Interred within the soil of youthful prime A willow seed lies sown in dormancy, That with the daily watering of time Grows old and dies, a withered, weeping tree. And years are petals on the bud of life That when she blossoms unfold to display A sapless flower; her petals, passed and rife, Hang virtueless, bereft of sweet bouquet. Yet what possesses virtue, worth or reason Save framed within this frail mortality? Or whence derives one’s passion for the season If not from this temporal symmetry? And if in life I find a love to cherish, Then I shall gladly live and love, and perish.
Weeping Willow by Claude Monet Click Image to visit WikiPaintings.org
all my life you have stood between me and my dreams obsession possession you are my life’s bane every time i see you seeing me my heart screams the tears i now weep for the tears and the pain in the souls that I love when i’m gone you’ll remain reflecting
Nach-dem-tornado by Winslow Homer Image: wikipaintings.org
A craftless ship afloat ill-tempered waters With neither star nor compass to avail, Blown on those wintry gales far from safe quarters, Caught-fast upon a reef my yawl did flail; For tempests of the heart will hard pursue On passion’s tides that run love’s ocean deep, Those ships of lovers seeking harbours new In ports where love’s rare booty they would reap; And wisdom’s compass is no guide for lovers, Infatuation’s stars do but deceive, To foil intrepid sailors, like all others, And dash them on those ragged rocks to grieve. Lament no more my barcarola triste, For love is least where doleful tears persist!
Lone orb, that in imagination’s vision Ploughs silver wake through cobalt seas on high, Your solitude enkindles passion’s fission, Love’s avatar eternal in the sky; What ocean could contain those endless tears Or valley ring the cries of sorrows torn, Or tome contain the words of countless fears Borne up to you on winds of sighs forlorn; On every heart a sonnet you have written And every heart in you has sought solace, Though you can never cry for lover’s smitten Too arid is your ancient dusty face; Yet still you bear the scar of every trace, Of wounds on tender hearts love’s scorn did chase.
The little dog is old and grey From childhood you loved him and you gave him to me a lover’s sacrifice on that far-away day when you kissed him in playful parting I held him often seeking something anything of your essence yet no comforter was he most pungent bitter-sweet memory The void you left those many years ago remains derelict somewhere in my soul He was beautiful bathed in the fragrance of you Just a tatty old stuffed-toy that we both loved.
The scent of Eos lingers in her wake, A rare Shiraz—uncorked, releasing tones Of aniseed and cinnamon; bouquet Whose redolence drifts down the alleyways And blends acerbic-sweet with notes of coffee and cacao That percolate through slats in unglazed windows; Infusions. The sun’s oblique and penetrating rays Defy the lofty, jealous fronds, and squeeze Between the crowded planet’s oak and concrete bastions, To poke through breeze-block slots And highlight cracks in flaky-pastry walls; Diffusions. Aurora, time-derided, eroded, cracked, Heart pitted like the hands that wield the broom, Downtrodden like the object of her enterprise, Plays out the litany of morning ritual And, smiling, sweeps again the crumbling path; Wherein she sees beyond each bristle’s stroke A cloud of musty memories exhumed To briefly spritz, and fall in motes of dreams Long dead, and now reburied in the dust. Oblations. But clouds will gather in the afternoon, Convective gusts will dissipate stale spice And August rains will flood the rutted ground To sanitize with petrichor anew; And all shall lie in readiness for tomorrow’s Infusions, diffusions, oblations and sorrows Ablutions.