entry picture

squirming with words,

squabbling, fighting,

reeling with words

sore with myself.

so sore with myself

a world of regret,


this absence of you.


O! I wish I could turn words into wishes.

O! I wish my days would fall into line

my eyes could rise for you

without the slightest disguise

for you.


Evening is so heavy, the rain has been & gone,

these days’ and nights’ penumbras,

amount to this late

English swan song.


A rose garden perfume,

the sweetest white flower of the May,

amidst the clouds of blossom above the drive

rain drops cling to the petals

while scolding tears sting my eyes.


There's mist in the garden,

 'alive, he was'

she whispers

his death a jasmine surprise

like the softly seeping nuances of dread,

that echo here and here, in my head.


This end of days in Palo Alto,

such heavy music infests the air,

this stretching of reality,

when we're shadowing our shadows,

with words remembering words:

and then the memory occurs

in the living air

but you're really, really not here

not there, not anywhere. 



◄ Interlude

Eloquent Graffiti ►


Profile image

John Marks

Fri 22nd Nov 2019 21:43

Ben Jonson

On my First Sonne

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.
Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage,
And if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, "Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry."
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.

England, 1616

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message