IN THE EYE OF THE MORNING CROW
The moon has levitated once again to claim his place
High and gracious with smiling face
Spreading warmth with his soothing light
Embracing all, under his night.
Yet, along the stringent bulbs that glow,
And gentle mist, among soften blow,
The keen instinct, of a vigilant eye,
Sat the crow, that rested high.
The sullen fowl absorbs the madness,
Keeping him perched, aware and restless
The prying apparition, for which no one knows,
Though all is seen… in the eye of the morning crow.
The innocent wistfulness of a blossomed heart,
At bay in terror of what may start
From the darkened core, of a hardened soul,
Who arrives in vain, with empty bowl.
The fair maiden, of known love begotten,
For he unfortunate, love has been forgotten.
As the door then quake, with certain thunder,
All that is solvent, is surely plundered.
Now it is done, and remains unknown,
Though all is seen… in the eyes, of the morning crow.
A blissful youngling, of heart so pure,
With a world immense, with dreams to endure,
Pursuing shelter to keep him safe,
From the monsters that come, to spread dread on his face.
Why must this be? Such brave constitution,
Justice hides well, without vocation
As the bruise is hid well, no one shall know,
Except in the eye… of the morning crow.
Ebony cloak doth cover brilliant,
This darkened shade of pondering remnant,
As he does peer in, stealthy this steed,
For those asleep, soon will heed,
On through this chamber door,
To lurk about the innocence, that is yet explored.
Unknown to all throughout this abode,
Except in the eyes… of the morning crow.
Inside the horror of taken mind,
Anxious distress in colden shrine,
An aged face peers hesitantly down,
Toward a shadow of life come unbound.
The bedarkened silver that lay in rest,
With love’s sweet spear, aimed at breast.
A tragic moment then twice bestowed,
To only be seen, in the eye… of the morning crow.
The sun is sure to come alive,
And dismiss the moon upon his rise,
With radiant offerings, for the world to drink,
As the weary fowl takes a moment to blink.
Then he will fly away, from the madness unknown,
To all remaining still unknown,
Except in the eye… of the morning crow.
THE SILENCE SO LOUD
At no point during this day,
Nor any other, could I look
Back to say… that such
A fanciful sound, right as rain,
Has ever another ear have found.
Uncertain, of course, to stake
Such a claim, never the less,
I shall take the blame.
While I ponder the thoughtful
Differences between fact and fiction,
With a mind all to sure
Of its apparition.
(But, damn this sound that pierces thunder!)
That must paralyze me to a redundant wonder,
And make no mistake to think trivial
Of sounds great, or perhaps insignificant,
That may break. For, I’ve just lost
An hour of life over nothing fonder…
Than the sound of ice, melting
In my glass of water
THIS DECEMBER
In the midst of a winter cool,
Walking lost...aimlessly in motion
Among the cardinals, and flying snow,
With the December wind at a gentle blow,
Deep in thought of days gone by
And nights forever gone,
With a bleeding heart beating fast
Remembering these memories past,
Of another one or two
Perhaps a few more
Wondering, what at all, they held me for
Though these memories I will keep,
As they fly by and by
Forever my mind will remember...
As I walk on through this December.
