Poetry III – Posy

I hate my work, I hate my work;
O work, why can’t you work?
Why, posy, do you stream so dull,
Whose life is nill, and image, null?
Wordy stutters of nothingness
Why are you the way I must address
The emotions, the issues, the stuff
That I wish to write something of?
My boring posy, my boring posy,
So pretentious and yet so lousy,
I hate your way, your form, your whatever,
Always rhyming away into forever.
O boring posy, where is your life?
You are the sick rose, and aid my strife:
Full of ‘fors’ and ‘therefores’ and ‘buts’
(To the poet, these are the literary sluts),
And what coinage is mine? None at all!
O posy, all you do is drool!
You try to mimic the heroes and greats
But all you do is procrastinate:
For when I read back over your lines,
All I find is a bunch of words that rhyme,
And the content – don’t get my started,
There is none – except the retarded!
Posy, posy, my friend, and my bane;
Posy, exciting, and so too so inane.
Posy, please change. Your boring.
Boring. Rubbish. Bad. Boring.

Poetry II

Come, show me that Muse
Or tell me where Helicon lies;
For there is neither to be found.

What worth is the poet’s use?
They write, rhyme, philosophize
What they feel, think, see. They sound

The depths and onto paper fuse
Their lives, lived out in ink and lines.
And when spent, what then may abound

But some fame to amuse,
A name, and some credit. But in times
To come, when they go back to the ground,

Of what worth was that Muse?
But for some, in half-remembered lines
Is where they died, and now, where they are found.

The Heart Asks Pleasure First

Set to the tune of Michael Nyman’s The Heart Asks Pleasure First.

The heart asks pleasure first,
Just to quench a dry tongue’s thirst;
For what’s this shell of shadowed dust
That it can’t be a little flushed?
First, but a small taste is its will,
Till one taste past, demands its fill;
Feeling with passion, not with sense,
Giving no care to consequence.
‘Let me eat, drink and make merry’
The heart pleads in pleading steady,
For more a taste it now requires
To quench its now consuming fires;
For what’s this shell of shadowed dust
That it can’t have a little lust?
A little, lightly, everywhere,
Why not? You’ll never know it’s there.
You ask: is this what it seems to be;
That it demands some more of me?
But the heart pleads, ‘Enjoy its stay,
And take a stand some other day.’
So each day slips by into years
And lust becomes your eyes and ears
For what’s this shell of shadowed dust
That it can’t have some pleasure first?
And lust, who stands in streets and cries
‘Give, give’ yet never satisfies;
Who trades in souls as its measure
For dealing back with short-lived pleasure;
Lust, to whom you’ve sold out whole,
Is now the governor of your soul.
So tell me now, what is this shell,
That it should rule the heart so well;
For sure, the heart asks pleasure first,
But after calls it more the worst.

Poetry I

Again I redraft each old rhyme,
And form it again, all anew,
Till the weak becomes a strong line
That only great wit can undo.

Straight likeness curls to metaphor,
And conceit paves paths of old skin
That I must replace soon with more,
Lest the first step be aged too thin.

The Metaphysics I ravish
To fill my pen over with wit,
And allude to all; names lavish,
To add some famed credence to it.

I lock sonnets as winding stairs,
That each should rest on the other,
To attain (near) the lofty airs
Where sweet truths are to discover:

Then await my mind to ignite
That final, perfect, solving pun;
Waiting for it, by day and night,
And past the rising of the sun.

What Sweet Things

What sweet things you do that leave me silent,
That still every Muse, and barren my pen;
For touched is my heart, and a heart’s ailment
Is dumbness in the mouths of mortal men:
Here I shan’t try to limit all in rhyme,
Nor could I if I willed, and tried an age;
But plain, my mouth shall rest and stop a time,
Where a poet’s work is not done on page.
So what can I say? What would be worthy?
Hear my thankfulness in unspoken words:
There lies more than speech, that age-old mystery:
Spoken in silence, in silence returned;
            This is tested each day, in ease and trial
            That for sure, all gift enough is your smile..


A tightrope trod by hanging hands
Is the tight path of human plans,
And on this rope between the canyon
Treads one lone climber, named Man.
Some thousand feet is his height,
And miles front, back and side,
So he pulls from rise to set,
Never ending, never beget.
Lone climber of the monuments:
Cool ruler of temperament,
Binding strong to the rope
Where blistered hands bear his load,
To pull, push, press and part,
As is the nature of his heart.

In all the canyons in all the world
Men do hang in them alone:
From the princely palace to the streets
Shall he be working for his needs.
From every walk of life is Man,
Who works, fights and lives by his hands:
Man, who is not as those who pretend
To be as the decent gentle Man:
But Man shall wage war against all
Rather than from this tightrope fall;
Bearing the world upon his back
Never failing, never slack.
And Man shall still hold to his rope
Climbing for his greater hope.

