Picture: Paul Militaru. Thankyou.
Angels’ humble prints
leave us mindful of our lives
and its harder plains
the strangest dreams;
the straddled, muddy gateways
to our wilder streams
at their seams.
They brim with
tepid in colour,
but rampant in verve.
They’re marching o’er still acres,
heart to heart,
trickling like viscose life
A quadrille is a 44 word poem.
Wouldst thou call
on love’s embrace
and its clumsy cuffs
of flimsy lace
to wrap warmly
and surround thee
when spectral lights
adorn the sky,
and snow ghosts,
haughty, loom at night
only to come and haunt thee,
and if thou were touched by such
as she and her lustrous trumpery,
wouldst thou still forswear
under this black maire,
our undying love, but yet vow
to leave me?
Wouldst thy call on it?
As the blackest consequences fall,
dimly, the lights do cower.
Wrap a sling on what is happening,
a soothing for those deeds most dour.
Cities ruminate and eagles spread,
bare chested crests have fallen,
gliding still on uneasy shifts
in tumultuous winds and their calling.
Growling, angry, red faced fire (‘fire like you’ve never seen’,
there’s never been such a fire; a good fire!)
seats the ferment of a land’s
crackling glories and scattered chances
all swept by a wretched, wounded hand.
In today’s time of glorified turmoil,
we see full horror at first glance;
faced with egomania, now a common aura,
and with this disease, we have no chance.
Summer is hushed now
Autumn’s lowly howl murmurs
Bring on the chatter?