Poems and Sketches II

Poems and 

Sketches

II

J.K. Beazley

***

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For every word is a gesture to the soul,

As no soul is truly alone,

Tho if this soul claims 'tis mine,

What good will it do in time?

For time will wash away,

All rules made to stay. 

***

Juxtaposition  

May the sound of rain dancing down,

    Across the shadows of lust and hunger,

Soothe memories crippled by a broken crown,

    That once embraced a fearless quiet slumber.

'Tis always here-- naught a moment gained,

    Crushed by the thoughts in a avalanche,

I sown thru' a gift I colored so vain.

    Yet, o'er yonder I am -- Here awake at last.

***

I  wish  I  could   climb  inside  your  world, 

   And   see what you  see, 
What    makes   you  smile, 

   What fancies  your dreams, 
I  wish  I  could s l o w d o w n 

    Talk with Angels,
But  old relics  and  superstitions, 

    Is often my angle,
    'Tis  the  reflection in  your eyes,
Or the way your shadow reminds,
I can't unwind, 
'Tis 

    not 

        my 

            time. 

  

***

Today  all  I  have  is    soap,

     To  rub  away  the  darkness,

To enlighten  my  path,  my  sense  of  hope.

   A  little  elbow  grease  --  The  puns now  are  sure  to  run;

All   wash  away  with   ease,

   Not  at  all  a  perfect prized  effect,

Just  a  little  rigidity  and  texture  added  to  the  sum.

***

***

UnCover Me This'be!
O' This'be, glistening were thee,

Tho' now a dimly mirage,
Where has our love to be?

Pry'amus calls her name,
My love, cloth'd in stains,

I am forgiven in thee, and in this,
You called out my name!

We are together once more,

Before all beast and baron fools,

Witness and blessed,
No longer to hide in ere crypts.

***

I saw for a moment inside my heart,

I place to call home,

Where the ashlar stones I honed,

Held their own,

And outside were two hearts,

Not honed, nor e'er so sharp,

But a mystery for something to think about. 

***

There is rain without clouds,

In a special sort of way,

Where children are raised,

To be loved and cared for everyday.

No religion, nor philosophy, nor universal law,

Can teach you, 

Only a mothers' love is all.

***

Metaxa

You are the sugar to my Tee

Where the words are more friendlee,

Than a bitter dash of whiskee,

But those memoriees I would ne'er part,

For they warm the cup, even broken hearts.

Double-Barrels pointed at me,

Kindling the reflections to change the theme,

So -- I grab -- pull -- tighten... see,

How straight and narrow the walk with Thee,

Another memory or more like basic 1,2,3s,

Where to love is overdone,

And l o v i n g ... 'tis like marriage,

To the two Soul's above.

***

Worst Poem E'er 

Remember when they attacked for what they stood,

Remember when they said they would,

Remember when they said they could,

Rememory a pretender who spoke in secrecy,

Babbling fullness --- starriness finited twines,

Long passionless rhyme ; like a gleamed Christful whine,

We'd often attend, a proper lost friend.

***

Better Than Good

Once a good man stood,

With a book of tips that would--

She ne'er quite understood,

The meaning of being better than good.

***

Inspiration to Genius

O' penny in palm;

Less valued than a dollar;

But a damn near more full of soul,

If I gave it away to a seeker of like mind,

Or polish it so shiny -- Some never will find,

A true value lives with out reflection thereof,

Not only in Heaven, rather inside the heart, not the mind.

If I have a piece of wood, uncut and unblemished by hand, 

Would you be there too, in all your glory, dirt, and blues?

I'd surely hope in those footsteps of time; a quicksand at times;

And pass the buck with a cup full of shine,

If only to make it clear--- A toast to you: loving is what we do.

***

Little Red Caterpillar

How are you so cute in thine eyes,

Standing there, in the crowd,

Such a fine specimen thou art,

A bit too shy; how thou mesmerize.

O' you had to stand out, 

How you found your way in such,

A bizarre world of lands apart,

From the bogs and dikes,

Makes me pucker up and write,

When your turn comes-- wings in flight,

A race toward the sky,

Or yet another mystery in time,

O' how I wonder-- pondering thy rhymes,

And seeth the disappearing from thee,

In quickness and spaceless ways,

A feeling I have not to capture,

In words yet to portray,

But the morrow is golden,

For another rainbow with you.