Heartsong

Angelic songs of Ancient days

Woven from the heartstings of men,

Like freedom’s keys, but freedom’s stays,

They will not lend themselves to pen.

On hearts and minds and souls they’ll dance

Through uncried tears and silenced glee,

Within emotions taken stance

But never in a book to be.

They whisper through a frigid chill

A hollow tune of heightening,

Or in a melting sun, distill

Those dripping rays with happy tears.

Echoing through depression’s blue

With mellow strains that pull the heart, 

Enchanting quiet meadows, too, 

They sing a calm melodic art.

They pulse with a furious heat 

In the mad storms of anger’s grip

And susurrate a tender beat

That fills the sails of ardor’s ship.

Melodies murmured in the mind,

Songs drifting like a river’s flow,

Free from parchment, unconfined,

Will never quill and paper know.

Between the Lines (A Valentine)

Don’t be impressed with these,

Mere words scrawled, hapless, here.

Between the lines, read not intent,

Of whispers pressed to ear.

A phrase, a blot of inky love,

Might stain your heart’s perception,

Unless, by reading, truth becomes

A broken man’s deception.

Oh, but know, dear friend

That pages can be torn!

Burned are books that mar the mind-

The author’s precious porn.

Careful, tread upon this soil:

My mind’s a misconception mine,

That you, though clever, cannot see

Or dare, defiant, to define.

To you I give the key, the pen,

To my poetic, pining soul,

But, wary, slip between these gates

Of my subversive goal.

Perchance, I’ll say, “I love you.”

And you’ll respond, “I too.”

But we are fools to believe it,

Fools who know what’s true. 

Turn, pivot, round the thought,

For never was it meant to live

Within our minds upon this page;

These words, not mine to give. 

Do not read between these lines,

Don’t over-think this cryptic thought

For nothing comes from nothing

And nothing’s what you’ve got. 

From Rose to Rose

I chose 

a rose.

No docile daisy 

or lazy

lily...

Silly

-i know-

not letting go

of the red 

as I bled.

When pink 

-i think-

could be 

for me

or blue 

-that too-

and mellow 

yellow.

But I, 

I cry

and hold on tight

with all my might.

And yet, 

forget.

The more I grip,

the more I rip

my skin 

again

and again

and again

on the rose 

I chose.

I can’t let go; 

and so,

my blood 

-a bud- 

in my fist

blooms on my wrist.

And my pain 

-the rain-

fills my head 

-the flowerbed-

and I grow, 

and I know:

my blood 

-a bud-

has bled 

a red

rose.

Me?

I chose

to be

a rose.

Silent Holiday

Crystal orbs, silver spheres,

Glassy globes, silent tears

Hung like lights around the room,

Ornamenting fragile doom.

Unspoken words strung lip to lip;

Eye to eye the anvil slips.

The truth weighs heavy, but suppressed,

Is locked within an aching chest.

The burden, borne for future lives,

Crushes that for which it strives.

But, brittle bubbles must remain

To suffocate what love has slain;

For should the mirrored quiet break-

Death both hearts would surely take!

Pierced by falling shards of glass,

Fateful omens come to pass.

Star-crossed lovers, shut your eyes;

Listen not to silent lies.

Hang your ornamental dreams,

Idolize your precious schemes,

Toss your tears of tinsel too,

But hold your tongue if love is true.

Premature the pine will fall

If lust becomes the carol’s call.

Look away with words unspoken,

Lest silent promises be broke broken,

And when Christmas comes to set you free

Then hang his star atop your tree. 

Six Questions

What makes us do that which we do

When malice taints a love that’s true?

What makes jealous eyes turn red

When, green, the heart succumbs the head?

What poisons sweet’s caressing care

That none but bitter words are shared?

How justified is am’rous hate:

Tormented stars crossed pois’nous fate?

How proven earned this altered look

From fainter hearts the softness took?

How soured spring’s enchanting song

That temper’s short and grudges, long?

When does love depart the soul

And leave the lover partly whole?

When do darts for eyes replace

The dewy eyes that hold a face?

When ceases beating, thrumming heart,

Replaces stone in vital part?

Where does the clock permit the crime

That hours measure fonder time?

Where lies the bed that saves a grave

For kindness, where that love was gave?

Where goes the man whose words are dear

When quiet’s break becomes the fear?

Who makes revenge or wages war,

The first to cross the line’ed floor?

Who picks the pebble, slings the stone,

The first to call himself alone?

Who, the lover, deems it wise

To turn away with vengeful eyes?

Why, in loss of dreamer’s tale,

Do actions hint of hateful veil?

Why must one extreme of joy

Be polarized when it’s destroyed?

Why, is all I ask of you,

Why, if truth is truly true?

Unlucky

So this is how the story goes:

One...

Forget, forget, forget she knows.

Two...

So this is how the tale is told:

Three...

Think not, think not of joys of old.

Four...

So this is how the plot is played:

Five...

Cry on, cry on, the price is paid.

Six...

So this is how life breathes and thrives:

Seven...

Walk on and on and on our lives.

Eight...

So this is how the mind decides:

Nine...

Habit, habit, habit confides.

Ten...

So this is how the world will turn:

Eleven...

Repeat, repeat, and never learn.

Twelve...

So this is how the heart is lost:

...

Break the rhythm, count the cost.

Actions Speak Louder Than Words

To speak the words

That fade away,

Punctuated,

Day by day;

Without a will

To face the fears

By fighting loss,

We shed our tears.

Each drip, a drop

In mem'ries sense.

Farewell, sweet past! 

Our eyes convince

Of what was not,

Though 'twas too true,

Yet nothing came

Of me and you.

An hourglass 

Of shifting sands

Will empty hearts

And hollow hands,

But never can

The grains remove

The stains of blood, 

Though all reprove.

For what has been

Will always be:

My love for you,

Your loathe for me. 

To speak the words,

"I love you, dear,"

Where silence sings

Instead I hear,
"............."