t necessary—says father—

better give it to the poor
six men in black livery

walk nicely at our sides

they carry burning lanterns
again he seemed to be thinking

—take care of the flowers in the garden

cover them for the winter

I don’t want them to be wasted
you are the oldest—he says—

from a little felt bag behind the painting

take out the cuff links with real pearls

let them bring you luck

my mother gave them to me

when I finished high school

then he didn’t say anything

he must have entered a deeper sleep
this is how our dead

look after us

they warn us through dreams

bring back lost money

hunt for jobs

whisper the numbers of lottery tickets

or when they can’t do this

knock with their fingers on the windows
and out of gratitude

we imagine immortality for them

snug as the burrow of a mouse 

Poem – The  Fortune Teller 

Down in the valley come meet me to-night, 

And I’ll tell you your fortune truly 

As ever ’twas told, by the new-moon’s light, 

To a young maiden, shining as newly. 
But, for the world, let no one be nigh, 

Lest haply the stars should deceive me, 

Such secrets between you and me and the sky 

Should never go farther, believe me. 
If at that hour the heavens be not dim, 

My science shall call up before you 

A male apparition — the image of him 

Whose destiny ’tis to adore you. 
And if to that phantom you’ll be kind, 

So fondly around you he’ll hover, 

You’ll hardly, my dear, any difference find 

‘Twixt him and a true living lover. 
Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, 

He’ll kneel, with a warmth of devotion — 

An ardour, of which such an innocent sprite 

You’d scarcely believe had a notion. 
What other thoughts and events may arise, 

As in destiny’s book I’ve not seen them, 

Must only be left to the stars and your eyes 

To settle, ere morning, between them. 

Poem – The Dream of those Days

The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o’er 

Thy triumph hath stain’d the charm thy sorrows then wore; 

And even the light which Hope once shed o’er thy chains, 

Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains. 
Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, 

That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art; 

And Freedom’s sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn’d, 

Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn’d? 
Up Liberty’s steep by Truth and Eloquence led, 

With eyes on her temple fix’d, how proud was thy tread! 

Ah, better thou ne’er hadst lived that summit to gain, 

Denied in the porch, than thus dishonour the fane. 

Poem – The Donkey and His Panniers

A Donkey, whose talent for burdens was wondrous,

So much that you’d swear he rejoic’d in a load,

One day had to jog under panniers so pond’rous,

That — down the poor Donkey fell smack on the road!
His owners and drivers stood round in amaze —

What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy,

So easy to drive, through the dirtiest ways,

For every description of job-work so ready!
One driver (whom Ned might have “hail’d” as a “brother”)

Had just been proclaiming his Donkey’s renown

For vigour, for spirit, for one thing or another —

When, lo, ‘mid his praises, the Donkey came down!
But, how to upraise him? – one shouts, t’other whistles,

While Jenky, the Conjurer, wisest of all,

Declar’d that an “over-production of thistles” —

(Here Ned gave a stare) — “was the cause of his fall.”
Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes —

“There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease;

The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses,

And this is his mode of “transition to peace”.”
Some look’d at his hoofs, and with learned grimaces,

Pronounc’d that too long without shoes he had gone —

“Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis

(The wise-acres said), and he’s sure to jog on.”
Meanwhile, the poor Neddy, in torture and fear,

Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan;

And — what was still dolefuller – lending an ear

To advisers, whose ears were a match for his own.
At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far

As to see others’ folly, roar’d out, as he pass’d —

“Quick — off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,

Or, your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!” 

Poem – Take Back the Virgin Page

Take back the virgin page, 

White and unwritten still; 

Some hand, more calm and sage, 

The leaf must fill. 

Thoughts come, as pure as light 

Pure as even you require; 

But, oh! each word I write 

Love turns to fire. 
Yet let me keep the book: 

Oft shall my heart renew, 

When on its leaves I look, 

Dear thoughts of you. 

