In the darkest night...

Look at the sky.

Though it may cry,

through the cloud,

screaming loud,

there is a star,

with all her power,

that's burning bright.

Though hidden from sight

the darkest night

becomes light

and easier to bear

just knowing that it's there.

Mightier

Would you quote Shakespeare when in a fight?

Would you use Beckett's words to prove you're right?

Is what you say important in a fit of seething rage?

Can Byron's colours paint on your personal angry page?

Are words from Wordsworth worthy of your ego?

'sit better to throw Wilde than to just wildly throw?

Words, too, in fact can take a form quite terse.

How bloody would war be if we use Lennon's verse?

Perhaps what may work is to sometimes use silence -

The shrug of Chaplin's shoulders always held some poignance -

For the power of a word and just what it can do

perhaps weighed heavy on good ol' Moses too.

Dreams for dinner

Across the bounding ocean and the open sea
are served dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.
Also, an appetizer of trust and a soup of welcome
with a salad garnished with a smile to not seem too solemn.
"Come, ye huddled masses!", cries the Maitre D'
as she offers dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.

'tis the land that opens arms to folks of various kind
with the promise of greens of law and drinks of peace of mind.
They come from far and wide like ants to a sugar mound,
hearing stories of those before them - how sweet they made it sound.
The meat of money and the gravy mix of justice and liberty
are in the plate of dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.

They drink the wine of wealth that makes a millionaire
or eat the bread of a taxi cab with equal lack of care.
They bring a piece of herb or spice and blend it in the sauce
to remind them of a piece of home and make lemonade from loss.
They've come for a reason: make life all it can be -
They love their dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.

No meal can be called complete without a touch of sweet.
A day-long life, too, must end with a little happy treat.
A pudding made of cream and eggs and the soft flour of choice,
with a cherry added on the top, of the promise of a voice,
soothes them to a sleep, secure, in the inn of democracy,
after eating dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.

Midnight pass

There's a haze in the air. 

Gloria's in my hand; it's been a while. 

Floyd's pink guitar 

playing in his inimitable style.

The madness mellows

the world isn't shining in its morning glory.

Even the spin slows

as every teller slowly spins a story.

All the world's a-playin'

and every bit character's a stage

with lines to be sayin'.

Every lit window's another page.

A time when alcohol

has, every sin of nicotine, negated

and conversation is all

about pathology 'tween creator and created.

In the light

of screen-savoured glowing prisms

we delight

in spanish, french and euro rhythms.

Spanish strings

in the background; talk of twinkles from a window.

And of horns and wings

and traditions of people who up and go.

All kinds of carols roll

as they pass in the midnight's mass.

We awake and cajole

a sunny rock-n-roll Christmas.

What I felt the world needs

When air about

is one of doubt,

anger, hate,

and hollow debate;

when all around

distaste is found

and dejection and disaster

make cynicism grow faster;

when a shadow, so dark, its head rears

and the soul does tremble as it fears

that the only message one wishes to send

is for this filthy world to end

let's give thanks.

Let's give thanks

for the fact that birds still fly;

that grass is green under a somewhat blue sky;

for the fact that music lives

still and our hearts, some hope, gives;

for the tender smile

that we see once in a while

in a passing stranger

without any danger;

for the life we gave a child

who's still so innocent and mild

she weeps as the last flower falls

and is overjoyed at the koel's calls;

for the fact that we still see beauty

in an actor's performance of his duty;

for the joy in that bounding greeting

the street dog shows in the everyday meeting;

for the wonderful part

played by wonderful art

in our lives

and in our hives;

for the invention of the pop-tart;

for the late morning's sleepy start;

for chocolate and coffee;

for wine and whiskey;

for an evening's gentle rain;

for good ol' mary-jane;

for trees of green, red roses too;

for every time someone said, "I love you.".

And last of all, but standing tall,

before this world of ours ends,

let's all shout and make it a call:

let's give thanks for all our friends.

The morning after

The morning after

a regular night with a nip in the air

and dreams of the coming morrow's care.

The morning after

a sumptuous meal that followed a drink

and conversation and company's clink.

The morning after

the chilling of many street-dwellers' bones,

for which the warm morning sun atones.

The morning after

a whole day's choices and sub-conscious voices

that slowly became ignorable noises.

The morning after

a full day's toil of truth and lies

and helium plans that hope to rise.

The morning after

a silent night of truthful sleep

where falsehoods and illusions cannot creep.

The morning after

the passions of head-boards, sheets and pillows

as a healthy expression of screams and bellows.

The morning after

a story of conflicts and resolutions;

of wanton sins and their absolutions.

Tock, you lazy tick!

Written some time ago, for a different purpose. Wasn't used, and found it's place here.

I yearn in aching pain
yet know there's nought to gain.
Twisted in knots
the gut slowly rots.
Oh why do I yearn in vain?

I know the ticks of clocks
and their respective tocks.
Egyptian or Swiss,
not one they'll miss.
I'll knock off their socks!

Oh dreary second's hand:
each movement made so grand!
You think you're great
for all must wait
for you, your tick, to land!

You cannot move too fast!
I doubt that I will last!
This week must end!
If't does, I'll send
you gifts of glory, vast!

