your sweetness makes me weep…
i breathe heavy looking at your face
so, i pause and ponder only of you
at different times throughout the day
and am amazed how quickly
i have memorized your face
within the creases of my mind.
i see you when i shut my eyes.
i see you when they are open.
you always stand just in front of me
yet, far enough away i cannot touch.
i have to tell you something my love
something secret and hidden.
there have been others i have known
since the mother of my children died
but, it was always HER face i saw
no matter who or what.
now since meeting you, it is God’s miracle…
i only see you, only you i see…
and never thought i such a day to be.
Category: On Life
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.
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.
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.
A tiny bluebird perches near my window
Marking the morning with uncanny glow.
She thrills to show how happy she stirs.
In my moment of distess, the tiny thing is heaven’s douceur.
My peeking, seeking human face evokes a chirp!
Lost from her nest, her mother shall soon arrive.
This little bluebird is no perpertrating perp.
Dancing in the sudden, mother coos happy her baby still alive.
I am the designer of this dream of the me.
But you are there, all one hundred
Billion neurons swirling around in my head. . .
We meet up from time to time. All is the search
For some New Piece that clings, if only. . .to the shadows. . .
Yet, genius is the me unknowable; a melody not yet written,
Dangling somewhere in Mozart’s head.
An unborn heart of hearts beats in rhythm
With another place, to another time. This clever, living,
Breathing soul of the illusory belongs to the mind’s eye,
Willing to live inward, but fretful am I
Of the bonds of its deliverance. Captured by hesitation’s sigh
For a while, just a little while, I dream of this gift,
This unsullied mystery that visits within to stir the gift of hope,
I hope. Dreams of the genius burn the dark cold,
As upon this time, failure lingers in obscurity. Ambition stets.
No armor or valor sways tomorrow’s aim, all things flow
In coeval Eloquence. Timelessness in fullness cries.
And so. . . genius thinks with the mystery of the sigh!
Who knows this me I cannot see? I wait as what I am.
The Poetry of Jeffrey L. H. Naylor 