Like you, ’tis fair and bright; 

Like you, too bright and fair 

To let wild passion write 

One wrong wish there. 
Haply, when from those eyes 

Far, far away I roam, 

Should calmer thoughts arise 

Towards you and home; 

Fancy may trace some line, 

Worthy those eyes to meet, 

Thoughts that not burn, but shine, 

Pure, calm, and sweet. 
And as, o’er ocean far, 

Seamen their records keep, 

Led by some hidden star 

Through the cold deep; 

So may the words I write 

Tell through what storms I stray — 

You still the unseen light, 

Guiding my way. 

Poem – Finale 

We’ve counted only nine, 

but the family’s much bigger.

A connection of Elements, 

that make a union.
Only together do they make a difference, 

and make up the world around you.

The sky above you, 

The ground below you.
You, yourself, are an Element.

And your family and friends.

We are all Elements.

Poem – Air

As the night shades the world, 

And everything sleeps, 

The gentle, clean breeze of Air’s soft breath

Still flows.
Silently, it flies

In it’s boundless world, 

Enjoying the sensation, 

Of freedom
Soaring through the open meadows, 

Traversing great distances of sea, 

Living each day as if it were the last, 

Poem – Water 

Flowing through the river,

 Moving peacefully, 

Throughout the Earth

Wherever the currents runs, 
Water stirs freely, 

Living as it wishes.

Gentle enough to float a light feather, 

Though fierce enough to drown a large steamship
Water guides and protects, 

It gives peace and tranquility

And nourishes life with soothing care, 

Poem – Fire 

Raging through the Earth,

 Burning everything in sight, 

Fire’s untamed fury, 

Edges to dominance.
The Earth, it’s fuel, let’s it’s spread, 

But Water, it’s enemy, extinguishes the flames

Air does not take a side. It can help spread the flames, 

or it can blow them to nothingness, 
Fire unleashes it’s worst, 

Feared by many, it’s power spreads

Faster than the flames themselves.

Poem – Earth 

Earth forms the base of all the elements, 

None of them can exist without it, 

It’s beauty can awe even the most impassive people

And it’s power can destroy the most strong structures
It guides Water, with it’s creeks and streams, 

It fuels Fire with plants and trees to burn, 

It provides Life to living things

And it gives refuge to those who need it.
An amazing spectacle of Nature, 

But simply a speck, 

in the infinite expanse of the universe

Poem – Light

The four elements give way to more great, 

As Light shine’s it’s wisdom among the lands.

Casting away the darkness, 

And showing the path.
Fire burns and gives source to Light, 

Water bends and guides Light, 

Air gives companionship, and company to Light, 

And Earth is visibly revealed with that Light.
The greatness floods throughout the souls, 

of Human’s on the Earth, 

and the prosperity lives on.

Poem – Darkness 

Don’t think the story could just end there, 

A protagonist always has an antagonist.

Where Light fails to reach it’s arms out, 

Darkness prevails there.
The power of the shadows are cruel.

Blinding men, ridding them of their sight.

Leaving them alone, frightened, 

In the faint, cold, Dark.
Where the beauty of the Earth cannot be seen, 

Water cannot flow, Air does not blow

Where even Fire, fails to save the day.

Poem – Life

The beauty of Earth, 

The majesty of Water, 

The freedom of Air, 

The power of Fire.
The influence of Light, 

The destruction of Darkness, 

It all gives Life to souls of the world.

Who themselves are awed by the greatness of the Elements.
But Life is an element itself.

Buried deep within the bodies and the minds, 

Is the Truth.

Poem – Death 

With Life there must be Death, 

Unfortunately so, and the emotions, 

The are caused by Death, 

Are as powerful as Death itself.
But Death, 

Is merely an illusion.

Designed to distract, 

And decieve.
No, no, it is not evil.

We just interpret it so. 

What it is, my friend, 

Poem – Energy

A flash streaks down to Earth, 

And thunder pursues.

The Sound struggles to keep up, 

As the Energy shoots through the sky.
It has life, 

in a sense.

It seems to have a mind of its own.

It’s power, 

even hotter than the sun, 

just ready to unleash.

