The Epochs’ Sentinel

Proudly stands the ancient Rock, the epoch’s sentinel Resolute upon the running fields Once home to primal, angry mangonels And men of arms with glinting claimhte and clashing shields Where prayers were said in whispers and in hallowed song Where worship rose a scented smoke upon the lifting breeze Where stones have stood through seasons …

She Calls to Me

She calls to me. The fair island.   Her fragrant scent, so sweet, so full of death and growth, flows o'er the oceans vast that stretch so tautly on our mother's swollen womb with dark and melancholy histories distending in a body's sullen soul by resonating peals; a paradox, a pox of reeling brews that ply …

re: Poetry

Poetry that is timeless is inevitably lyrical.  If it does not sing - if it does not move - if it does not engage the soul - than it is simply dead wind; a fart drifting amidst the rotting leaves.