The Charge of The Rohirrim

Behold! a mighty host,
high upon the circling crests.
Upon the hills that ringed,
where Pelennor Field does rest.
Upon a cock's crow,
the errant break of dawn.
The winds that blew,
the darkness Mordor spawned.

Then time reins in,
gently, as if to still.
As a single trumpet blows,
enveloping soo shrill.
The call of Rohan's brave,
in aid to Gondor's plight.
A sea of valiant horsemen,
that rode in through the night.

Behold upon his noble steed,
mighty Snowmane.
Rides Theoden,
Rohan's liege and rightful thain.
With his golden shield,
his banner wildly flying.
Like Eorl of old,
in the battles that legend sings.

The white horse,
upon an emerald field.
Flying upon spears,
that noble warriors wield.
Rows upon rows of riders,
a sight that never fails.
To raise the spirits of friends,
and make their enemies quail.

The faithful sons of Eorl,
what a sight to see.
Warriors both fair and tall,
and as fell in battle's lee.
With sword and shield,
spear and battle trained mount.
Their visage grim,
but their battle cries are sung.

Then noble Theoden,
did roused up the ranks.
With his speech of battles,
glories and honours hence.
To remember their pledge,
to Gondor as is their wont.
To fullfil their oath,
and duty to friendship sworn.

And in the end he did stand up,
in the stirrups of his steed.
"Ride!" he cries,
so mighty and clear indeed.
And as he the first to ride,
in the forefront and vanguard.
Trumpet calls rang out,
to signal this mighty charge.

As one the riders rode,
as thunder their battle rage.
As a mighty wave they roll,
in a crash to consume and engage.
The very ground doth shake,
shiver, tremble and eviscerate.
The fury of their charge,
is terrible to create.

And yet what awe, what majesty,
upon this glorious deed.
As the riders rode with fury,
upon their mighty steeds.
Their courage, their grandeur,
doth fills the heart ablaze.
With the voice of valour,
and a touch of gallant grace.

Old Man Winter

Grey you are,
as winter is to my spring,
this gulf of years,
that does separate us as beings

Yet among our peers,
you are the youngest it seems,
in thoughts, acts and vision,
you are most energetic I deem.

You are a paradox I glance,
old in age wise in experience,
yet young at heart,
and always fresh in idioms.

As a father you are,
to us all the saplings,
giving good guidance,
gracious words and gentle chidings.

With all your counted winnings
this is perhaps your most,
you are a man enriched,
by giving your heart is embossed.

As I trod upon my path,
I bid farewell, adieu,
I wish you all the best,
my one and buddy true.


As I sat alone
through the motions of days
my gaze oftime wandered
inside, deep within me
and for a brief, lonely moment
I sometime would catch a glimpse
a faded image from a dream.

Upon remnant splinters
broken mirrors of self cognition
I thought I saw what I was
what I used to be
am I still?

A slightly handsome lad
whose confidence filled his words
overweight he might
but dreams does let him fly.

Upon stars his hopes were pinned
charging boldly the unconquerable nights
the sun emblazoned upon his heart
as he struggles to encompass the days
before the coming of twillight.

A poet at heart
a soul of longing and love
sensitive to the touch
to the feel and taste of life.

Armoured in perfect reason
and armed with fearful logic
he would ever stood his ground
upon whatever topic.

What ambitions he had
to grasp this world as his
no distance would dare
nor contentions to his prowess.

As a Colossus he stood
once among his peers
a stern and mighty figure
who led the vanguard crests.

He lived ever for the challenge
to bravely dare the world
for the worst and craven he seeks
to turn the tides and in turn defeats.

Where goes the confidence?
Where goes the dreams?
Where goes the hopes?
Where hides this lad?

For indeed I see him not
but for glimpses that may
those lonely nostalgic moments
when memories are out at play.

I sometimes wish for him
to remember if mine's the name
the pride of all that was
and the remnants of what may
the remains of what I was
used to be
was I ever?
am I still?

