wb :

he sat, watching the children play
-long gone was the dolent day
on wings of wax, aflight in flames,
then smashed on a shoal of shames;
left night and wind, silent sisters,
where they walked but wisps and whispers-

alone and dimmed, without a ray
upon his seat of steel, he wrote
upon his paper, his pen he smote
he sat, watching the children play

he hesitated, in silence to pray
perhaps a song to sin and plight
perhaps a dirge to dark and night
-long gone was the dolent day

his honour but a roll of names
its flight a whim of wind and whiff
its flight a step off a cliff
on wings of wax, aflight in flames,

his dreams bedight and veiled in blames
besought a storm, which wept a well
besought a star, which shook and fell
then smashed on a shoal of shames;

and heart and soul two lonesome drifters
knew not where the river sped
knew not where the moonlight led
left night and wind, silent sisters,

in his house a hall of weepers
shades of love now pale and dim
shades of friends that stood with him
where they walked but wisps and whispers-

while he dreamed of death, despair, deceit-
the children played, and watched him sit.

Labels: poetry

They condescend to me, arrogant glares never meeting my eyes,
Glancing at the wares decorating tables, and they do not come
To buy any but whisper behind, relieving not my solitude
Hopeful, but still in an infinite wait
Waiting for shadows of those already past
And unmoving, the fading colours marking the story's end.

But ever so often, the young ones come
Budding bourgeosie smiles that disperse, somewhat, the solitude
Stemming from a fruitless knowing in a fruitless wait
The colour, laughter, fleeting moments go past
The monotony returns, perhaps never to end
And they know this, they do, it is reflected in our eyes

To sit day after day in a multicoloured solitude
A solemn stone in the crowd in a vauntless wait
Reminiscient, still living, forlorn images harvested from the past
And when the neon lights spark the sky, their dances end
So will mine, dancing and dying for the strobes that light my eyes
Glistening dully, like dead milk fish, a day that does not come

Preserved fruit, I am a window shopper, sitting down to my daily wait
Watching candy-coloured people walk past
Vibrant in their sugar-spun castles, meeting a dull, dull end
I know this, yet I devour, envy in my eyes
For mine is gone, behind the requiem that will always come
To sing upon a statue, the colours of my wares to theirs, impress upon this solitude

And yet again where and what past
Past present future tense it is all the same for the purgatory without end
In rainbows that fade to red, sun streaking eyelids and covered eyes
No relief, like Lazarus alive, it does not come
Upon a table, reclining in solitude
A statuette, never statuesque, in a never-ending wait

Who would bid me goodbye if this story should end
Walking past unnoticed, if I should no longer open my eyes
Would they break away, to reach and come from
Whence, to undo the shackles of a distant solitude
Wrenching free the years of rough plastic, this wait
Wholly new, leaving me a fragment, facets left of a long bygone past

No longer will I wait for those who do not come
Never again closing my eyes to leave me blind
To the end and beginnings I created of a past that is left behind.


Cheers!
-Bern

I wrote this two years ago, as part of my mentorship portfolio. It's about a pedlar, in Orchard, selling her wares but never buying them for herself.

Labels: poetry

a quiet one, she -
sitting by the back shade
dancing on a daydream.

-------------------------
I said of this - awaken, miss
she rose; a serpent on her breath
that thrilled through th'air on syllables
that between us died a dreamer's death

she loved the dance; the step, the gyre
she lived only to smoulder and spin
wouldst look at me I said, I said
ere she consume herself therein -
-------------------------

to't, no response
but a hint of song that
whistled by

her gaze on the ceiling
she spent her life
dancing on a candle wick

Labels: poetry

The wind comes to me, caresses me, ruffles my hair, soothes my restless heart.

tonight, he rides not with Norse fury, scremaing battle.
tonight, he wails not with the Banshees, lamenting loss.

No, tonight, he walks with me, with memory, down the old garden path.
Now he raises his voice, gusts over me, rakes my teary eyes.
harsh, sweet, gusts of memory.
Now he sweeps across me with a cleansing no sleep nor shower could give.

He slows, no longer blasts across my thirsting skin.
no, he breathes now with a resigned laughter, laughs and loves.
he dances, whirls about my body,
playfully drops a dead leaf at my feet.

The sun has long since gone down, leaving me with the false glow of man-made lights; but the wind has stayed with me all this while.

No longer is he the hot air of the sin high in the sky; now, he is the breath of warm dusk, old glow spilling across that parched plain of my skin.

Old wind, he carries on him a million songs,
all I know;
I sung them with him once,
and he, tonight, finds me again with memory.

I swung with him in the heat of the morning,
I lashed with him in the gale of the storming,
And now I laugh with him at the summer's mourning.

He rustles the boughs of rememberance,
plays with a leaf as it falls.

but he, has to go soon.
And so must I;

long will I long to waltz with him again,
though each new night, the dance is ne'er the same.

Labels: poetry

alas, you loved too little, loved too late
when you in youth decided to grow old
and let your books to you your life dictate

regret it now! regretfully behold
no passion's roots, no roses' blooms; instead
gaunt spines of autumn, plumed in red and gold

and winter's angry gale of cold and dead;
your studious slavish sacrific intent
to sell your heart, so you might raise your head

too late to rage for years now gone and went
too late to rue, oh you disconsolate
who spent his youth, and now with spirit spent

lament then not, who rode with pride and hate-
alas, you loved too little, loved too late.

Labels: poetry