If I Were a Real Poet

Stup me 2B

If I were a real poet
I would confess
That I hide between the lines –
That every poem I write
Holds the shredded parts
Of my tattered soul
Scattered mongst the runes
Upon the stones –
Yet I leave them there
For you to find
Having rummaged through
The blather
Of my often
Quite peculiar
Muddled mind

If I were a real poet
I could profess
That I have always loved you –
That every verse that I may write
Holds the fragments of my heart
Still touching yours
Scattered mongst the lifetimes
We have known –
Yet I leave them there
For you to find
Having borne the light
The darkness
Of my often
Quite peculiar
Musing mind

If I were a real poet
I would confess
That my words may never find you –
That every lyric I may write
Holds the scent of every touch
That intertwined
Scattered mongst the wind
Like fine cologne
Yet I leave them there
For you to find
Having loved me
Through the tempest
Of my often
Quite peculiar
Muddled mind

Michael33

Wishing you a most beautiful day…

Dust on the Parchment

Dust on the Parchment 1

Dust on the Parchment

I suppose I could write of the newborn spring
Of the daffodils…
Of the sparrows wings
But who would then write of the broken heart
The lonesome dove
When lovers part

I suppose I could write of lavender blooms
Of a soft gentle breeze
The scent of perfume
But who would then write of things gone wrong
Of the pouring rain
Of sad, sad songs

I suppose I could write of the runes on the wall
When rhymes were like crystal
In times we were small
But who then would write of the words tween the lines
Hidden in lamplight
In laughter and wine

I never should write of the truth in her heart
The light in her eyes
Fore it all fell apart
But who then would write from the blind poet’s pen
With dust on the parchment
To dust in the wind

by Michael33

Not Exactly Evolutionary

Not Exactly Evolutionary

Not Exactly Evolutionary

(A Message from the Universe)

I cracked through the shell from the inside out
Looked around at the world and began to shout
You’ve got to be kidding I asked of the muse
This isn’t my home and I’m somewhat confused

I crawled to the ocean to find my old friends
But breathing neath water had come to an end
I crawled on all fours till I came to the timber
But found nothing there that could help me remember

I climbed to the top of tall forest trees
Looked around at the world which brought me unease
You’ve got to be kidding I said to the muse
This isn’t my home and I’m still quite confused

I walked on my feet to the banks of the river
The cold winter chill was making me shiver
I made a big fire by rubbing two vines
Then sharpened a spear and learned how to dine

I discovered a woman who tended a grove
Possessing the wonders of great treasure troves
We built a strong hut to escape from the storm
Soon there were three of us cozy and warm

We assembled a village a family a home
Many who wondered then wandered and roamed
We discovered the wheel, built cities and cars
Abandoned our customs stopped following stars

We gathered the money as fast as we could
Polluted our water and cut down the wood
We lied to our brothers and smoked up the air
Lost all compassion for the wolves and the bear

I cracked through the shell from the inside out
Looked at the world in famine and drought
You’ve got to be kidding I said to the muse
This isn’t my home I’m dazed and confused

We were the chosen to care for the Earth
Through eons of time from the first human birth
We’ve taken this world on a dangerous route
Yet we’re still cracking shells from the inside out

Michael33

The Melody Got in the Way

The melody Got in the Way

The Melody Got in the Way

He dared to believe in the lyrics
But the melody just got in the way
Lost in the rhythm of the heartbeat
Like the potter’s first touch of the clay

Poetry fell softly like snowfall
But the rhyme he too often misread
Lost in the words that were left on the wall
With the truth tween the lines never said

Wanting to believe in the rhapsody
Lost in the music she played
He dared to believe in the lyrics
But the melody just got in the way

Michael33

The Bullet

Bullet 2

The Bullet

They’re all blank –
The slate
The page
The stare
The mind
……………………………the bullet
And yet…
When filled with hues
That make them whole –
They all can
Destroy another

Perhaps…
They’re better off
Left in their emptiness –
In silent desperation
For the innocence
Of the child…

Hate on the slate
Rage on the page
Despair in the stare
Misaligned in the mind
All of the above
……………………………in the bullet

And yet…
Children
No longer
Linger in the silence –
No longer
Sit idly by
While those
Who cannot speak
To truth
Hide inside
The voter’s booth
Where money is the root
Of soul-less pleas

Perhaps…
It is the politicians
That are better off
Left in the emptiness
Of their own being…
In the silence –
In desperation
For the innocence
Of the child

Seldom are they ever
Left blank –
The slate
The page
The stare
The mind
……………………………the bullet

And yet…
It is left to those of us
Who dare
To change the hues
That make them whole –
Who dare to erase
The slate of hate –
To turn the page of rage
To peace –
Change despair of the stare
To hope
And realign the mind
With truth
For the most beautiful
Of all reasons…
For the innocence…
……………………………Of the child

