Piteous my rhyme is
What while I muse of love and pain,
Of love misspent, of love in vain,
Of love that is not loved again:
  And is this all then?
  As long as time is,
Love loveth. Time is but a span,
The dalliance space of dying man:
And is this all immortals can?
  The gain were small then.

  Love loves for ever,
And finds a sort of joy in pain,
And gives with nought to take again,
And loves too well to end in vain:
  Is the gain small then?
  Love laughs at "never",
Outlives our life, exceeds the span
Appointed to mere mortal man:
All which love is and does and can
  Is all in all then.

Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~
The meltemi winds crackle the wild millet,
Graze-feed upon the stalks of Greek plains,
The pelican scoops up the honeyed Aegean,
Waves of sunlit anise and almond in refrain,
Vestigial as the sweet persimmon from Egypt,
The hammered warmth from the flat anvil of Africa,
Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~

Not all was lost
to the beast,
nor to the silence
that sheltered it.

For deeper still,
beneath the rubble
of unspoken years,
the child remained.

Bruised, yes..
but not extinguished.
Hidden;
but not erased.

A breath still moved,
a spark unclaimed
by the darkness.

The beast does not feed  only
on the wound itself,
but on the hollow it leaves behind.
Gaslighting, scapegoating, silence..
all these are its masons;
carving out a chamber in the soul
where the beast makes its abode.

There, in the aloneness of the child,
it feeds from within,
claiming the silence as its fortress;

the emptiness as its throne.

And the door creaks again..
not always the first door,
   but another..
a new figure cashing in
on the void they sense.

Their entry feels like company,
   even love,
yet it is only continuance...
a repetition of the first harm.

Worse still when the creak
is painted with a smile,
when exploitation wears
the mask of care--
   The abode deepens,
    and the beast settles further
   into the soul.

Yet the fortress cannot hold forever.
The silence cannot smother forever.
Even the grave-dirt of denial
cannot bury it whole.

For the child endures
where walls collapse,
and the smallest cry
outlives the loudest lie.

The beast devoured much,
but not all.
And in what survives,
the future breathes;
a testimony,
a beginning,

    a voice
    that will not be hushed.

Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

       Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief--
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

       My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss--
Ah that maternal smile! it answers--Yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such?--It was.--Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting sound shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd;
By disappointment every day beguil'd,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.

       Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor;
And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.
Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair
That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd
A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and brakes
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so, to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorn'd in heav'n, though little notic'd here.

       Could time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I *****'d them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head and smile)
Could those few pleasant hours again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart--the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.--
But no--what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much,
That . I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

       Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"
And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide
Of life, long since, has anchor'd at thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd--
Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toss'd,
Sails ript, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From ***** enthron'd, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise--
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell--time, unrevok'd, has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine:
And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic shew of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft--
Thyself remov'd, thy power to sooth me left.

I sat beneath a willow tree,
  Where water falls and calls;
While fancies upon fancies solaced me,
  Some true, and some were false.

Who set their heart upon a hope
  That never comes to pass,
Droop in the end like fading heliotrope,
  The sun's wan looking-glass.

Who set their will upon a whim
  Clung to through good and ill,
Are wrecked alike whether they sink or swim,
  Or hit or miss their will.

All things are vain that wax and wane,
  For which we waste our breath;
Love only doth not wane and is not vain,
  Love only outlives death.

A singing lark rose toward the sky,
  Circling he sang amain;
He sang, a speck scarce visible sky-high,
  And then he sank again.

A second like a sunlit spark
  Flashed singing up his track;
But never overtook that foremost lark,
  And songless fluttered back.

A hovering melody of birds
  Haunted the air above;
They clearly sang contentment without words,
  And youth and joy and love.

O silvery weeping willow tree
  With all leaves shivering,
Have you no purpose but to shadow me
  Beside this rippled spring?

On this first fleeting day of Spring,
  For Winter is gone by,
And every bird on every quivering wing
  Floats in a sunny sky;

On this first Summer-like soft day,
  While sunshine steeps the air,
And every cloud has gat itself away,
  And birds sing everywhere.

Have you no purpose in the world
  But thus to shadow me
With all your tender drooping twigs unfurled,
  O weeping willow tree?

With all your tremulous leaves outspread
  Betwixt me and the sun,
While here I loiter on a mossy bed
  With half my work undone;

My work undone, that should be done
  At once with all my might;
For after the long day and lingering sun
  Comes the unworking night.

