MEMORIES, IN CHAINS

O dream me, one more flight --
kisses of the “Tiger Lily” orange
beneath the deep plum sky --
there I have no more mercy, no will
to stop the crying.
For one last brush with a pain so lovely,
there would be no cause to yield, as I
live each moment as the beggar, ever lost
along the gray trail of life --
colors constant fading, eluding.
For the faintest of thoughts and those
never to be shaken, I breathe in each
despairing hour at the tearing of my south;
this war far less than civil, and I
akin to the slave lost in emancipation,
set free, though left to tremble in memories
of what was lost long before the chains.
And so I fade once more --
a weighted burden in the cage of your heart,
there at least I know I’ll never be forsaken.

© Richard Joseph

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HARBINGER

Who mourns for you before the hollow moon,
carving loneliness out of empty spaces?
Beware of what you set in motion.

Undefiled, a solitary bassoon
sculptures absence in unsettled places.
Who mourns for you before the hollow moon?

Shafts of woodnotes shot through ravenous vacuums
corrugate grief on untenanted faces.
Beware of what you set in motion.

Platoons and platoons of misfortunates,
beguiled by rank jingoistic phrases,
who mourns for you before the hollow moon?

Parsimonious, creeping dawn will soon
devour the dark-rich night, cover its traces.
Beware of what you set in motion.

And you, my taciturn friend, harpooned
by the promise of unlovely stasis,
who mourns for you before the hollow moon?
Beware of what you set in motion.

© Jackie Fellague

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RAINY SEASON

The old pines shower off their pollen-scented limbs -
are cleansed by the steady hiss of rain
the gutters croon their fullness - spray the wall
where brick absorbs - accepts its share of pain.

I am the house that weathered out love’s fiercest storm -
your hurricane of passion whipped me raw
but I withstood that crazy battering - replaced
lost tiles - some shattered glass -a blown-in door.

Restored - I am repainted slick against the wet -
rogue gales can’t harm me now my heart keeps dry
yet when the rainy season comes it resurrects
some ache that lingers... troubling and sly.

I envy trees their ecstasy - their brazenness
they welcome the experience and thrive
on such attention - all the elements can throw -
they stand there - flushed with morning - so alive!

Now - far out on thought’s horizon - the clouds hang full
dark grey your eyes - your laugh a thunder-roll
that may or may not promise rain - the chances are
I’ll lift the blinds a little on my soul

and risk the sky’s unholy fire - its random stab
and feel your gushing breath stream out my hair -
blow the dust from corners - sweep all my bare boards clean -
my rooms made fresh - strewn flowers on the stair.

© Jean Harvey

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IN YOUR CHERISHED DREAM

On the vase of your colourful life,
Do I bloom as Ruby Glow
with cranberry petals
And rich purple filaments
With either full sun or partial shade;
... Or as a Maypop or other kind of Passion Flowers
In the centre of your dream?

Do I bloom as the Breath Of Heaven,
A woody Shrub, from Spring to Winter,
Evergreen, with lavender or white colour
In the cockles of your heart?

Do I as Honeybell, with slender yellow,
with honey-scented bell-shaped flowers
grow in the pair of your wishful fancy?
Let me grow like the Walking Iris
But ever and ever,
With graceful foliage and flowers
In the rainbows of your dream.

© Welkin Siskine

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