BLACK

“Blackness remains the coat you can't take off.” - Clint Smith

The New What’s Going on Blog  this week advises: “Choose one color--black or white--and explore the depths of meaning the color has for you.  Write a poem that immerses itself in EITHER black or white, but not both.  Don't even mention the other color in your poem.”  I chose black. Black as a state of mind, as a feeling, as an essence of being - the black of despair, the black of the mood one cannot be rid of, the black of hopelessness and anguish…

Black

Black is my life, dark is my lot,
And happiness, all’s gone, forgot.
Black, black, my life is black,
All sadness, only cold and dark…

Black thoughts, dark night,
No hope, no joy, no sight;
Black is the heart that dies
As love so far away flies.

My soul with pitch is painted
My life with tar is tainted;
Ebony nightmares conquer
My uneasy sleep, somber.

And without you, blinded,
I fumble in a dark abyss,
Powerless and weak-minded,
As your sweet kiss I miss.
Black, as a coal with no fire,
I burn in a dark, flameless pyre.

I’m dressed in cloth of ink
And draughts of poison drink;
Dark shadows, cold despair,
Choke me, rob me of air.

Swimming in waters of the Styx,
An ice-cold numbness will affix;
A sunless death, deep in Tartarus
Your lack so grim, so barbarous…

And without you, blinded,
I fumble in a dark abyss,

Powerless and weak-minded,
As your sweet kiss I miss.
Black, as a coal with no fire,
I burn in a dark, flameless pyre.

The poem is set to music, and you can find all my music in my “Otidorchestre” channel or listen to it on YouTube, Spotify,  Amazon, Deezer, Flo, Pandora, and other music sharing sites.

Please note that there is delay between my uploading the music and your being able to access it. YouTube is generally the fastest to release the song.

BLESSED ARE THEY...

“Power is no blessing in itself, except when it is used to protect the innocent.” - Jonathan Swift

The New What’s Going On Blog has set as its theme the topic of “weariness”. A feeling familiar to all of us who have trouble dealing with modern days and the worldwide status quo… All of us who feel desperate, despondent, frustrated, downhearted, miserable, and yes downright exhausted and weary. Fatigued in spite of all of our attempts to right the wrongs, and make the crooked straight. My poem gives perhaps a little rest, respite and blessings to all of the dog-tired humanity who still try to make the injured world a better place, despite all odds…

Blessed Are They…

Who in adversity find hope,
And who in hardship cope
With endless woe and ill –
Who out of blackness, light distill.

Who even in injury forgive,
Finding courage to live and let live.
In meekness, their strength’s untold
They stand tall, resolute and bold.

Who have the energy to love
Even all those unworthy of
A sentiment so noble, tender;
Their own heart ready to surrender.

Who trust and still believe
All those who seek reprieve;
Who credit all of base humanity
With virtues that preserve sanity.

Who strive for peace and calm
And who on injuries pour balm;
Giving repose to all who are tired,
The sweetest respite they’ve desired.

Who make the crooked run straight
And the trivial things be great;
Who have humility, patience, charity
Giving their all with grace and verity.

DEATH IN AUTUMN

“My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.” - Robert Frost

The prompt from “Poets and Storytellers United” this week is t write a poem in a formal, traditional form. I have chosen the villanelle. (A villanelle is a 19-line poetic form with a specific structure of five tercets (three-line stanzas) and a concluding quatrain (four-line stanza). It features a strict rhyme scheme (ABA, ABA, ABA, ABA, ABA, ABAA) and two repeating lines, called refrains, that alternate as the last lines of the tercets and appear together as the last two lines of the quatrain.) It can be quite tricky to write...

Autumn Evening

As evening falls so softly, cold
Memory’s scent I follow,
And life grows dark and old.

Leaves die, as they turn to gold
The sound of voices hollow.
As evening falls so softly, cold

I try to break its stranglehold;
My spirits fall and ebb, so low – 
And life grows dark and old.

I try to be so resolute and bold
To make my song again to flow
As evening falls so softly, cold…

The wood attacked, consumed by mould
Decay eats into it so slow,
And life grows dark and old.

My dreams to highest bidder sold
Love’s ghosts in sadness wallow:
As evening falls so softly, cold
And life grows dark and old.

Here’s the poem set to music, and you can find all my music in my “Otidorchestre” channel or listen to it on YouTube, Spotify,  Amazon, Deezer, Flo, Pandora, and other music sharing sites.