Alobar

The Dark

It is night

there is no fire

yet still you run from shadows

Do not think me the coward

you say

for I am just a man

And at night

when there is no fire

it is the shadows which we all fear most.

My Unadorned Heart

I wash the collected jewels in the ocean

The green one

the yellow one

the red one

The smell of salt water

somehow

causes the sparkle to be even more intense,

to delight beyond delight,

to enrapture

I stroke each jewel like a mother, her babe,

feeling the sensual smoothness of the sides

the sharpness of the edges

and the fading moisture… like memory

What do you make me feel?

And you?

And you?

Each jewel is unique

and sparkles hypnotically, like a star

a hand-held star

Each jewel’s colour is rich, full and defining

touching my heart in its own way

shading me, melding with my nature, creating me anew

I wear each colour upon my face for a time

see how it reacts to moonlight

And somehow

at sometime

each eventually dulls and begs me

return to the sea.

A Poem For My Wife

My wife

standing alone in the grass

the sun upon her face,

cloud shadows morphing her expression

making her unknowable

In the distance birds sing,

celebrating day

with mating calls

and timeless songs we all know the words to

She is twenty-seven

and she is grace

Other sounds now:

metal knife edge cutting through earth,

quiet whimpers,

deadened, muffled thuds

like parade drums

bringing the remains of a regiment

finally home… to rest.

My wife

standing alone in the grass

strong and tall in the wind

as Taps plays—

live well, my love,

live well.

Passing

the moments pass

no matter what you do the moments pass

some were soft

and bathed in moonlight

at other times

a child, bare-chested,

fought for honour, slayed the dragon

and slept soundly in his mother-made bed

and there was pain and hurt,

tears flooded the streets of the past

but each time they stopped

leaving the ground dry and clean

and always

the moments pass

no matter what you do the moments pass

but this time

as you lay prostrate and waiting,

mind whirling between fantasy, memory

and hallucination,

they pass profoundly,

each noticed

and mourned

for this time

no matter what you do

no matter how hard you squeeze and grasp

no matter that you’re trying like never before to hold on

the moments pass

‘til soon

there are no more.

To Winter in March

I walk through snow-dusted streets

alone, her face gaunt and skeleton like,

sunken cheeks heralding approaching death

Grey umbrella of sky has no form

or character, it is close and infinite

at the same time

Shoulders hunch slightly in response to the cold

but jacket is unbuttoned,

heroic statement

optimistic resolve

More snow falls but it is whimpering, dying—

the grey skies are clearing

(whether you can see it or not)

the grey skies are clearing and soon

she will again return to dust

and annual slumber

But for now I reach out my hand and

marvel at the delicate touch of a single

flake which kisses me softly,

a final farewell

turning to tears

and sweet water.

Not Stepping Up

The moon is translucent,

a grey ghost

faintly hiding in the blue, blue sky

The sun screams loudly

its song

Flowers awaken,

applaud

and drink

I remain silent,

afloat

in a sea of tranquility.

In Silence

You know how to surf echoes,

the more musical the better, you say

I admire that,

but can’t wait for the day

you tell me

you have surfed the vibrations of night

and the hum of the stars

Then you will be ready;

Then we will go together

and learn

to surf silence

and understand love.

Quiet Exit

In the ether of night air

I imagine seeing the final turns

of my lost memories

as they leave me forever

like young birds, the nest

Is there home or heaven for these forgotten moments,

or do they

like long-dead peasants

crushed under a forgotten plow

merely just pass on,

their quiet whimper

eclipsed by the roar of history?

Watching the Poets, Smiling

Young, youthful poets

arrogant like astronauts

rapping out rhymes

re-using rhythms

and afraid

afraid of absolutely nothing

I was that young once

I too had the strength to slay dragons

The piano came on like a forest fire

raging across the countryside

There was no chance of rain,

no sad drops of melancholy

Only crescendo,

building,

filled with hard notes

and staccato phrases

Life

becomes music

becomes life

Roar!

Roar of flame as

world explodes in

kaleidoscope of passion, brilliantly red,

orange,

the violent shades of yellow

Roar!

as heartbeat turns to drum

pounding rhythms of destruction

creation and

realization

Roar!

as you cover the

innocent, virgin field

with something like understanding

And all then

that remains

is a barren, desolate field

covered by blackened skeltons

of the past

and existential dust

You rest,

the piano falling silent,

the air heavy

with the profound sense

that something this time has mattered

that something this time

has changed.

