unblemished the rose blooms on the bridal bed with no other chart to guide her but for the chart of love tonight, the white rose buds to the heat of youth her fruit the sweetest gift and this their first night a journey without an end

Swarms of locust shade the midday sun; they burn the trees they devour the dove they rape the land. “The Archangel is dead,” the town crier whimpers. “Hail the new Archangel,” he snivels on his knees and the shadow of a red horse commands the town. “His Excellency decrees you will leave by nightfall,” the new crier proclaims to anyone left behind to listen. I gather my life in a tiny bundle and make my way to the border. The road is strewn with the bodies of young soldiers and medals from the chests of fleeing heroic generals. “Why does the sun rise from the west?” a little boy asks his grieving father. “I'm cold,” an old man sobs then he crumbles to the ground and dies. “Silent night, holy night! All is calm, all is bright Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child Holy Infant so tender and mild Sleep in heavenly peace Sleep in heavenly peace” A mother suckles her wasted child, but its eyes are full of death, and from a place far away we hear the sound of Christmastide.

With a simple brush stroke, the master painter builds for you a castle of vast rooms with high shelves all stacked with silent heads. You always sought to live in such a weird world of silence with a moat of angry words around you. Every time I come to you, you scream: "There is no room for you in my inn." But why do you leave your door unlocked at night, can it be that you really miss me and maybe neither of us wants to be on our own tonight? I devour with a poor man's hunger all the poisoned words you shoot at me each day from across the pond and gorge on them with a rich man's greed. Why did you summon me to your court today? I was certain the next time you’d meet with me would be where failed poets go for shelter. Admittedly, my provocation was thoughtless, I sinned against the meter! Can you not forgive me though and pack me off to art school in Vienna? After all, you prescribed this for another. Casualties are mounting high, hostilities have never ceased and so far you have refused all my offers of a truce. Look out of your battlements, I'm on my way riding an old steed, my armour is getting rusty and the only gifts I bring to you are the words of a jaded scribbler. We both knew one day I would return braving your moat and high walls. You broadcast to the world I'm simply an inconvenience, and that you are happy now. My merciless young queen, I never had selfish ambitions for you like that, I like you too much to want to make you happy, and you know how much alike we are, both blessed with sharp wit and the precious gift of loneliness. Part of the mosaics cycle of poems

Each day the pastor wakes at dawn when the world is pure and clean. In the sleepy glow of sunrise he looks with love at his young bride and listens to her gentle breathing. But he knows his work is to redeem his soul and to save the souls of others. He kisses her softly on the cheek and every day like before, he goes out to the world to do the work of God. In times of sadness and in times of joy his faithful and chaste wife always stands beside the pastor her loving shepherd and her lord. But each night in her lonely hour she clasps her hands in humble prayer and begs Him to remind the pastor that her flesh and soul are sisters and when the flesh is starved of loving her love-starved soul goes hungry too.

I go back to that graveyard where all my dreams are buried— a prison in my head I made to keep her; back to the years of longing and of loss to the blackness and the pain. I watch her sleep. Her hair—a forest of wild curls her naked limbs—a gateway to sin; and I wonder, what kind of dreams make her smile. Soon, a familiar scent rises— it is the scent of counterfeit love. But I guess I've always known she was never more than just a troubadour looking for a heart to rehearse her love songs. Part of the   Old Stories   cycle of poems A few words about the poem… Unveiling the Troubadour's Tale – Echoes of Longing in The Melancholy Poems   The poem titled "The Troubadour," part of the series "Melancholy Poems," delves into themes of longing, loss, and the complexities of love. The narrator reflects on revisiting a metaphorical graveyard where their dreams are buried, symbolizing a past filled with unfulfilled desires and emotional imprisonment. The imagery of a prison in the mind, constructed to contain the object of affection, conveys a sense of internal struggle and confinement.   As the narrator observes the sleeping figure of their beloved, vivid descriptions evoke a sense of both admiration and uncertainty. The portrayal of her hair as "a forest of wild curls" and her limbs as "a gateway to sin" suggests a combination of allure and temptation, hinting at the complexities of human desire and attraction.   However, amidst these sensual descriptions, there is an underlying sense of disillusionment and betrayal. The scent of "counterfeit love" serves as a poignant reminder of past deceptions and the realization that the relationship may have been built on false pretenses. The reference to the beloved as a "troubadour" suggests a transient nature to her affections, as she moves from one heart to another, rehearsing her love songs without genuine commitment.   Overall, "The troubadour" captures the bittersweet essence of love and longing, exploring the depths of human emotion with introspective imagery and contemplative tone.

