Three seasons

A familiar waft of fragrance suffused,

Stairwells abandoned and broken;

My system to detect it almost refused,

Or at least, grant its access a token.


I counted the previous seasons trine,

Nine months we have not spoken,

Lord knows I haven’t ceased trying,

Our friendship I have not forgotten.


Yet when this comforting scent arose,

My swollen heart was hence forsaken,

Woefully, the fond memories and prose,

Windy gusts of December have taken.


Pardon my eyes’ unwelcoming gaze,

My worth and pride have now awoken,

The days set your debris and dregs ablaze,

I dismiss you excused and I am not mistaken.


A voyage to the unknown

These inhabitants take their pity,

Upon slow-walkers treading to and fro,

As if the voyage was rather easy,

Too apparent a path you cannot forgo.


Yet blear-eyed as theirs agonize,

Muddled lads and lasses as we,

A hefty burden from the unwise,

Seizes our future from its glee.


I’ve survived twenty-four summers,

But, alas, with a ring-less finger,

And no child drooling under covers,

Yet, you urge my doubts to linger.


Thus, dwellers sympathize ofttimes,

As they gaze aloft toward “commoners”

Thinking they’ve assembled the signs,

Whereon the route is overt for others.


Come then, follow the steps to my sea,

Where mishaps and calamities assemble,

And no stone nor trophy husband is key,

For your path to be deemed successful.


That Irish brogue

I chased the rainbow with urgency,

Toward your wondrous pot o’ gold,

Methinks you possess a soul stunning,

Oh tantalizing gilt hail and unfold,

Sláinte, sweetheart, may you be well,

My sentiments for you deepened tenfold,

My pulse, I begged you a pint of mineral,

I fancy my silvers and thy golds to mold,

A spirit as archaic as the one you own,

Is adored plenty, ah too precious to scold,

Sigh how I singe over that Irish brogue,

I surrender to thee; I am yours to hold.

The Armed Poet

He drew his strongest weapon amain

Blackest ink my eyes have laid upon,

Imbued poetic verses onto one’s vein,

He dispatched words anew and bygone,

He dare not write in Shakespearean,

For he hath not the wit and charm,

But for poetry, he emerged a historian,

Unfolding stanzas I can never disarm.

The rain and you

I am wistful for the rain and you,

Homesick for a home I haven’t been in to,

Legends have said, the likes of you, undead,

So my darling, for me, please stead.


The rare droplet of anticipated mist,

I beg you a tear to quench my thirst,

Stream those lands with your touch,

I might have craved you a bit too much.

The Broken Beautiful

Once upon a blissful morning,

She arose a beautiful butterfly,

Blizzards stormed, forewarning,

Yet obstacles meant not to the spry.


Gray tinges of burdens, faded,

A new day is her white canvass,

Disputes held her captive, jaded,

But mornings were land of chances.


She swore to bring this heart no harm,

Today she smiles to the world, she wins,

Lending others pieces to keep them warm,

But then she sleeps with broken wings.