Frangipani

papeeteFinal

 

 

 

 

 

Evening on the bluestone quay
in Frangipanied harbour air
where palm trees bend to sip the sea
askew with dubious gravity.
A cooling layer of gentle breeze
consumes the day’s dull torrid heat
and coconuts freed randomly
beat earth’s arrhythmic pulse.
Leashed along the timeworn cleats
fast thoroughbreds of classic sail
mahogany and brass and braid
all burnished bow to stern;
laughs and shrieks ambiguous
clinked crystal rings and guitar strings
accompany glad ambience
along the wave-lapped wall.
And me contented just to breathe
the balm of Frangipani

The View From My Age

The view from my age expands with every year
Though the horizon pretends no variation now;
The years disclose paler patchwork fields
Yet prudent stalks wield rich and finer yields;
The slender trees though frangible and spindly
Weigh less fruit but of rare and savored fare;
Rocks once rough eroded now and smoothed
Regale with narrative their storied strata bared;
The undulating contours and aquiline relief
Wear wrinkles sculpting countenance of character.
I’m more drawn to the towering back-lit peaks
Than to the gloomy gorges dipped in shade.

Codicil

bowtie

 

 

 

 

Please dress me in my three-piece midnight black
To suit me for this funereal occasion;
Donate my chequered ones to those who lack
The pattern of my life’s bright inclinations.
Then knot a fine bow tie to flaunt my tastes
The yellow one adorned with red carnations
But do not cross my arms or fingers lace,
I’ll not go in a stance of supplication.
On coffin’s silk please place near my right hand
All memories of my childhood and my children
And at my left the greatest dreams I planned
Achieved or not, they formed my apperception.
The volume of love’s pain and grief won’t fit;
Good riddance then, I’m finally free of it.

Two Eagles

Aspiring poets like myself searching for our own poetic ‘voice’ are advised to practice by emulating admired poets. This exercise has been found to heighten awareness of personalized delivery, leading to the development of one’s own individual voice. I share this tip with you good reader and the following attempt:

The Eagle
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1851)

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

~

The Eagle
by Mike McGuire (2014)

His wingtips sensing here and there
Through abstract tightwires in the air
Foretelling foe; foretasting fare.

Fraught talons taut on brittle branch
Absorbing tremors, haunches flinch
Then savage dive with deadly clench

Virus

Ebola_Virus

 

 

 

 

In a heartbeat
of lust-like licentiousness
a deviant microbe replicates
as parts of its sum cleave
with global generosity

Its sundered progeny hide
among invisibly merciless
hosts of mephitic atoms
aiming without targets
miasma sans frontièrs

Breathlessly we breathe
shun lover’s kiss of death
a close hug comforts none
grave world mulls end of life
in a heartbeat

Living Large

adobemac november-10-2006-flickr-creative-commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes when living large we meet a squall
Or turbulence perturbs our arrowed aim,
Quite commonly some barrier forestalls
Or vague hint that our path might end in pain.
At other times approaching zenith nigh
The altitude has queer effect on sight,
We squint to see if we have gone awry
And then we find a stop-sign glaring bright.
Instead of hedonistic fame and power
A better gauge to measure life’s success,
Would calculate time used to smell a flower
And calibrate health, love and happiness.
A barrier can serve us to remind
We’ve left the purpose of our course behind.

Writer’s Block

notepad_pen

 

When asked his most feared thing
Papa Hemingway replied – a blank sheet of paper
Today that same pale page is mine

Sappho wrote – What cannot be said, is wept
Yet nothing flows fluidly from my mind’s eye
My soul’s ambrosial reservoir unfilled

The Bard declared – The purpose of words is to give them away
So I am the beggar starving with a hunger to host
a wordthy banquet where all may gorge

But because Bukowski barked –
Writing about writer’s block is better than not writing at all
I offer nothing but these thoughts this day