Posted in Poetry

aeolian whisper

Road in a beautiful forest in the morning

Into the Alpine Path

so winding, so unknown,

A breeze brings mirth

With aeolian melodies

In whispering pianissimo

thru the leaves of the trees

And transfixes the flows

Of time and beauty of youth

Wantoning freely in ecstasy

Sparkling like new hope.

Posted in Poetry

The Song of the Romp Pomp Bunter

The Romp Pomp Bunter is a Curious Cat:
If you give him a toy, he would prefer a bottle cap,
If you offer him a play, he would rather sit by the window atop,
If you feed him a chicken pate, he wants a tuna fillet.

The Romp Pomp Bunter is a Green-Eyed Beast:
He wants you to be with him when you don’t,
He wants to eat what you eat when he shouldn’t,
He wants to play with you when you can’t.

The Romp Pomp Bunter is a Timid Kitten:
He would startle at the drop of a needle,
He would tremble at the sounds of rain,
He would tremor when birds flap the wings.  

Yes, the Romp Pomp Bunter is a Curious Cat,
And there’s no use in changing him anyway.
For he will do so as he does so, and that’s that,
And there’s nothing you can do about it!

Posted in Poetry

Illusion of the Heart

 

The illusion comes in sweetness
cascading the fluffy softness
into the wilted hollow valleys
pathed with withered grasses
where her soul in tears roams.

The sudden felicity of warmth
Covers her hardened heart
With a ray of hope in mirth
Fluttering in the air like a ghost
Flitting in the flowery heath.

But the time is up and gone
And the sky becomes gray
And clouds the valleys anon,
Deserting her soul in misery,
In the cycle of betrayal alone, again.

Posted in Poetry

The day is begun

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A new day is born, as the light

Divides the sky and the earth apart,

when the specks of sunlight bright

Fall from Apollo’s golden chariot.

 

And songs of a bluebird waft 

From the leaves of trees afar,

As I see the longing for tidings

Resembling the sun in the mist.

 

Then the arc of the rainbow appears

From the misty nascent fresh sky,

And my eyes fill with infant joy

Reflecting on the diamonds of dews.

 

Posted in Poetry

fee-fi-fo-fum, fee fi-fo-fum

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The owl hooted on the oak,

The crow cried in the dark;

Dogs howled on the hills,

Cats purred in the bushes;

The Night was ripe and ready.

 

Fee-fi-fo-fum, Fee-fi-fo-fum,

The Three Witches began to hum

Standing in the grim gray garbs

With the gray eyes glaring in silence

They were ready to tell his destiny.

 

“Scotland, the jewel of thy crown,

The sword calls for thy title to own,

The blood is thy sacred power,

As it runs redder and deeper.”

Thus, the prophecy of his fate’s cast in

 Fee-fi-fo-fum, Fee-fi-fo-fum, Fee-fi-fo-fum!

 

P.S.: This week’s #FairyTuesday theme on Twitter liberally encompasses witches, ghosts, and other supernatural beings, so my choice is the Graeae, the Three Sisters personifying the Fate of Man in the ancient Greek mythology. They had only one eye and a tooth to share, but the pre-Herculean Mycenan hero Perseus intercepted the eye when the Sisters fumbled with it in the air and forced them to answer the whereabouts of Medusa. They ultimately relented to the demand, whereupon Perseus set about killing Medusa. 

This image of the Three Sisters is then also wondrously associated with the Three Witches of Shakespeare’s Macbeth by the sheer dint of the somber, dismal greyness of the three uncanny women. But as Mcbeth was a tragic figure consumed by guilt and greed, so were the Three Witches, malevolent and dystopian, vis a vis the somewhat faltering and fumbling Grey Sisters menaced by Perseus bullying them to elicit what he wanted to know. 

This poem, however, is more of Macbeth’s Three Witches leading him to perdition because the grim image of the witches conjured up by Shakespeare is terrifically atmospheric and dismally spell-bounding without the pageantry of words and expressions.