This day is lapsing on its way,
  Is lapsing out of sight;
And after all the chances of the day
  Comes the resourceless night.

The weeping-willow shook its head
  And stretched its shadow long;
The west grew crimson, the sun smouldered red,
  The birds forbore a song.

Slow wind sighed through the willow leaves,
  The ripple made a moan,
The world drooped murmuring like a thing that grieves;
  And then I felt alone.

I rose to go, and felt the chill,
  And shivered as I went;
Yet shivering wondered, and I wonder still,
  What more that willow meant;

That silvery weeping-willow tree
  With all leaves shivering,
Which spent one long day overshadowing me
  Beside a spring in Spring.

The body rarely appreciates,
So however we treat it,
Eventually it depreciates.
The soul,
If we give to it,
Will grow,
Its glow is eternal.
Beautify the soul,
They way you would the body and even more,
Afterall its the inside that reflects on the outside.

Life throws storms
I grieve, then stay.
Anger flares, loyalty remains.
A million miles won't break this thread.
Block me, **** me
I'm still yours.
Absence cannot erase our bond.
Life is brief; love outlives it.
I'll chase your smile through every time.
If not here, I'll find you next.
My vow endures beyond all ends.

Reality has spun its web,
Beneath the indifferent moon,
And as the ocean tides sigh and ebb,
It catches life- too soon.

Time has cast her heavy net
Upon the vacant skies
Begging dawn to ne'er forget
The sunsets slow demise.

Oh, fallen stars, don't fail me now
Your glow outlives your light.
Bear no sweat upon your brow,
For your death  is lost at night.

The sweetest eulogy does sound
Against the hollow space
That pushes the moon round and round,
Casting shadows 'cross my face.

I can be a star that shines through your night and day
a painting that sticks on the feathery canvas
the radar to your ship, the enduring campus
the words that are so difficult to say
I can be the one leaf in windy seasons that never falls
but sticks with you till the very moment eternity calls
the beautiful melody that never ceases to sing
the serene filled drone which may never sting
I can be the careful and graceful bird that never perches
the unnoticed but concerned eye that always watches
the willing helping hand in your times of need
the much desired friend in need,a friend in deed
I can be every joyful and melancholic poem you've ever read
a roseate flower whose frail petals never fade
the green thick dense canopy to always bring you shade
the one who makes your twisted world a better place
I can be wide spectral smiles to colour your love locked face
A friend against foes, a kiss on your cheek,
Or a secret in your palm to hold you whenever you're weak
I can be more than just a phone call and text
a mechanic who gets the wreck of your broken Heart fixed
Or lifeless images of glowing eyes and tearful emotions,
and the eternal rivers of hope flowing within to Oceans
I can invent the technology to teleport you here
be the keeper who whispers sweet somethings in your ear
the destiny you've always wanted to have
I can make that dream lad you've always wanted to love
if only you give me a chance,and to the rhythm of life rise to dance
walk barefooted through thorns, I can take the bull by his horns
I can be the Madonna whose bloom conquers all seasons
and outlives eternity if only you understand my reasons

Respect yourself enough to see that
Unlike where your heart may lead,
No woman should date a child.
Remember, new love will taste sweet
Until his comfort outlives his care, and
No woman should make him try.
Realize the vast potential he has
Understand the man he soon may be, but
No woman should make him grow
Raising men is for mothers, not lovers, and
Ungrown things need space and time
Now a woman should let him go.
|b.g.|

Let love be performed, as required.

Let desire flow, as it will.
Let excitement mount, as it must.

Let synchronized pleasure commence.

Let the hydraulic imperative be obeyed!

Now is the moment of peak sensation.



Let rhyme be used where it helps.

Let rhythm bounce when it can.

Let words speak to the heart.

Let form magnify sense.

Let the poem take flight!

Now is the moment of inspiration.



Let love grow stronger with age.

Let friends share our happiness.

Let thought guide us to wisdom.

Let our children be our epitaphs.

Let life be savored.

Now is a moment of reflection.

But ...

... Affection outlives passion.
... A good poem needs time to be born.
... Life might not ever make its meaning manifest.

Now is a moment of partial understanding.