Expectant Father

How great is Man!

How great will Man become?

A staircase I see

to the stars

with each of us, everyone

a chance

to climb

and to see

the very face of God.

How great is Man!

How great will Man become?

From cesspools and squalor

from tiny babe

and from violent holler

noble Man will rise,

I pray I will see such a day,

such a bloom of flower,

such a Spring.

How great is Man!

How great will man become?

Will he ever echo the potential

contained in the gleam

of the child’s eye,

and will I the father proud

see the evolution

be allowed

the joy of

Mankind’s ascension to the altar

of his own promise?

Complacence

I no longer excite you

in the bedroom or the mind

and lo, this roof we raised

with our own four hands

and these supporting walls

so lovingly painted to reflect our eyes

have paled,

and yet we continue to walk towards the horizon

hands clasped tightly

as sun falls, unstoppable

Is this love

your eyes ask the silent sky

We grip hands tighter

to keep from falling

in sideways freefall

never noticing

how like chains

our interlocking fingers are beginning to look.

Look to the Sun

Whisper her name into the wind,

if she does not return

in body

and shade falls on your heart

remember

shadows are shadows

and not scars,

they fade easily

in the morning sun.

Learning to Dance

Briefly you danced

upon checked floors

under lights of stars and angels

I was entranced

then watched you soar

beyond the bonds of these strange shells

It was a time beyond compare

It was a time that wasn’t fair

So now I dance

silent, alone

but the stars burn even brighter

For this romance

this jewel, this stone

is in night’s sky despite her

Leaving me in this silence

Leaving me in this silence.

Lonely Thoughts on a Cool Night Under the Stars

The moon is a sliver

like it has sliced through the sky

a tiny wound

and one wonders

why there is no bleeding,

why there is no blood.

Investing in Spring

Springtime is coming,

by its side

rejuvenation

Certain hearts are able to

feel it

inside the walls

the fragile walls

of their purity

While Masters of the Universe stand

empty

weeping beside the rubble

of their crumbling castles

fallen to ruin

before their unbelieving eyes

Some would say this bitter irony

is just reckoning,

just judgment come to pass

like an executioner’s sword

through the neck

of a murderer

of children

But back to spring,

for it is coming and

by its side

rejuvenation;

and we,

we the pure

we the real

will be there

with our brooms and our shovels

to clean up the mess you have made

upon our broken streets

you once said

you would pave for us

in gold.

Lines of Futility

I wonder if it’s possible

To let everyone have their say

Or if it will all devolve

Like it did today

Can everyone not learn

To stop sometimes and listen

It’s better to bring together

Than incite division

The Sonnet Of Importance

And then, when the guns have fallen silent

And then, when the swords have been dulled by rust

And then will we know what it is that’s meant

By the thundering beat that’s ‘neath our bust

Not glory, fame nor immortality

Not colours, medals, bright and a-glimmer

Not brave feats of Hollywood gallantry

Not memories than only grow dimmer

Instead it is truth – the bonds between men

The connections we make during our time

Not the people long-gone, lost, forgotten

But the ones who remain, there to share wine

My friends, my family and ‘course my love

There’s nothing greater below nor above.

I wrote a poem last night that referred to a poem, I read a couple last night, randomly, in a book I have on the go, and I've noticed several on here today. Poem becomes a symbol for artistic expression, for confession, for commitment, and for a whole slew of other things, but do people who don't write poetry (just read it) appreciate that, or do they find this constant poem referencing annoying at best, narcissistic at worst? Just wondering.

If Shakespeare Got Caught Cheating On His Girl, A Sonnet

I cannot sing a song for you today,

No music can I gift to you, I feel

As though I’ve failed and now in great dismay

Am humbled and can only stop and kneel,

And like a sword from knight to royal queen

Do I present to you a single rose

And hope that in your heart you will then glean

Wherefore the yellow flower I had chose,

Whose pedals were the colour of the sun

And thorn as sharp as eyes of my desire,

Admit to God you are the only one

I love, ev’ though she had stirred my fire.

So with this man will you agree to live,

His passions, you graciously forgive?