Poem – When the Music Began 

The first strike hits the key, 

And the silence is gone, 

As the music begins.
And the notes seem to fly, 

Off the page, 

Swirling, dancing in the air
The emotions swirl.
The warmth and power

That rises from the sounds

Fills the room.
Leaves me in a trance, 

As the music comes

And the sensation rises.
And the music takes me, 

And I follow, 

With no second thought
The music I hear, I play, 

Takes it’s form

As I guide it
I lay in a vast meadow, 

The sun setting in front of me, 

And as night falls, I rest, 
I awake and find myself, 

Soaring through the sky, 

As if weight was a but a myth
And then I fall, 

Deep into the fiery depths, 

As I struggle to stay alive, 
Just as it is about to give in, 

And darkness surrounds me, 

A light.
And the light slowly brightens, 

As the music grows louder

And the emotions grow unbearable
And the light engulfs me, 

And just as the song ends.

I find myself back, where I began
And as the faint echoes

Of the dying music fade away, 

They leave a mark.
And that mark, 

I still feel to this day.

As the music touches me.
As it affects me in a way, 


And the emotions, 

And memories of the day.

The day the music began. 

Zander William Pearson

Poem – Lay his Sword By his Side

Lay his sword by his side — it hath served him too well

 Not to rest near his pillow below; 

To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, 

Its point was still turn’d to a flying foe. 

Fellow-labourers in life, let them slumber in death, 

Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave — 

That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath, 

And himself unsubdued in his grave. 
Yet pause — for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, 

As if breathed from his brave heart’s remains; — 

Faint echo of that which, in Slavery’s ear, 

Once sounded the war-word, “Burst your chains.” 

And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep, 

“Though the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, 

Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep — 

It hath victory’s life in it yet! 
“Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, 

Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, 

Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal’d, 

Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. 

But, if grasp’d by a hand that hath learn’d the proud use 

Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain, 

Then, at Liberty’s summons, like lightning let loose, 

Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!” 

Poem – Lalla Rookh 

“How sweetly,” said the trembling maid,

 Of her own gentle voice afraid,

So long had they in silence stood,

Looking upon that tranquil flood–

“How sweetly does the moon-beam smile

To-night upon yon leafy isle!

Oft in my fancy’s wanderings,

I’ve wish’d that little isle had wings,

And we, within its fairy bow’rs,

Were wafted off to seas unknown,

Where not a pulse should beat but ours,

And we might live, love, die alone!

Far from the cruel and the cold,–

Where the bright eyes of angels only

Should come around us, to behold

A paradise so pure and lonely.

Would this be world enough for thee?”–

Playful she turn’d, that he might see

The passing smile her cheek put on;

But when she mark’d how mournfully

His eyes met hers, that smile was gone;

And, bursting into heart-felt tears,

“Yes, yes,” she cried, “my hourly fears

My dreams have boded all too right–

We part–for ever part–to-night!

I knew, I knew it could not last–

‘Twas bright, ’twas heav’nly, but ’tis past!

Oh! ever thus, from childhood’s hour,

I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay;

I never lov’d a tree or flow’r,

But ’twas the first to fade away.

I never nurs’d a dear gazelle

To glad me with its soft black eye,

But when it came to know me well

And love me, it was sure to die!

Now too–the joy most like divine

Of all I ever dreamt or knew,

To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,–

Oh misery! must I lose that too?

Yet go–on peril’s brink we meet;–

Those frightful rocks–that treach’rous sea–

No, never come again–though sweet,

Though heav’n, it may be death to thee.

Farewell–and blessings on thy way,

Where’er thou goest, beloved stranger!

Better to sit and watch that ray,

And think thee safe, though far away,

Than have thee near me, and in danger!” 

