reguiny2006 Poetry (108)

Flown, day's fiery planet's lingering blaze,
in vespers' loitering twilight haze;
the late-lit eve on parting wing
has travelled on, to light another spring.
Now, within this ever changing interlude,
a promise, the darkening hours include,
dull perhaps, compared with that of lingering day,
yet quietly, it glides along its astral way
with a million companions looking on,
the pallid orb that's our nocturnal sun,
with lesser colour, yet so beautiful
in graceful blush of light tranquil.
Through its whiten veil, wistfully seen
the blue-tinged silence of clouds serene,
whose textures fabric, finely wove
with silken threads from Arcadia's grove,
so gently descends the hushed moonlight,
soft as the barn owl's whispered flight,
where translucent rays with liquid glow
caress with care the chill earth below,
and brazen day's green spangled moss,
is clothed anew in a shimmering gloss.
Here, in solitude, the night thrush swoon
to the wonder of thy efferescent bloom,
with greeting gratitude, its pleasure denotes
the sweetest warbling from its throat,
and sings its sacred lines of care
to lovers, who at thy pleasant ether stare,
as subtle shades of light that's crystaline
enfolds the earth in some heavenly shrine.

How soft the artist paints a mild and coloured view,
how this season's changed from summer's gaudy hue.
Such textured exaltations,concordantly parades
to the admiringing eye,red rich luxuriant shades,
quietly falling from the, love kindled copious wood,
leaves flutter down where verdant spring once stood,
in unheard whispers, like as a sympathetic tear,
as if in contradiction's jest, beholds the dying year.
Flown the bird of fortune, whilst fleeting time employ
emotion, to heave the autumnal heart with joy,
tells of youthful spring, its passing time has fled,
gone the grassy paths that we no longer tread.
Oh! crimson painted leaves in tottering hours sway,
'tis nature's paradox her fond beauty in decay,
waft the dying scents that all around us swell,
perfumes the air we breathe in silence of farewell,
like as daybreak, after night's sweet dream
of vanished joys, when all at peace did seem,
whilst now we gaze on new found skies.
Congruent memory hold tight those hours we prize,
for all we loved to another age belong,
yet love endures to make our winters strong.

When my earthly fire extinguished be,
will thou at my carved cross appear,
to speak of love, my posthumous spirit near,
and lay a flower there for me,
or wilt thou come when others long since fled,
with soft proud voice, unfaltering kind,
read a verse I left thee long behind,
and chance, a tear fall from thy lovely head,
think of love that prospered through the snow,
speak of love, not from a moistened eye,
nor sigh to murmuring winds for its reply,
for fragrant memories are unknown to woe,

no tears of pity, just a smile I pray,
life's ingenious scorn has quietly passed away.

What matter, furrowed lines onward age,
long shadows play o'er complexions grace,
foul fallen to dials inconsiderate stage,
cosmetic hope alas fails youth's lost face,
fleeting flown, flaxen locks once gay,
grown grey by impotent hours instead,
life's brief date, its terror thus on display,
as athletic breath to satanic fires fled,
no matter, still we live in April's green,
sporting all, fair and vibrant true,
to better sketch, love in beauty's sheen,
a canvas gilded, in rich ornaments anew,

peerless gems are memories sparkling brave,
life's best jewel I've loved that heaven gave.

Contentment is not a gold filled abyss,
nor the flattering eye of a maidens kiss,
but the cauldron of love's chemistry,
whence guile nor wit unravel its mystery.
For each heart holds emotions rare
of perfume's waves that ever harmonise
the diamond cut of sparkling eyes,
courts the wingless narcotic air,
to lightly touch with infectious care.
Thus, sun-kissed dews of morning new,
reflects love's light still shinning through,
lace woven spun in softness so apply
ribbons bright, to heavens furnace sailing high,
where song birds to its ether hung
chirp love's lyrics ever sweetly sung,
in continuous voice for many an hour,
articulate the piquant heart's blithesome power,
to blindly breathe love's living tale,
annulling anger and low passion fail.
For brightest love, best in simple dreams,
in words, in songs, in eyes that beam,
radiance, like the cradled star of night,
the blush of light, the moon's soft flight;
such vistas, flushed with feminine grace,
give hope to halt the raging war's disgrace.
Love's contentment shall into winter flow,
A genial tapestry ageless spring bestow,
for hearts that love grow not old,
for love's not silver, just pure gold.

Oft in sullen pensive mood, I rue
soft and gentle words Poets use,
who with reasoned thought employ
love's accord to nature's changing joy,
Alas! Empty hours find no repose
to ease the pain of all my woes;
I, engulfed by some tidal wave
to darkest depths of ocean's cave,
flounder amidst uncharted ways
in endless hope of light to praise.
Fair wind consume this boundless sea,
to a haven safe from pending tragedy,
retrieve my soul from its abyss
that encounters gloom with playful kiss.
Laden's the air my breath to breathe,
when alone am I without thee.