He who stands in the coliseum
Of life’s harshest competition;
Of beasts, monsters and all things evil,
Of Goliaths and giants armed in steel;
Each hungry for a fleshly taste;
And yet will he stare them in the face,
And fight the good fight to the death
Until his enemy is undone and bereft.
Standing, bloody, without a sound;
Bearing his scars like a crown;
Still treading the rope as he hangs,
Holding tight with scarred hands;
And years may pass as he holds on
To be the winner, the champion.

And for all that he toils under the sun
He counts all toil for none:
All he works and wars in blood;
He labours first and foremost for love.
Man, who though he utters not a motion
Has a heart riddled with emotion:
Made of pure unquenched passion
To win his heart’s Rose of Sharon;
Whose absence leaves a hole in his side
Where divinely came forth his bride;
That he should be her gallant knight,
Her midday sun at dark midnight,
For she is why he treads this rope;
To catch her when her hands let go.

And there he hangs, despite all things,
With raw nature as company,
For this is where he was birthed,
From the wilderness’ earth;
A complex composition of clay,
Who’s will to climb come what may
Is forged into his being at every part,
For Man, if nothing, is wild at heart,
And he shall keep on through the rain,
The sleet, the snow, the anguish, the pain.
For, what has man fought for
That he shall not die for?
Though violent winds may blow
He shall never let go..

The Rose of Sharon

My Love, are you not the Rose of Sharon?
You are the full-bloomed Lily of the Vale,
So are you, as the Lily among thorns;
For you shall never dim, nor fade, as they.
A thousand flocks ride over the mountains,
To be ten thousand too few for your hair;
Honey will go stale; bitter, the fountains;
Yet you shall remain eternally fair.
Scarlet is too less a thing for your lips,
And sweet wine is all too bitter a taste.
Consider not then Life, for he does miss
And forever falls short your perfect face.
            Songs of Songs for eternity, and more,
            Can never describe Her who has no flaw.

The Dawning

.This morning, when I first saw you,
As every morning, you were like no other morning.
The same sweet perfume smelt sweetly new,
            And your blue eyes
            Did bluely shine,
Upon this newest dawning.

This morning, when I first saw you,
My heart beat faster than any other morning.
And my same feelings were painfully new,
            As looking in your eyes
            My heart did cry,
Upon this newest dawning.

And this morning, as I behold you,
I know not what to say, as every morning.
But I would love to give a thousand praises new
            To your blue eyes
            As they do shine
Upon this newest dawning.

Yet this morning, as my heart beats after you,
I do the terrible same, as every morning.
And I do that same, not the new,
            Despite your blue eyes,
            And my heart cries,
Upon this newest dawning.

And so this morning, as I look at you,
I will speak untruly, as every morning.
And so I pretend to despise that which is new,
            As in your blue eyes
            Starts the smallest cry
Upon this newest morning.

And this morning, that was made for you,
I will ruin, again, as every morning.
Despite your beauty, I put down the new,
            And epitomize
            The worst lies
Upon this newest dawning.

Thus this evening, I will cry after you,
As every evening, but more than any other evening.
And for myself, nothing is new:
            For I again I lied
            To my heart cries,
And I will I cry for tomorrow’s dawning.

And this morning, when I first see you,
I will be crying, like no other morning.
And I fear my words that shan’t be new,
            And this is why
            My heart does cry
In the morning, when I am mourning;

And this morning, before I see you,
I can see your beauty more than morning,
More than the day is just new,
            And so do I
            Adore your blue eyes
More, upon every day’s newest dawning.


Why those tears? Are they from that supper
Where He broke bread and wine?
            He said that we were to speak no more
            And never again to dine.

Why this sorrow? Did you see His trail?
Did you hear the crowds jeering?
            From Him we heard no denial,
            Only the crowd cry, crucify Him.

Why are you low? Did you see His crown
And His battered, beaten body?
            We saw the thorns, but we frown,
            For what we saw was hardly a body.

Why such grief? Were you not there
To be with Him in this hour of need?
            We were behind, for we were scared,
            And further denied knowing His deeds.

Why do you cry, is it for His death?
For seeing His bitter crucifixion?
            It pains us to have heard His last breath
            O Father, please forgive them.

Why do you weep on this week’s first day?
Is it that the tomb is empty?
            Yes, we cry that the stone is rolled away
            And no longer therein lies His body.

Then, why do you cry? Wipe you eyes:
Let us now sit and break this bread.
The tomb is empty, there is no need to cry,
Why are you weeping? I’m not dead..

Hot Water Bottle

Painkiller odour flows through my veins.
Hands are shaking; head is aching.
Yet the sun is shinning and the wind is still,
And meadows am I contemplating.

Pavane whispers sun to me;
Warm body and light day.
But belly is churning and arms are shivering
And legs are weak like soft clay.
Children leave doors open;
A favour they think, but I hate it;
I’m cold and tired and bored
And feel like… air..