Alas he slips about
to appear once and only slight
but to disappear into the dark
and hence to vanish into the night.

Poetic Purgatory

Caged beyond my modest means,
lies the crypt of great intentions,
of gilded edges and marbled gleams,
present happiness and tall ambitions.

Within the cemetary of dead dreams,
I find my one and true salvation,
the purgatory of poetic schemes,
where sleeps unlived, my self expression.

Buried I lie soiled, unclaimed,
a soul in longing and shackled privation,
doomed forever to only glimpse,
what life is, was and future portions.

Entombed under the burdens within,
buried by stones, diverse contentions,
awaiting the end with counted chagrin,
languishing in words and poetic mentations.


"I am the remnant of what I was,
the remains of who I am,
if only for but a while I appreciated all that was,
for all I am now are memories of yesteryear"

Fading Seasons

Where is the promise of spring,
in the fall of years,
Where is the hopes of summer,
in the grey of winters.

Are we not like falling rain,
to fall in much rancour,
only to seep to the ground,
and then be lost forever.

Are we not like dew drops,
such cold caress of elegence,
only to dry away,
by the sun's magnificence.

Are we not like snowy flakes,
such beauteous designs,
only to fall away,
undistinguished in snowy banks.

Are we not like fading seasons,
to wake to every promise,
but to lose all hope and reason,
at the fade of every chorus.

The Song of Martyrs

O! sons and daughters
I am doomed to never know
O! childs of fathers
lost like fallen snow
O! childs of mothers
whose tears would ever flow

we sing you this song
perched on battle's brows
we sing you this song
on eve of nevermore

Farewell! Fare thee well!

to sons and daughters
that we will never know
to sisters and mothers
farewell we bid you now
to wives and lovers
a kiss of love we blow

Farewell! Fare thee well!

We sing our final song
perched on battle's brow
the eve of nevermore.

Wipe your away tears
still your gentle cries
we sing you this song
with hearts full of joy

So long my little dears
we'll look upon you soon
from the clouds high above
as we float on angels song.

The Palestinian And The Jew

We are a wronged people
repressed and censured
for our race.

We are a conquered people
repressed and terrorized
on our own lands.

Our people are herded into concentration camps
forced to suffer under the iron hand of the Nazis
men, women and children killed out of hand.

Our peole are herded into refugee camps
forced to suffer under the iron hand of the Israelis
men, women and children killed out of hand.

We bomb civilians
and assassinate individuals
but for the safety
of our ancestral homeland.

We bomb civilians
and throw grenades at soldiers
but for our freedom
and our stolen homeland.

Our first prime minister
is a terrorist you say
no! indeed he is a freedom fighter.

Yasser Arafat
is a terorist you say
no! indeed he is a freedom fighter.

The Stern Gang are not terorrists
but soldiers in our war for freedom.

The Hamas are not terorrists
but soldiers in our war for freedom.

The world should excuse our astrocities
the US and everyone else did nothing
when Hitler did this to us.

The world should excuse our terror activities
the US and everyone else did nothing
as the Israelis did this to us.

An endless circle it is
this ride of miscontrued innocence
past wrongs are munitions
employed for present actions
there is scant truth
much less any sense
in this endless cycle
of endless violence
both sides have their points
until these are redressed
there is no resolution
especially for the hypocritical judge
who speaks for his much adored freedom
but ignore moral clauses
in his own pursuit of happiness
within his just cause
the deaths of others are collateral
a mere three thousand of his deaths
and the world has to pay consequence
you take away their voice
left their political will overthrown
and yet you ask their objections
be spoken in peaceful terms
"why?" would the high-horsed judge ask
"do we bore the brunt of agression?"
"why are our shores be visited by terrorism?"
why else indeed
but the price you pay
for your splendid ignorance
to judge for others only in your own terms
and to support those who you gave free license
only to fight for so called freedom
when it is in your own cognizance.