Poem – In the Morning of Life

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, 

And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, 

When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own, 

And the light that surrounds us is all from within; 

Oh ’tis not, believe me, in that happy time 

We can love, as in hours of less transport we may; — 

Of our smiles, of our hopes, ’tis the gay sunny prime, 

But affection is truest when these fade away. 
When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, 

Like a leaf on the stream that will never return, 

When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, 

First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn; 

Then, then in the time when affection holds sway 

With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; 

Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, 

But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true. 
In climes full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers, 

Their sighs have no freshness, their odour no worth; 

‘Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers 

That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth. 

So it is not ‘mid splendour, prosperity, mirth, 

That the depth of Love’s generous spirit appears; 

To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, 

But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears. 

Poem – I saw thy Form in Youthful Prime

I saw thy form in youthful prime,

 Nor thought that pale decay 

Would steal before the steps of Time, 

And waste its bloom away, Mary! 

Yet still thy features wore that light, 

Which fleets not with the breath; 

And life ne’er look’d more truly bright 

Than in thy smile of death, Mary! 
As streams that run o’er golden mines, 

Yet humbly, calmly glide, 

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines 

Within their gentle tide, Mary! 

So veil’d beneath the simplest guise, 

Thy radiant genius shone, 

And that which charm’d all other eyes 

Seem’d worthless in thy own, Mary! 
If souls could always dwell above, 

Thou ne’er hadst left that sphere; 

Or could we keep the souls we love, 

We ne’er had lost thee here, Mary! 

Though many a gifted mind we meet, 

Though fairest forms we see, 

To live with them is far less sweet 

Than to remember thee, Mary! 

Poem – I saw from the Beach 

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,

 A bark o’er the waters move gloriously on; 

I came when the sun o’er that beach was declining, 

The bark was still there, but the waters were gone. 
And such is the fate of our life’s early promise, 

So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; 

Each wave that we danced on at morning ebbs from us, 

And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. 
Oh, who would not welcome that moment’s returning 

When passion first waked a new life through his frame, 

And his soul, like the wood that grows precious in burning, 

Gave out all its sweets to love’s exquisite flame. 

Poem – Her Picture

Go then, if she, whose shade thou art,

No more will let thee soothe my pain;

Yet, tell her, it has cost this heart

Some pangs, to give thee back again.
Tell her, the smile was not so dear,

With which she made the semblance mine,

As bitter is the burning tear,

With which I now the gift resign.
Yet go — and could she still restore,

As some exchange for taking thee.

The tranquil look which first I wore,

When her eyes found me calm and free;
Could she give back the careless flow,

The spirit that my heart then knew —

Yet, no, ’tis vain — go, picture, go —

Smile at me once, and then — adieu! 

Poem – Solitude

Is someone there, oh weeping heart? No, no one there. 

Perhaps a traveler, but he will be on his way.

The night is spent, the dust of stars begins to scatter.

In the assembly halls dream-filled lamps begin to waver.

Small streets sleep waiting by the thoroughfare.

Strange earth beclouds footprints of yesterday.

Snuff out the candles, put away wine-cup and flask.

Then lock your eyelids in this morning dusk.

For now there’s no one, no one who will come here. 

Poem – My Interview

The wall has grown all black, upto the circling roof.

Roads are empty, travellers all gone. Once again

My night begins to converse with its loneliness; 

My visitor I feel has come once again.

Henna stains one palm, blood wets another; 

One eye poisons, the other cures.
None leaves or enters my heart’s lodging; 

Loneliness leaves the flower of pain unwatered, 

Who is there to fill the cup of its wound with color? 
My visitor I feel has come once again, 

Of her own will, my old friend-her name

Is Death: a friend in need, yet an enemy-

The murderess and the sweetheart! 

Poem – My Hearts, My Traveler

My heart, my fellow traveler

It has been decreed again

That you and I be exiled, 

go calling out in every street, 

turn to every town.

To search for a clue

of a messenger from our Beloved.

To ask every stranger

the way back to our home.
In this town of unfamiliar folk

we drudge the day into the night

Talk to this stranger at times, 

to that one at others.
How can I convey to you, my friend

how horrible is a night of lonliness *

It would suffice to me

if there were just some count

I would gladly welcome death

if it were to come but once.