I know the clock must tick
but a week to be so sick
is rather cruel.
I'd fight a duel
to tock that lazy tick!

And I shall tell you why
and what doth lie so nigh,
that being so near
it's still not here:
the object of mine eye.

This week has truly been
among the worst I've seen:
Nauseated
constipated
and now in pain, obscene.

For I've been ill as hell
and long to be well.
You see, 'tis health - 
that precious wealth - 
for whom my heart doth swell.

Devil's bane

The devil came to me last night and said that he'd lost his insight. 
"I can't see into the soul", he said, "anymore, there's just a hole."

I asked the devil whose inners he'd viewed, being delicate so not to be rude. 
He said, "I've seen them all. And the sight can only appall."

"In the grand scheme, I play a role. It is my lot to consume the soul. 
Now and then, a calamity I carve. But now what do I do? Starve?"

Our chat had got quite hot, you see his flames were leaping a lot. 
My cat was scared with hair on end. I had to calm this new-found friend.

And then the thought, to me, occurred - all of this is rather absurd. 
It's 3 a.m. and the devil's decided it's time that he, in me, confided.

I don't mind lending an ear to an acquaintance or a dear. 
But apart from a cosmic being of yore, I had never met this fellow before!

So, my privacy invaded; all of hell my bedroom pervaded, 
I had to soothe the devil's agitation - The world needs this whiny apparition.

"Let's analyse the situation", I said calmly and with conviction. 
"The world's folks have lost their souls and in their place are only holes".

"Yes yes!", the devil paced. His flames followed. My mind raced - 
which wasn't very easy for me: you see the time was five past three.

"Are you sure?", to ask I dared. In return, he only glared. 
"All right.", with resignation, I said, rather than with fear or dread.

I remembered my high-school physics - one law of thermodynamics. 
Energy can't be destroyed or created; the universe, whole, must be equated.

And so I decided to state this law to one who once, the Big Bang, saw. 
He slapped his hand to his head. "Oh bloody hell", he sighed & said.

"I can't explain how the cosmos works. Your ignorance really irks. 
The only thing I want to know is where the souls are. Where did they go?"

His single breath grew to flame as his demand, he did proclaim. 
"This world was made to hold them dear. How could they just disappear?"

And from his fiery eye did fall, a single tear that changed it all. 
He wiped it away beneath his hood and that is when I understood.

If the world had no soul it meant the devil, then, had no role. 
As it dawned on me, his flames died and the devil sat down by me and cried.

Epic('s) secret

Through the torment of life and the fear of damnation
flows the invigorating blood of imagination.
The nectar of creativity, aliased inspiration,
flows down a thigh, to the mouth of a lover's perversion,
taking the form of a red burgundy wine
mirroring the fiery breath of lust, divine.

Life is in the senses - yet we meditate.
Death is inevitable - yet we procreate.
The senses entice, ensnare and enhance,
yet in introspection, we try to dance.

It is the quickening of the pulse of an ever-tiring heart
that sparks off the passion that rips decency apart.
To reach deep beyond its bosomed burial -
The passion to exhume is the epic trial.

The fire that lies buried beneath
is not an heirloom to bequeath.
It dies as quick as a whiff of breeze
and can be fanned with equal ease.

As the heaving of anticipating breath does rise,
and the depth and intensity of mascara-laced eyes
betray the desire, 
the lust and the fire,
comes a moment of clarity and realisation
that true vision lies in allowing intoxication.

To taste the sweetness of poetic form
is the purpose of lips - soft and warm.
For in that moment of diabolic contact
the universe ceases existential impact.

No burning stars or spinning moons;
no flooding waves or shifting dunes -
The moment of wanton elevation
is its own emancipation.

That sliver of clarity is what many a bard
have fought to seek so very hard.
Would it, so many past generations, soothe
to know that the answer is such a simple truth?

This isn't a tale for the faint; not a writ of morality;
not of love or life or death, but within each, the duality -
The blurred line that fails to divide the sensual from spirituality;
for in a moment of ecstatic joy lies the coveted immortality.

If I die...

Maybe I'll see a bit of life,
if I die a little tonight.
Maybe there'll be a little less strife,
if I die a little tonight.
Perhaps the stars will conspire
if I die a little tonight
to give the blaze of a funeral pyre.
If I die a little tonight
it may be a loss for all of history.
If I die a little tonight
there may be ballads strung about me.

I wonder how many would take notice
if I die a little tonight.
They'd assign a detective, perhaps a novice
if I die a little tonight.
There'd be a fairly traditional mourn
if I die a little tonight.
A handful of people would be forlorn
if I die a little tonight.
There'd be sad things on facebook
if I die a little tonight.
But right now, no one would really look
if I die a little tonight.

If I die a little tonight
who would continue to write this blog?
If I die a little tonight
who would be the keystone cog?
If I die a little tonight
who would hold together this world?
If I die a little tonight
who would remember the meaning of "knurled"?

A candle would give itself to burn
if I die a little tonight.
This verse of mine, I would earn
if I die a little tonight.
They say an artist should be sacrificial.
If I die a little tonight
I think they'd think it artificial.
If I die a little tonight
perhaps it'll be a play one day.
If I die little tonight
(This line stays open for you to say).