The metronome strikes a thousand beats tic, tic, tic, tic. Monotonous and dull. Across the ocean in a country far away a moth cocooned works night and day forging exquisite silk until a day in early spring she breaks out of her prison and the little butterfly flies free. She flaps her wings and starts a storm across the sea. But the metronome keeps taunting the unhappy king tic, tic, tic, tic but it never beats a toc it always beats tic, tic. Part of the   mosaics   cycle of poems

Thank you for the beauty the word and for the song the wisdom and the light

We fought a bitter war a war of sheer brutality. She, with bows and arrows and I, with songs and wine. A war I lost and the wounds and burns from all the raging battles still scar my body and mind. 'Woe to the vanquished' the young queen decreed and cast me prisoner in a very private hell. She threw me crumbs and I welcomed them, I was a poor beggar man starving for her love. She was my tempestuous green sea, my all-consuming passion. Now she plays hide and seek inside my head. From the room of sorrow she runs to the hall of pain but the cruel queen never ever comes to the den of love. It's hard to know now why I loved her harder yet to know that I still do. Part of the   mosaics   cycle of poems

A fragile child with bruised wings you found refuge in the caverns of my troubled mind. I kissed your broken hopes I warmed you with gasping breath and prayed to the gods that you would never leave me. You dazzled me with a splash of bright colours then tried to shock me and demanded my response. A coupling of minds, we fed each other's need for loneliness. At ease —we both knew we were never destined to be lovers— we revelled in the sin of happiness. I was terrified. Strike out first, push the button, wreck, destroy. Banish this deceptive dream. I plunged into that pit and painted all thoughts of us on the walls in black. How I miss your song. Your face is now a prisoner trapped in a hopeless screen. I wonder, did I ever really know you or was I just a stranger in your brilliant life. I put my head above the parapet and look at your happy world. I speak to you but you stay silent and I sink back into my lonely life. Part of the   mosaics   cycle of poems

...Menelaus's Lament My beauty queen, on your knees before for your King. My clothes are made of denim— and my shackles are made of love. Your long black skirt is made of silk— now take it off and lie down. My chaste queen, your ways in the art of love astound and amaze me. I feast on your flesh you writhe and howl all night and your juices trickle sweet into my eager mouth. Ah, Menelaus, decrepit old king. Did you think you could have been her only lover? Wouldn't that have been a crime! And because you have a poet's heart, did you think you could have dreams like that? When she says she really loves you do you think she tells the truth? Menelaus, you are nothing but a fool. My faithful young queen asleep under the cherry tree blossom kissing her naked thighs; why does she have this impish smile playing shamelessly on her lips? Part of the   mosaics   cycle of poems

All that we buried deep has now risen to the fore. The anger, the fury and the rage. This reveals to me so much more than your rhymes will ever say. But my irate young queen, only you and I know just what the truth has been. I came to your garden late last night. How beautiful it seemed, in such a perfect kind of way. Everything was so cute and pretty. But where were the tiger lilies that nourished our fledgling art? All that noise and sabre-rattling . Really! And you threatened me with bloodshed at the trenches and the barricades. Swords at dawn, was your cry of war. But no, I'm not into that. I will just love you and bring you flowers instead . Part of the   mosaics   cycle of poems

You flirted so sweetly. Oh, how you laughed when he teased you and how cute you looked, blushing the way you did every time he said your name. So shy, so bashful! You glowed when he told you how wonderful you are. I could hear you; playful, warm, so coy. Yet all your words were so familiar. That's the way you spoke to me then but now you talk in riddles or you tell me we were never more than strangers. I so wanted to join in your brilliant conversation and to tell you how much in awe of you I am my rising star. But you know I'm a social misfit lacking skills in clever repartee and the sparkling wit of others. It occurs to me though that behind this façade our reality has always been you and I are so much alike. And we both know the truth when all the hurt is healed and all the anger's done maybe then, just maybe... Part of the   mosaics   cycle of poems