To Stella

Void of days uneventful
Foretold by misread fate
Culminates my residual
Sublunary awe of late.

Junipers of this fairyland
How diverge, converge,
Lilac of scents transcend
Your imitations surge.

So fervent is passion
To stroll untrodden leas,
The hopes of intervention
Deadens me in pleas.

Solemn sans the caress
Fraying, failing on cross,
All so desolate and as
Flowerless as a moss.

Hence even so I espy
Faces to mould, manifold,
Lest unbeknownst how I
To you shall be sold.

 

Sleeplessness

(Words I managed to pen 7 years ago. Back when the news of a certain woman's infertility did leave me with few. Childlike? I was, amateur? I am)

Not tonight,
Not tomorrow,
Not in this lifetime,
Revelations, not in the stars any longer.

Heaven is futile,
An eternal aisle,
Not lasting a while,
And hopes certainly rattle with a sound.

A broken room,
An empty cradle,
An obtuse poem,
Never enough to slay this quiescence.

Tears are cure,
Cure is unreal,
Reality is nonexistent,
The very own cabbalism of overnight life.

The bred silence,
A barren ambiance,
Change it all,
Or please, let her sleep for another night.

 

In all so seriousness

Only poets aren’t entitled to compose,
We con artists too with our two pennies
And tales as romantic as Monday mornings,
Sometimes we settle for bait than a catch.

Slight more than to what meets the eye
I always fall short to grasp my discourse,
As never do I go to bed with ugly wenches
Yet I sure have woken up with a few.

If the Crucifixion was for self-defense
I pen to bring forth a divinely comic me
So you may again get down on one knee
My two pennies on my beginner’s luck.

To land this playfulness to a sober end
I bid farewell to this joke unwitting
Unlike long ago I’d say ‘So long’ after
So long that no one would long any longer.


 

Memoirs of Kal-El

 

Lex Luthor: Clark, you can't save the world. 

All you'll end up with is a Messiah complex and a lot of enemies.

Clark Kent: I saved you, didn't I? That turned out all right. 

 

The lonely city candy affair

A pause in this loneliest city,
A dialog I add of footprints emerging
In chapter of turndown eternity.

Since I turn only to you undone,
In retiring light of the morning moon,
In stoic light of the evening sun.

It shadows my fairish glitter.
It blinds one if the sweetened white,
I’d shirk divorcing the mirror.

Shirk not envying the postman.
He pleases to please, ceases to cease.
For how your talk goes my pen.

The comfort I jilt of my shelter,
A bedpost and a seascape on the wall,
The universe for knocking later,

To become a mistletoe pendant.
On your oak where metaphors bloom.
My darling oxymoron, old friend.

On the bed cared-for when we lie,
Secretly open-eyed and close-hearted
In the compass of a needle eye,

Tickle not my fancy to flee often
To the slightest ice on the coldest lake!
Dilemma of half-lost, half-gotten.

Infant and redundant up the sky,
Down they blur to divide and conquer.
Sad! I can’t more than clouds cry.

Blurry streets I can’t but dread,
Where with each blink of my eye fades
The imprint of your silhouette.

Beneath the starry sky

Beneath the starry sky,

My love and I once lay

My lips fiery on

Her silky skin did stray,

Her eyes wilder I kissed

As she came nearer,

And asked of my dreams--

Then a secret to her.

Beneath the starry sky,

My love and I once lay,

No longer did my lips

Avid on her skin stray,

Her eyes keen cast about

Which so I did confer,

And read my kept scrolls

Of sleepless nights to her.

I Flicker

Eyes alight, feet that never tread the ground,
In these hazel shadows or steadfast starlight,
My concern remains to unfasten the bounds,
Who abjectly beg for aloofness from my sight.

Even the baron so sordid in his days existed,
In a veiled visit, I saw him coughing a lot,
“It’s worth it” a cleric by bedside insisted,
Sardonically I smirked, for knew it was not.

When a dame agitated agonizingly in labour,
Behind the bystanders I blankly did survey,
Making way my fingers calmly touched her,
Snatching her child unborn from belly away.

