Fugue

Fugue

There was no warning
That steps
Might be made
Into music,
No inkling that
A journey
Could become a song,
Only a vague
thought,
ancient remembrance,
that when words
Fall into pits
of time
and stay
lodged deeply,
there could be
a presence
of poetry
which you,
noble soul
With nimble fingers,
could weave
Into notes
and music
Of a song,
A syncopation
of single steps
played long :
Myth and stories
Are made for children
while the older
Know
what things
appear to be,
And what they may be,
May not indeed be.
We feel in our perception
A base heaviness
Of step.
And older men
Measured In chains
and leagues,
are often turned
to pigs that bleed,
To tell a story
In a dream of
anything but clear
cut black and white,
In an elusive song
Of love
brought about from
word.
And there are
certain thoughtful
women
who take a man’s
story,
And can simply
make it music,
Through secret
And softly
whispered
salutations
To the midnight
stars.

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Free Verse in Useless Times

The lights flickering

In the distance are red

and I believe that

I’ve totally lost my head.

The city it seems

is burning red

tonight

Not sure of

just what I’ve said

from one moment

to the other.

Verse pours out like

random bread that’s

passed out

for the swollen bellies

of the famished.

See how skeletal they sit

or lie beside

their mothers,

and are easily

mistaken for the dead,

like so many

of the others all around them.

A look is in

children’s eyes,

eyes with wrinkles

deeply etched.

Mother’s are cradling

their heads.

Hunger, pain

live here raw

like free verse

doled out

by parted

empty lips

in vacant

useless times.

Women and children

gather scraps of metal

in abandoned mines

at the expense

of fragile lives,

like free verse collected

in some

long forgotten,

still,

and useless time.

And all

seems random

here

and destined

certain

not to survive.

No need for

lullabies,

no need for the contrived

lines of verse

that rhyme,

It’s just all meant

to be so simple:

Death just comes

wandering here,

meandering

on its own

picking

left and right,

whatever

may be in sight,

like free verse in

useless times.

The Past

The past made you,
put you where you are.
The past comes
with nostalgia,
pleasant memories,
or fostering regrets.
What truly
matters Is living fully
with positive
awareness in the now,
By not taking to heart
who others think
It is you are,
By not accepting blindly
Your ego’s automatic view
of who you think you are,
coloured by the past,
but by
observing self,
And contemplating
your
behaviour,
discovering
Who it is
you really are,
And by making earnest
Effort to be better,
And truer to
The Self
For the sake
of self,
And for
The others
All around you.