Friday, 20 November 2015

The Ill-Fated Raven

To she, whom she knows, but I dare not say:
A dreadful morn hath past the hand strike ten,
This present makes haste; and the night turn day,
For this lovers love, and hers? may bloom again.
Try as I may but cannot win this doves
heart. For the fox hath within his grasp; Takes
her life, But not her love - The one she loves;
and closely guards, is the one heart she breaks.
The vain reckoning of this ill-fated
Raven; Is proclaimed by the heavens above,
Restrained by loves shadows, Cursed by cupid,
Cannot be resolved. True: These tales of love
could have ended in a different way,
But crushed that heart of mine to my dismay.

The Envious Raven

For what is this love, lest it be my fate?
Sweet Nancy, when I look unto thine eyes,
Vanity, possesses my conscious state:
So I swear on those stars Romeo defies,
By my bosom's lord, I'll lay hold of her,
'Cause to live a life without her is but
to live a life without love - a tender,
If be denied, cannot heal this heart cut.
Soft! A winged messenger of heaven
hath stumblest upon my secret vow -
O fair dove, Kill this envious raven,
Doth let love's heralds cry my love for thou,
Thy beauty is too dear for deja vu,
A mirror couldn't cast such a swan as you!


***My first Shakespearean sonnet 1998***

A letter to Leo...

To you, who makes haste at the softest glow,
need not run a leopards pace, or buckle under
the point of seizure, which, being pressed and
smitten with animosity changes his spots.
Lay low he, so not it be ensnared swiftly -
is victimized, suspended off all fours, is
unwillingly trapped, merited by its design,
situated in her favor, camouflages loves
hemmed barrier, snags an unsuspecting cub.

Lend your attention and heed this call, be
that of the jungle or not, for she be of the
female kind, wild and untamed, cannot yet be
domesticated until the scent of you is
becoming of her, then, if be allowed,
nurture and protect her under Mother Natures
wing, with a steady paw and watchful eye.

P.S. Not to worry, if trouble is amiss, a
tainted tail cannot control the body
attached to it, you command the direction
and thus, its followings....

My Dream Chameleon

I cannot explain the image of which
my eyes have not yet seen,
A woman that bears no name to me,
But awaits me in my dream.
I wish I could say her eyes were sky blue,
green, brown, or even grey,
But her hair colour too seems to change
every night to my dismay.
Twenty three years later she's still of age,
A perfect wife for me,
But the years go on, and so do I,
The less likely she will be.

Who is this woman, this chameleon?
Were we meant to be?
Is this some sort of practical joke?
A false hope of reality?
Even so, when she speaks: It's not my ears,
But my heart, nameless one,
That carries your tune - my one true love,
my soulmate, my dream chameleon.

A Widows Wake

Dawn.
Another lonely awakening to the mornings dew,
Another breakfast for but one, not two,
Another sleepless night and restless morn,
Another one less suit with tie not worn:
For one suit that still remains on he,
Is on my love who sleeps eternally,
Swallowed by the hand they call the sea,
Off the coast of Dead Mans Plea.

The birds hath not sung a brighter tune,
The dogs hath not howled under the half lit moon,
The trees hath not sway to natures song,
The road hath not taken seems but twice as long:
The laying of flower petals off the misty shore,
A step off the bow, sank to the ocean floor,
I find myself a knocking on heavens door,
To join my husband, my love, forevermore.

Acrylic Archangel

All was in Darkness...
Then, within the midst of blackness -
a perpetual light deprives the hollow spawns
kingdoms of Depression and Loathsome envy.
Buried amongst sleeping pictures,
A noble renaissance figure arises in valor,
only to finish that, what has already begun.

Etched in sandscript, an Angel,
Branded by Edens beauty and Cupids good fortune,
Opens up her apocalyptic wings, spread-eagle,
And love unleashes upon Berlins barriers,
Destroying the lost realms beyond all conscious comprehension.
As silence bestows over the parted debris,
Tranquility infills the cup with satisfying deliverance.

Ai, my heart, misshapen in petrified wax,
molded by the color spectrum of time,
separating Zodiacs signs with those stars of the heavens
that encircle the Earth, belongs to she,
whose painted fingers grasp, and brought to purse lips,drinks to our eternity.

A Feathered Image (The Imaginary Eagle)

As upon this page,
I can think of a cliff on a mountain top,
The fluttering of wings takes to flight,
As the cold chill of the wind's air
Breezes past the feathered body
That coasts along the ocean floor.
It soars into the heat of the sun on top of the clouds above
Watching the ocean seas as they drift along
In small easy waves.
Is that the eyes of an eagle
Watching through those clouds above?
Then within a flap of a wing
The eagle disappears into the clouds of imagination
Never to be seen again,
Unless this poem has been read once more.



***This was the very first poem I had ever written back when poetry was first introduced to me by my english teacher in grade 7 back in 1992/1993***