A lonesome notion
dancing from my tongue
cross an awestruck ocean
where turquoise tears come from.
Solitude is draining
isolation feels like wrath
scarlet sweat a-raining
along a damson path.
Indigo and violet hues
make vanished footprints smile
when vivid reds and blues
coalesce for a while.
When we come together
to form a colour circle
our strides will call to heather
on stepping into purple.
© poormansdreams
A picture frame on a wall.
Beckons; past-tenses,
with, iced, wooden sprawl.
Fingers point, in, stiffness,
to, stillness. A frozen clock.
Affixed in time.
Whilst, snow-capped, mood-lit mounts,
lift, to, chill, set; digits, mouths and lenses.
A memory, encapsulated,
for, a nostalgic blizzard’s seige.
Had, held, on, snowballed; smiling faces.
Which, roll, bolder evocation, upon release.
Who, knew, preserved eyes,
hands and hairs, could speak?
Of, simpler; age, designs,
or, a widow’s peak?
Knowing, not matters, to our; frozen clocks.
Grown; ever-after, in, houred emotions, oft.
Longing. Sweeps,
closing dregs,
from my skies.
With a clogged cloud,
of infernal lies.
Which scattered lives,
like windy festoons.
Marching leglessly,
to their own tunes. Across the horizon’s,
shot, parading lines.
The borders that are striven across,
find ancient frontiers at a loss,
without a syllabic language,
to wrap a searching tongue around.
As, the tree’s trunk, is; home to moss.
Which, cuffs speech, in, north-facing, accented gloss. A lush, viridescent vantage;
clutches Greensleeves, then, leaves resound.
Sporadic scions are birthed embossed. Yet, lowly,
cobs of common floss; listen to hollow sermons;
on bare, refusing, husk-shaped mounds.
A stoic beacon bears it’s projecting light.
In haunted, ubiquitous, intersecting night.
Pledging to guide us from perplexed unsight.
Into sprawling vistas of untombed serenity.
On colourful canvass bloomed prosperity.
In shimmering shades and tinged tones;
yellow, purple, red, green, blue, black, white.
Cockcrow burns gloomed, mourning void.
Blanket silence sets alight, destroyed.
Smouldered quiet sizzles wisps recoiled.
Another hushed night is abruptly spoiled.
New day is capped with a beaming crown.
Seen on high for galaxies around.
Clouds muster the courage to undenounce.
An atmosphere bursting bubbles, proud.
What becomes of we cherished beacons?
As ravined routes to darkness dig and deepen.
When we close our eyes invoking lights depletion.
We open days, hearts, nights and dream’s Elysian.
Yes, when we open minds fight for the weakened.
We shine; bold, unblinkered, bright;
Earth to Elysium.
© poormansdreams
We, oft, fall victim,
to grand expectations,
and stories that we tell ourselves.
Plunging; tall and stricken,
into concrete pooled stations,
from great heights. Atop lofty, trunking shelves.
Yet, there is enduring power in sheer belief.
That gives rise to flowers of blessed relief.
Belief is enough to grow far-reaching armly oaks.
From the tight fists of acorns; designed bespoke.
We, oft, raise champions,
from the splintered edge of defeat.
Chiseled and carved from drifting wood.
That, burn bright, in their transience. Or,
rout on seas forged by treen Empiric fleets.
Both, casting; mighty shadows, long, understood.
Yes, there, is; enduring power, in sheer belief,
for, conkers; to bloom into horse chestnut trees,
and, conquer worlds; of fire and water, brief.
© poormansdreams
Once. I paid,
the penultimate price,
of a life poorly led.
I left a scattered trail
of pale, poisoned coins;
that
never
did
suffice.
Lain on a floaty, cache-bought bed.
A specie, flipped, from; head to tail.
It landed, upon, my second eye, to join,
the reimbursement, for, the boatman. Twice.
I, then, entered, those; flickering doors, unever-after.
And. into, blind, eternal;
wax
and
waning
lights.
The third time,
I will close my eyes, and, have settled my debt to life.
To, Creation’s; dreamt-levy-fare, I’ll unbreak even,
with, bittersweet; harmonioustrife.
© poormansdreams
The sky h-irony.
That, the Sage’s, priceless advice,
of which, we held;
unique.
Can, now, be grasped,
by, the handly masses,
at, naught shekels,
a piece.
Is. A travesty.
Depravity. The gravity.
Forces us humble and bangs us,
crashing, to the Earth.
But, in the blink,
of a, Universe’s, dream-lit eye,
we, won’t be, matter, at all.
We, won’t, even, matter in a flash.
We, will simply be;
bonely words, aflame, to ash,
dug and buried,
for the dirt.
© poormansdreams
Listen; to, the Ancients, speak.
When you hold a conch,
to your ear.
Hearken, to their patience leak.
Their, sagely, fonts,
that make, the muddy; clear.
The Ancients, speak, but are, rarely, heard,
by herds of shepherds, unflocked, absurd.
Strewn, beleaguered; city, valley, plain and peak,
are pining, for; pricking lugs & sound alerts,
wet, flowy words, grass & rock can creek.
That follow; missed, ancestral, laked tracks, off-beat.
Listen; when, the Ancients, speak.
In night-visiting tongues,
of babbled dreams.
A messaged crypt, latent.
Secrets; passed and yond,
along; subconscious streams.
If, you, eavesdrop, inside of yourself & underneath,
within; your earholes & below soles under peat.
That’s where, souls and spirits, silently, conversate.
Listening, in peaced sanctity, knelt; at, Ancient’s, feet.
© poormansdreams
Kept tied-up inside a spirit’s lair.
An apparition came to visit I.
Imprisoned in dungeons of despair.
Her flowing sari gave me shelter.
From the usual evil premonitions.
Inane sooths explicit, die, unlistened.
To yarns unravelling like hair.
She spoke without saying words.
She simply placed her soul next to mine.
And minus verbs. Clarity interred.
Everything made sense for a single time.
Our fervours frolicked for a while.
Across each prysmal universe they danced.
And when I reached to jump the final stile.
Intense woe left hearts a-pity in collapse.
Then I felt a phrase steep all over me.
A phrase that only I have ever known.
She plumed my heart and inscribed notably;
“You’ll only become what you’re meant to be
when it’s your time to go.”
© poormansdreams
Gambled legacies etched upon shifting sands
blame the Sun for lost stakes fading into gusts.
Sirocco’s, mouth is covered by, Her, dealing hand.
Spun, sabulous teeth grit, Her, laughter’s thrusts.
Whilst chuckling, Sirocco, the windswept croupier, whispers,
“They bid to parch the Earth
and after losing cry.
Over unwinning, desert turf
below a blackjack’s Saharan sky.
Gravel stuck betwixt sticky fingers, toes
wryly smiles at their slotted inner-soles.
Beaches raise when caught in throats and eyes
flush, spluttered coughs mock orbs undry.
They blame Godly Ra that shuffled and ran them life.
And, wonder why we laugh at their burnt demise.”
The ‘they’ is you and I, we fickle shards
who have already begun to drip and melt.
Like, a mountain-peak’s deck of cards
that a scorching Summer hotly dealt.
Remember, that, The House of the Rising Sun, will always win.
When humanity plays a bested ace after the bets are in.
For we’ll set and settle up long before the House’s reign
can fall to absorb our vain, mortal, soaked disdain.
© poormansdreams
poorman'sdreams 