All along the river are landing stations and stairs,
surviving conspicuously since Chaucer's tales.
Ode to the joy of bear-baiting and drunken affairs.
Ode to the joy of affairs.
All along the Fleet,
one might meet a young man fleeing from charges of parricide.
All along the Fleet,
one might meet a young girl fleeing from a den of men.
An evening at The Rose might admit impediments.
An evening at The Rose might last until the edge of doom.
If Visscher's view had outlasted time,
these last 400 years could serve as a paradigm.
Brother,
I will die for you.
But please, do not rejoice –
this is not a declaration
of my loyalty to your life.
I plan to kill myself tonight, brother…
for you – please do not try
to stop me.
I do not want to hear
of my life's value; I
do not want to hear your rage
at the thought of my
perceived uselessness.
I know my life weighs on your soul,
and challenges your style of living.
I know that we clash
more often than we intertwine, and
it is for that reason that I
choose to die.
I will rid myself
from your existence,
for you.
I do not say this to implant guilt;
please do not misunderstand.
I choose this path, brother, because
I love you. More than words
can ever hope to describe
in a world filled with words
callously used to hide behind.
Sister,
I will die for you.
Please, hold back your tears –
this is not honorable.
I will end my own life…
for you.
Do not worry; I love life,
and all of its splendor.
The trees call to me
in sweet tones that allow my
mortal mind to forget time.
I am allowed space
to unfurl my physical trappings,
to relinquish my understanding
to the Soul of the World and
refill my cup with eternal love.
The symphony of life quells
my restlessness in
ways Western medicine seeks
to mimic, but cannot quite replicate.
But my reverence for such beauty
is in opposition to construction
and progress. I cannot abide
endless consumption, so I
will remove myself from this
global equation,
for you.
Lover,
I will die for you.
Do not look at me with such disdain –
this is not Shakespearean tragedy
manifest.
I poison myself because
I long to die… for you.
I am not naïve;
I already dearly miss your skin,
the current surging within
that revitalizes my soul.
I will forever hold your love
as the pinnacle of this physical world;
the height of true majesty,
paling the purple of the mountains
from the land we came from.
Most of all, I adore your eyes,
as they diminish my existence
with the immensity of Gaia’s power,
wrath, and benevolence… I
will miss those fiery windows most of all.
I realize my Aquarian tendencies
leave my head cloudy with images of
utopia – images in stark contrast
to our civilization,
this reality you remain grounded to.
I know that is why we are no longer
in each other’s arms; your absence
shaves my humanity, membrane by
membrane, so death seems
inevitable. Why not cut
to the chase?...
for you.
Humanity,
I will die for you.
I will not be a martyr – I
am not strong enough for this world.
I imagined myself an actor
in a new age play,
a catalyst of a movement toward
enlightenment. But I am
meek, and incapable of lasting
through to the end of this struggle.
When hard times come,
as they always do,
I will not be here. Someone
more capable will take my place
beside you. Someone with
unflinching bravery and
unlimited strength to guide,
and be guided by you.
I am sorry and I apologize;
it cannot be me. I
am weak.
CLF 2015
I hate it most and can’t tolerate the least,
When people intentionally and by chance mispronounce,
The name of the greatest dramatist,
They don’t even deserve forgiveness equal to an ounce.
The ‘Bard of Avon’ would possibly slap that very person,
Once he heard his name pronounced as Sexpeare,
Thus none should ever worsen,
His own position by abusing the name of the wonderful star.
Shakespeare’s spear was his gracious pen,
A genius none could surpass earlier, none ever can!
"What will you do when I'm gone?"
He asked, with his usual warm, selfless way,
Sharing ice chips and Shakespeare,
As we brought in the dawn,
The shadows of night fading
On the pale blue walls
Of the beach house, and seaguls
Meeting on the balcony, frolicking
To the sonatas that called out from the foamy shoreline.
As I reached for the washcloth to wipe his brow,
He querped, "Probably go to more yard sales...",
And I smiled a smile,
His jovial verbal caresses
Unveiling a still sensuous glint
Of the timeless rapture
Shared by two people within a single lifetime,
...I sighed,
"Yes, why, of course I will my love", I replied,
And our eyes locked,
As we reveled in the last moments of a sparkle
That had found it's way to light the many years, now
Bidding a quiet and majestic farewell,
"And after that?", he muttered, gasping one last breath...
...and then...the warmth of his hand held in mine until cool and ashen.
Wiping the single tear from my cheek, replied,
"I shall finish Shakespeare,"
...as the sparkle left my eye, and found it's way to my heart,
to be tresured for eternity, the part of me that is also him, deep inside.
11:30 PM 5/11/2013 ©
My Juliet, my vine,
‘Did my heart love till now?’
The unbreakable seal,
So lost in the torment of my soul,
Broken by a single kiss,
drawn by the ‘Sin from thy lips.’
And you may ask I love thee how?
You purge my soul,
Like an artist cleansing his palette.
Oh give me my sin again,
Teach me how I should forget to think,
For every day is full of wantedness,
Like a petal floating in the abyss,
Caressing the ocean bay.
I long to watch you sleeping,
I want a note on the door that says 'we're not in',
I want you to tell me you're feeling,
A reflection of yourself in,
My eyes that do adore,
Your very special being,
Meteor in my dreaming,
And the cold night it passes,
Till galloping horses chariot the sun,
And comes streaming,
Through endless mirrors of dizzy days,
And peace transcends,
Until again the moon rises,
And I long to watch you sleeping...
If all the world's a stage
and all the men and women merely players
Then I would like to know:
What happens when the curtain falls?,and
Who will make the curtain calls?,and
Who will incite the roar of applause?
All these things and one more-
Who is running the show?
I am undone: there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His archèd brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table,—heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favor:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.