Mother wept,
A tear dropped as she cast me down.
Down I went,
Gravity’s spell, an earthly trip.
Through swirling winds
I saw a city painted in dull grey,
And colourful dots
Shielding men walked in suits and girls
Pretty dresses.
On a bridge a motherless kid lied.
And I landed
In his salty swelling eyes, disguising
His sorrow.
Winter hastened her steps. Though not yet here,
Her grey and tearful complexion already
Frowned over Summer’s last canopy.
Bluesy notes, trickling down from
Guitarist’s fingers, across the roads they swam
Celebrating another page blankly written, idly flipped.
Is it always so hard? Hammering lines into
Poorly formed shapes and watch them
With grievous eyes like a father would an ill born child.
But when thinking of that filled was a new ardent page.
Still there feathers waver by thy side,
Without the trembling sight of my eyes?
Still the sinew of thy wings undiminished,
Treads the air with sprightly ease?
The treasures of the layered past,
Some glittering and some dim, be cast.
Alone shall thy evanescent wind
Bear my quavering pen holding hand.
The Song of Captain Hyde
In a dream I stand and see
The sleepless leaden sea,
And the endless ruinous rain,
Rotting my fearsome reign.
Never the smothering waves,
Nor the wheel’s piloting thorns
Worsen my woeful pain
Or pain my callous skin.
My ship proudly parades,
My sabre ruthlessly raids.
Sacked are who sought to sack
My firm unwavering rank.
So the tale of Captain Hyde,
Fiercest of legends told,
Sails defiantly far,
Rhyming fearsome deeds afar!
After dreamed of being a British Pirate named Captain Hyde
Copyrighted 2008
When clock strikes and door shuts twice,
I alone sit on couch watching
The shimmering tip a smoke ring curls.
And wait quietly, for Night’s coming.
There Night leisurely strolls,
Dragging along his shaggy dark cloak,
Like a homeless man in the park.
“Again a sleepless night I see
“So why don’t you play me some songs?
Some ancient hackneyed piece,
Composed under my own weary eyes.”
So I play a song, brightest of colours and sounds
With the ticking sighs of the clock as my beat
Admiring the endless piles of plates
Lying in my sink to be washed in peace.
A stationary point-unmoving
Upon the stillness sits my throne
From which I behold the crowds
Come and go-in haste-ever changing
Like thoughts-devoured by stormy clouds
