Pennies and old skeletal-like lining threads slip out from the rafters of the grey old well in the mall—search in for the coin, fiddle with it, the dirt croaks under nails, like the bridal hem that touches the base of the floral steps, patterned by the picturesque; rib of man; “leave a stone at my … Continue reading A Night Walk. (Prose)
You bring me the Sun and Moon at your pale weary palms, Your tilted wrists glinted with dew drops of sweat, You hold the Sun, exerting faint balmy breaths of gold on your right hand, And you grasp the pale white- lit rippling silver pool iris of the Moon on your left, You took the … Continue reading “You bring me the Sun and Moon…” By A Chief Among Sinners.
At the flares of rivers, flames crackle studded and dead when they withdraw from the cold. The darkness recedes over the bejeweled haycocks crying, as my torrent of blood flourishes like a blue weeping violet, rock-strewn to the near hill-side at midnight; I pardoned myself to the wall flowers as the wind vanishes above the … Continue reading I’ll Keep. (Prose)
An ale river Between the mountains Reels by holy mist. Dead in the Eden, The land, the land, Screaming on the Aragon valley, “Beyond fragile lips Of a bleeding, tormented river, It is lost as the seashore, And is caressed by mothering wind, In the crimson river, confined by silence Which salutes the pre-winter to … Continue reading Firewood.
Silence, It is memory. Leaf fallen, Midnight wind, west, I said, “I’m sorry.”
I. The moon casts its eye, In little carts, A vaudeville into the night. II. I wake in morning River flows down Crestmore, Wounded by a psalm, expelled alone. III. Down the old university, immersed, By the cathedral with petite western virgins flowers, On revered bungalows With an old torchlight, the ruins of Rome. IV. … Continue reading Vaudeville (I wake as rivers run).
To Accede Into My Own Desires. II. A treatise in the eye of nightfall Severed by my tears in hope, in desire, Upheld in breadth of bell flowers, My hope arises, attested to divinity Immersed by a winter season, deemed solace, As the solstice nurses the night to dead squills. And I pray, inclined to … Continue reading My Hope Arises.
As the rose adorns The mourning river secedes in Yorkshire skies. I give my love to the flower of pears, In velvet array on the vineyards, A vestige in a nightly soul Passed by a little eye of the moon Darker than winston smoke. The water does flow gently Onto a ballad of the dark … Continue reading As I Mourn a Flower.
When your shrine of Death kisses and weeps, It bows that death of stream with washes of rapt echoes, When exclaimed, the vaults of sorrow through valleys ago, I should again be silenced by eidolons where no dream reaps, Where no dream wallows in the grown, endless shift that tailed Fires through some old stone, … Continue reading Of Death.
Light, midnight, On moorlands, summoning fate, Alone, viceroys break Every pretty tear that rises And carries wind in lone summoning fate. As scars gleam in twinkling nightfall, as they fall to rest Upon trees, a thousand feet, that dance in sunlight, And worshipped on a pretty brow, bends the river-way And worshipped on pallid rests, … Continue reading Viceroy.
Avenue of giants, La hysteria, Count the dates, And it’d fade away as a facile scar, And blood from a gentle sea.
nightfall when it’s still and ill-lit, as the moon kneels and the mist recites me a dream I fall in lowering mercy and admit as the world, unreal, and imagine the mid-stream as I fall deeper into the silent moon and I whisper into a darkened room before sleep ‘I give my words beyond the … Continue reading Nightfall.
There was cruel rain in free month, warm, Slurred on summer tinny stirred swarm And there was ail from the sea ‘fore The frightened dry height of wind storm, I remember as cruel rivers That go by spring dawn, rain shivers. And I will not forget the same As timorous nights covered Thames, And I … Continue reading And I Won’t Forget.
The moon rises above the flimsy bough, As the stream ends Into a whispered ire on torrid diamonds I see the death of forgotten winds stowed As the river bends And I whisper to the descent of… this darkened night chastened. I whisper into my hands of this creased moon That abandons the lights And … Continue reading The Moon Rises.
The window stirs upon the rain, Alone upon the candles, drips in trochee Blemishes on a lost idyll beyond a pane, We stayed and went as a quiet strain Upon the shawl, all around the darkened sea, Just like the memory as it rests, may it stay. Down, the twist of shawl at the rim … Continue reading Where Does It Leave?
Silence as the beating river in the ghoul of a northern wind, Silence as the beating river in the ghoul of a northern wind I kneel towards thin estuaries and darken the shawl with pearls I kneel towards thin estuaries and darken the shawl with pearls The northern river kneels, beating pearls, As the shawl … Continue reading A Northern Wind.
Winter tear drops leave upon the white flickers in the sea, Where I’ve looked to the red droplets that were dark as geraniums, Winter beats the cold orchids into the wind that is frail as bone, Where memory passed darkly as the ocean-white dream That is the faint mesa that trails of rocky red in … Continue reading Mid-Dream.
River of lone which grabs the bloodied, hanging bough upon a wisp dead tree Where the darkened deep sea could bring me the tears from a shattered rock that shadows the sun, As the petals of the red, blanketed flowers that would speak to us in bloom Would fall dead at the bed of falling … Continue reading The Rivers of What I Can’t Forget.
the lights push their tiny twinkling mighty fists through royal orange tinged ozone cloak where in the northernmost cheek of Lady Angeles Her court’s Hollywood sign summons the ghost perhaps to enhance Her downtown hemline where Her proud feet stomp down with fury on the last remaining eyes. on Lady Angeles’ head is the jeweled … Continue reading “To Eden Ahbez” By M Brazfield.
A lit flame upon the stitched rag of shore, Which pales upon the blossoms of a winter rose, I think of a frail dream with Greek souls and song, That slightly breathed through the muted shore. When will it part? These cold rivers are of a marred red, And will discard to the faintest breath … Continue reading Frail River (A Wasteland).