Reticent alike, I once intruded a gravedigger,
Enwrapped in shovelling with tied in frown,
For hours I, a languid spy, eyed with snigger,
Till my message a crashing oak brought down.

In fallacy of wakening to my tunes someday,
A watchmaker in his chamber torpid and sick,
Turned the keys of last watch and sans delay,
Softly resigned to the serenade of ‘tick tick’.

Each time, in my dim abode later on I flicker,
Ascertain to scoff the traces of this strife,
Dulled, I tranquilly write my name in water,
And stoop to see hollow legion falling to life.

Broken promise to a left behind fey woman

Cloaked in silence, these stars bear,
Spelt in book of my passionate dreams,
Demoiselle you have the wildest eyes,
What blinds are to see and deaf to hear?
Carven name I’d remember to baptize,
In the forest of promise, on every tree,
Woman of sacred heart, or so it seems,
I shall revisit for you’re dearest to me.

Queen's Lane Coffeehouse

 

And as walled chestnut pure,
Restricted imagery only secure,
Where the broken ones trade
Teacups and hearts glass made.

Steamed air from brew machine
Or precise miracles of caffeine,
Breathe counter born contribution
In hearsay or polite conversation.

Yet, of the shop in street corner
Soul lies not in beans however,
Rather ladies with skirts unfold
And sires who fondly behold.

Lovers, whose wishful eyes lock,
Let crescendo of wordless talk,
And loners, desolations surpass,
Gaze from behind the wineglass.

What’s sorrier than any woe?
For those who come and they go,
Comes who(ever), times cleave,
Because people always leave.

Writer's block

Opportunities galore
In a blank piece of paper,
But tall tales are short
Impressed on skyline.

Ironic to take it ironic
Turnabout is fair play,
Book of passing dreams
Stargazes a retrofuture.

Of shepherd, of nymph,
And other mismatches
In flip side couplings
Fancy befriended me.

As water pals up earth
Smear us with clay,
In plastic of plastic art
Opportunities galore.

Moon-worship

Incandescent aloft
Eyes past chimneys,
Atlantis in starry sea,
Watchful of valley.

O heavenly eremite,
Hard to sail ground
Share secrets but,
Why the otherwise?

Ghost of the tree?
Is but unreal lover,
Her tearful lashes
Are so for beloved.

Orchard scarecrow?
Eats not, neither sings,
Dispels, to whom
Dewy hay is manna.

Clueless I see you
Mirrored in the well,
As reflected rays
Flick back at me.

Caught Offside

He: Looking at you right now, it’s only fair to bet that the player you once were is elsewhere.

Me: Ever since I mastered controlling things around me, football fell victim to my own rigour.

He: Controlling a football is only possible on the field, not from the sills of your airy castle.

Me: A margin of preference is what left to decide the discourse of action and words, eventually.

He: You talk of preference but my halcyon heart knows better than to buy your words.

Boyish Messianic Complaints

Mother,
Do not touch my stuff
Do not move it
And do not tidy up.
As my possessions,
Touch imperfect,
Are bubbles to your touch.

Found is your touch.
Let’s make the ripper
Lost in the known.

For the very own sake of it

Clearly this is not my lineament. The ad-lib ideas and spontaneous kinks are far from something appropriate to be “blogged about”. Thence arrive to the finale where I offer my blood in exchange for foreignness to my own practices, in cases such, Blogging. What’s with blogging anyway? I’m certain to be comparatively better at snogging and hogging instead.

Stained history permits me to spoil even more desires, even more wells; so it ought to be safe to unleash this shrimp of a claim that within myself, as presumed, I find naught of any treat to anyone. I, therefore, rightly reckon to stick to Plan A, best players for best positions, and consecrate my humbleness to poetic mirage only, yes? *wink*

Poetry, I can ace any day but prose… drat.

Conceit (synesthetic metaphor)

I move and lost my ways,
But still David still plays.

Foremost

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,
Who d' you say flees the well-off breed?