when does love stop being love? not growing,
it turns with creaks and moans of regret
into something unwanted, unknown,
something shut up and away into itself…
something incapable of ever sharing again
the space of innocent love that once bound
two individuals as one, but now binds them
in barren spaces of hollow memories.
if only you could have still loved me today,
even two hours ago…now you bring it too late.
when does love pass the point of no repair?
at what vaporous, airless moment does it cease
to exist? when does it move beyond the shadows
of hope, beyond the time to live again
in eager hearts once warmed by its passion?
even two hours ago, but now, never again!
Category: All
Categories
Distant Lonely Melodies
a lonely whistle blows
a distant space it marks.
from the point of being
and seeing it blows
to see how deep
the pain of its grind can drive…
it blows ever lonely
and the more it blows
the further its sounds deepen
those old scars beneath my heart,
where there does grind a place
forever marked by distant melodies
of lonesome lonely whistle blows.
i fell in a bed of shells that tells
of a love with the sea that sails
and propels me ever drifting against waves
that roll against craggy caves,
which lay hidden upon dark shores
pocked in gray basaltic pores.
i fell in a bed of shells that tells
of a love with she who quells
my wandering, shifting heart
hiding softly within the shorn parts
of folding hearts forever bound
in melodies of harmony’s sound.
after great sorrow, i have no time to hate
as the stillness of such assault cannot aid me
to conceal in death that which in life
attires me with the fashion of stolen ages.
this is the hour of lead when eternity spins
a predestined web of yours and mine
tossed out yonder in the inky brine.
homesick eye yearns behind the shelf of heaven
to glimpse the scarlet scarf before sounds
the pitieous purge of Jericho Joshua’s horn.
Sometimes the piano asks me to play.
And the keys I find beg for love to surface
Yet, no love appears in ivory to stay.
The strings struggle to make music.
But when I hear love in my heart
The keys I play sound like symphony.
Categories
What Is the Weight of the World?
Crescent hands press against my heart forlorn,
Marking the trellis made of art scorned,
Feeding the wind against crimson soul,
Searching the anger spit out from the shoal.
What is the weight of the world that
Burns my steel forged on anvils flat,
Enjoining grief and thoughtless hope,
Mourning my future now bending broke?
Against my heart the press of the mark
Scorns the trellis around my heart,
Stealing the art within my soul,
Bending the shoot of life’s only goal.
What is the weight of the world then?
Unseen blinds raising paths twisted to men,
Railings to split hands seeding the wind.
The wait against time my dreams to send.
Categories
silent of echoes
the world is cold and snowy and darkened still in many ways
…days are long and silent of echoes
…like sitting in the snow fields late at night
…there is no sound…there is no light,
but the reflections from the moon and the tears of the future
that freeze over our eyes like leaden shields….
so we do not know what will happen today or tomorrow…
we only know that yesterday was not what we dreamed
and today is merely another chance to shape a happier time.
yet, we cannot know until these moments pass
what the future will deliver unto us.
we can only wait and pray steadfast
in the hope that the light of promise may soon come
to bring luster and warmth into our night.
the leaves cling to the crippled, scorned bark,
shadowing the Elder’s aging mark.
she horrors the face,
love’s angle auld has lost its proper place.
its the meaning of her that winters me bereft,
frozen, never to gain.
oh suspicion, wing me near thy fleeting swans of ancient lakes.
lead me to blue, spring waters for lassie’s sake?
Tough Soldier, Man of War!
Sly Man of business, Man of War!
Chrome-Tooth, Wo-Man of War!
You all know the prize door
Where stands one man toward
Another. Everyone knows
The money man who goes
Always to feed his son the fool.
Seize his children the proper tool
To rob him of his innocence respect.
Sniggle as good Christian’s fleck
Their jeers at him without regard.
Putrid stench unveils a father retard.
He’s not the money man for
Sure. Thus, strike his heart to bore
Deep inside him forever to gore.
Make our life now warriors of war
Tough, Sly and Chrome Toothed soar
To sink the hearts of poor forlorn.
Never speak again, the key, the door.
Is my love merely unclothful?
Are you or am I not the thoughtful?
Why do you hide after a season of knotted pine?
Have you now become the clock empty, waiting for your clock maker?
Will you find him in angelic skies, with celestial pendulate wings?
Do you not hear the tattle of love? Is he thy fair or fare?
The Poetry of Jeffrey L. H. Naylor 
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