Eschewing that second thought,
let me tell you what I truly sought
come, lock me up in your heart
you, I've no doubt  is a true despot

I don't hold back, life is way too short
can't heckle and haggle like an idiot
on the planes, see  profligacy of robust water
hills are in the reign of wild sun and winds

Here ends the vast fields of ripened  rice,
where prowl crooked foxes eyeing hens,
on the foot hills furious bisons flare nostrils,
as you climb,eager leopard smells blood.

Love is the  fragrance  that outlives the flower,
my trek to the mystic mountain continues where
**** and shroom grow tangled  everywhere
the trek to the love hill, to strike  gold,is in progress,

Whence come ye, so wild and so fleet,
For sandals of lightning are on your feet,
And your wings are soft and swift as thought,
And your eyes are as love which is veiled not.

We come from the mind,
Of humankind,
Which was late, so dusk and obscene and blind.
Now, 'tis an ocean,
Of clear emotion
A heaven of serene and mighty emotion

From the dim recesses,
Of woven caresses,
Where lovers catch ye by your loose tresses,
From azure isles,
Where sweet wisdom smiles,
Delaying your ships with their siren smiles.

We waded and flew
And the islets were few
Where the bud-blighted flowers of happiness grew,

Our spoil is won
Our task is done,
We are free to dive, or soar, or run,
Beyond and around,
Or within the bound,
Which clips the world with darkness around

The joy, the triumph, the delight, the madness,
The boundless, overflowing, bursting gladness,
The vaporous exultation not to be confined,
Ha! Ha! the animation of delight.
Which wraps me like an atmosphere of light
And bears me as a cloud is borne by its own wind

As the dissolving warmth of dawn may fold,
A half-unfrozen dew-globe, green and gold
And crystalline, till it becomes a winged mist,
And wanders up the vault of the blue day,
Outlives the noon, and on the sun's last ray,
Hangs over the sea, a fleece of fire and amethyst

The only love I have known is the bird that lives in my ear,
In the wind and cloud tunnel of long ago, with a hot salve
Of sunshine poured into the singing hole, the warm honey
Of wives’ tales, the remedy of home against the world,
Though the song has since flown.

(PART I)

My heart aged quickly
Much faster
Than my face lets to see.
Pumped with deceit
By things and many
Stabbed and asked to heal
Perpetually.
If there is such a power
As to completely recover
A lesson I never learned;
Because regardless
Of how well it survived,
The finishing line
A heart in pieces
Already from the start.
Back to square one
The heart has won
Matured a couple of years
A thousand with every tear.
The heart grows older
Each time it starts over
The heart gets wrinkles
That no night cream
Can meddle;
I move with a cane
Taken the ability
To love without restrain.

(PART II)

But every time
I am done
I bethink myself of
The time I was young
When I believed
Without seeing
When I knew
Only by imagining.
With every life experience
The heart has catered
Faith
Always seems
To pull me back in
And this ancient heart
Runs back to that route
On the verge of innocence
When the heart's skin
Was still so thin;
Not hardened
Nor overshadowed
And eyes still sparkling.
I do not mind getting older
As long as I get wiser
And the lesson
Withstanding alone
With every heartache
A heart doubling its age
The heart that still tries
This heart that is willing
To always begin a new life
Is twelve years old again.
And when my body
Will slow down
And my hair
Is no longer brown
I will love as long as I live
Leaving behind what outlives;
For nothing is as hard
Nothing more enriching
Than staying young at heart.

If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
    To do our country loss; and if to live
    The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
    God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

    By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
    Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
    It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
    Such outward things dwell not in my desires:

    But if it be a sin to covet honour,
    I am the most offending soul alive.
    No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
    God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour

    As one man more, methinks, would share from me
    For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
    Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
    That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

    Let him depart; his passport shall be made
    And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
    We would not die in that man’s company
    That fears his fellowship to die with us.

    This day is call’d the feast of Crispian:
    He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
    Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
    And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

    He that shall live this day, and see old age,
    Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
    And say ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian:’
    Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars,

    And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
    Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
    But he’ll remember with advantages
    What feats he did that day: then shall our names

    Familiar in his mouth as household words:
    Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
    Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
    Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d,

    This story shall the good man teach his son;
    And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
    From this day to the ending of the world,
    But we in it shall be remembered;

    We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
    For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
    Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
    This day shall gentle his condition:

    And gentlemen in England now abed
    Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
    And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
    That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

the inexorable finality of time

that outlives us all

clutches at exaggerations

that would conform

to pretentious intentions

and succeed in consummating

an accentuated design

of limitless flaws