Michael33

Tumbled Stones

River 9

Tumbled Stones

It wasn’t the silence
That led me to the river
For I have always lingered
In the rhapsody
In the stillness
Of the moments before the dawn

I was not lured
By the sound of flowing water
O’er tumbled stones
Nor the song of the whippoorwill
From the white oak tree
Roots reaching deep
Neath the silt

I suppose that one might say
I cheated fate
Though fate is never really blind
When rivers rise too far
Above the knees
And currents flow too strong
For one to stand upon the stones
And find the strength
Of truth
Inside the rhyme

Perhaps I was lured
By reflections
In the ripples –
Shadows dancing softly
In the moonlight…
A symphony of strings
Enchanting one into the other
Voices in the stream
In whispered breath

It wasn’t the silence
That led me to the river
Nor the sound of water’s flow
O’er tumbled stones –
One might say
I cheated fate
Though fate is never blind
While one is tempting

But sometimes
One can only find
The truth inside the rhyme
From voices in the whisper –
Neath the silt…

Michael33

The Silence of an Avalanche

Avalanche 3

The Silence of an Avalanche

Of course it’s time to write…
Nothing has found its way
Onto these pages
In what seems to be
Eons…
Of course to a poet
An eon can be a mere minute
Without a rhyme –
While time
Sifts through the hour glass
Grain by grain
And words so often
Evade the mind
In the silence –
Of an avalanche

So what is the poet
To pen on the parchment
In time
While life slips away
When hour glass sand
Is measured like dust
That shadows the truth
Gone astray…

And life is not measured
In eons of time
Yet merely
A heartbeat away
From breath
From death
In the mist of the dawn
On a bitterly cold winter’s day

Thoughts that have fallen
To dance on the page
Lie crumpled
In hour glass sand
But nothing’s to blame
Not time
Not life
Just dust on the rhyme
In my hands

But time to a poet
A heartbeat away
From fate
Of a strange circumstance
In breath
In death
In the mist of the dawn
In the silence –
Of an avalanche

Michael33

Waiting

Beneath the Streetlamp 1A

Waiting

There are no words
My mind is blank
From too much reasoning
Too much realization
Of all that is
And all that is not
With too little time
To unweave the interfuse

But reposed in silence
Tween double yellow lines
Waiting for
Street cars of desire
Only leads into the soul
Of self-destruction

I’ve been swept
Down savage streams
Drowning in delusions
Of truth
Where even smooth rock
Bruises bone

I have washed ashore
Battered
By unpretended
Unattended scars
Left behind…
By circumstances
Undesired
And those persuaded
By the fire
With silent embers
Feint –
Beneath the clay

Words have failed me
And left me to wander
The edges
Of my own essence…
Karmatic verberations
From every breath
That I have taken
In the darkness
In the light
In the hues that never blended
Into black
Nor into white

Nothing can be said
That really matters…
For innocence
Wanders free
But for a moment…
One
Single
Breath
Beyond its birth
And it fades into the dawn
Where shadows
Shade the bloom
With no emotion

But lying indiscreetly in the street
Does not preclude
Eradication of a fool

So I shall wait…
Beneath the street lamp
In the rain
In the shadows
Of my own essence
Imagining the innocence
That wanders free
But for a moment…
Hoping to find
In that
One
Single
Breath
Beyond its birth
Words of transcendence…

Before the day
Has wept into tomorrow…
With too little time
To unweave the interfuse

Michael33

Copyright © 2018

 

Gardeners of the Bloom

Butterfly 3C no 33 ab

Gardeners of the Bloom

I’m the poet from the painter’s touch
Yet artists oft confuse what hues
May fall upon the canvas
With runes that they may find
Etched into stone
For who can sketch the face
Without the rhyme
And who can pen the rhyme
Without a vision
Who can sculpt the clay
Without the hands
That feel the earth
Sifting through
The hourglass of time

The painter paints the rhyme
While the poet pens the portrait
The sculptor molds the face
With tides of time

Artists may confuse the hues
That fall upon the canvas
While poets pen their rhymes
In fractured ink
But together they are one
Inside the gardeners of the bloom
Knowing love shall grace
The missing link

Michael33

Etchings

Fantasy landscape 2

Etchings

I found the etchings you left for me
Though I’d looked in all the wrong places
Beyond the horizon
Across the sky
For words in cold dark spaces

In scattered thoughts and photographs
Laid frail in a cardboard box
Left hidden neath the hardwood floor
Behind the skeleton clocks

But then I found the words you left
Where dawn touched marbled stones
The troth you never whispered here
Left etched above your bones

Michael33