In quietude I heard a voice uncouth,
that in younger times did softer sound,
speak out its bitter word of naked truth
to time's full flood, swiftly advancing all around
stormy thunders, where vexed lighting greet
the untenable scenes that fill the eye,
heart arresting from once its carefree beat,
wrought now on darkened carriage sky
in fitful theatre, futures morbid cast
mocks lost youth's most pleasant smile,
when barren reason thought spring would last,
Time alas, is but consistancy of style,

unfaltering in its full flighted flow,
ever transient as the summer's snow.

This extravqagance we'll enjoy awhile,
for short grows each passing mile,
more potent are the days gone by,
more precious the speeding hour that flies.
Sadly, now there will be little green
upon the harshness of the winter's scene.
So, in solemn fraility, I'll then reside
by the desolate dying fireside;
but; before the web of life has spun
and before the haloed journey past the sun,
and before the passing of the night,
again my vision will with passion ignite
the glowing embers, and once again caress
the remembered pain of too little happiness.

To Heather, m' wee bonnie lassie, died at the age of 9.

Heather's cascading rays of purple light
fills the vast unfathomable depths of night,
lush and rich as the lowlands' scene,
as lasting as the Highlands' evergreen.

Should I some Miltonian phrase recite,
or allow my hand my heart to write
a sonnet that would fill the air,
to express with eloquence words of care?
But in wisdom, I thought that I could not;
I thought again and then begot
the magnetism that invites the pen,
more powerful than intellect to defend,
thou, forever the poetry of my heart;
like Madonna's child, a world apart,
emotional intensity that brightly burned,
by fate subsided, now to a flicker turned.
Though dimly burns this light of thee,
from it shall darkest hours sunshine see,
nor the schemes of men could it destroy,
to be demoralised as a wanton toy,
cold, from this sullen dawn,
a senceless world of laughter torn,
its sombre greyness bears no compromise
to saddened smiles and tear filled eyes,
but close shall I embrace to my breast
the boundless joys, a treasure chest
of memories, each season now shall bring
re-kindled pleasures of remembering;
and serenely in each God given way,
recall the smiles of yesterday.
So, in springtime's glimmering glade,
where sunlight filters through the shade
and the wind, breathes softly with a sigh,
again I'll see the sparkle of your eye,
where from the virgin mountain scene,
who's snows purify the trickling stream,
that gives life to moss filled banks,
like your love,expressed in gentle thanks,
by hedgerow and yon furrowed field,
the song of spring begins to yield,
the flight of birds, the dance of flowers,
the warmth of rain, of sun filled showers,
spring to summer shall but fade, yet in disguise
with haunting melodies where song birds cry,
whence morning daises touched with dew,
by crisp clear skies of summer's blue
and lowland fields of marbled green
give peace, though God this way had been,
blessed here, moments of love that grows,
adorned with fragrance of the wild rose,
In clouds above, music of love's delight,
the choral symphony, the skylark's flight,
whose summer sounds that we hold dear,
will bridge the years that bring us near,
Alas! This magic must pass and transend,
to Autumn's wonder while summer ends
in a blaze of glory, with its flowers
that perfumed the long warm scented hours.
Now the leaves have turned again
and a little colder is the rain,
as if the splendour of summer to taint,
the woodland's scene with passion paint
their golden browns and yellow hues,
reflect the colours that still is you.

When tiresome day my mind annoy,
I dream of evening's fireside joy,
there the mead my lips to pass
and enjoy my love's contented glass.

To oft, the toil worn crowd so dearly miss,
the world of words that Poets ink e'er paint,
who, see Springtime, in Novembers grey abyss,
tho', drab dreary seen, is really coloured quaint,
yet, court not the avalanche of thoughts uncouth,
't'is but like love, that oftimes said is blind,
yet, severs still, falsehood from the naked truth,
't'is hearts exclusive scenery,untouchable, kind,
otherwise, 't'would scar the souls enlightened eye,
thus, the pen travels to lifes very fragile edge,
to scribe poetic muse, that, in each being lie,
each, an emotional facet, a panaramic priviledge,

so, sojourn awhile amidst life's poetic charm,
then, stormy undercurrents recede to contented calm.

Oh! ye narrow minds where barbarous thoughts belong,
what joy find you in treacherous silken tongue?
How with lofty air you proudly walk on snow
with arrogance abound, think your footsteps never show;
strut you like tigers, who flaunt their visual art
in amplification of stature, profanity impart
gestures ignoble, with generosity unreal,
solicit ignots, then dividends of interest steal,
self-centred wisdom, speak of books you so adore,
but books give not wisdom where there was none before,
Golden opinions effuse with intolerence prone,
oft know not the difference 'twixt desert and the sown,
still high-handed insolence approbation seek,
whilst cultured courtesy oft turns the other cheek.