The World:
I grive for thee
I grieve for me
for such indulgence
brings only contention
Is there an end to this
to more peaceful existance
alas I see no end
but a higher octave
to this melody
an endless malady
such is the human condition.

The Massachusetts 54th

On parade!
the 54th,
the Massachussets 54th.
Upon beach
and grainy sands,
under shadows
of Fort Wagner's guns.

On parade!
the fighting men,
sons and brothers
of coloured ken.
Under arms
and colours Union,
fighting for rights
to die as men.

unto the dunes
and forward hence.
By blood by smoke
and into legend,
the rights and dignity
of social sanctions.

"We are men!"
"equal and free,"
"whose blood does flow"
"as red as any."
"With rights to die"
"and fight as men,"
"in this our nation"
"our blood as recompense."

On parade!
the 54th.
Upon beach
and grainy sands,
under shadows
of Fort Wagner's guns.
On parade!
the gallant men,
these fighting men,
of coloured ken.
Free born fellows
educated gentlemen,
runaway slaves
whose backs are lined.

In victory
in defeat
twice rebuked.
But here
upon these sands,
their blood
emits a glorious shine.
As these gallant men
into death's jaws,
proving the courage
of brethren and ken.

Rest easy
Colonel Shaw,
the courageous dead
upon these shores.
For all glory
that have been forfend,
are now wreathed
upon deserving shoulders.

Firty Fourth,"
into the eve
of courage and glory.
Ever onward
into the seeds of freedom
and equality.

I Bid Death, Goodbye That Day

As I wait here, dying
consumed by cell-eating curse
subsumed by ever present fears
I pondered to mind, my ending.

To perchance lift, the uncertain veil
gently slipping into oblivion
nimbly leaving this borrowed vision
to wake from dreams, of living still.

But as I stood, upon the cliffs
preparing to jump the edge
preparing to end this charade
into my mind, a fancy drifts.

Of all things, a coloured butterfly
that lived beyond the caterpillar
that lived once and no longer
it never paused to ponder, but lived and die.

Past and future, we can forget
the past is over far and behind
the future is yet to be defined
but for our own, the present begets.

The truth in life, an endless challenge
in living we learn to face them
in living we learn to solve them
and always, we taste the change.

Both the bitter, the very sweet
the footprints that life makes
the memories that living creates
these are the things, that makes life complete.

Even if it is, I am to die
from this condition unasked for
from this pain ever more
if this is fate, I'll face it eye to eye.

It is better, than to grieve
to taste and feel what I can of life
to taste and feel of what might have
so when I die, I'll remember that I have lived.

I bid death, goodbye that day
promising to return, when it is my time
promising to live my allotted span
say hello to life, and be on my way.

A Stranger's Face

There I stood,
upon the middle steps,
upon the cusps of change,
upon this earthly stage.

What was has gone,
into the night,
all that's to be,
are dawned and nigh.

As I look,
into the mirrowed lake,
I saw a face,
that did'nt quite fit.

What I saw,
was a stranger's face,
that told me tales,
of a stranger's fate.

In his eyes,
a heavy sadness rest,
but in his heart,
the tears are all but dry.

In his soul,
a pool of lonesome fears,
but his dreams,
has long begun to die.

Upon his brows,
a wrinkled forehead lined,
his toughts and worries,
the burdens of his times.

Upon his face,
a downcast angled frown,
a man who's lost,
and hope will never find.

And then he spoke,
with words that grief designed,
"I am he,"
"Alas this fate is mine."

What Can You Do...

What can you do,
when you are all alone...

In a dark empty room,
with no one to talk to.
In the coldness of gloom,
with no one to hold you.
In a place all your own,
with no one to love you.

What can you do,
when the hope has all gone...

There's nothing to do,
nor a thing to achieve.
There's nowhere to go to,
nor a place to perceive.
There's nothing to hold to,
nor a thing to believe.

What can you do,
when your heart is as stone...

You feel not the pain,
but the sweetness too hides.
You ignore the rain,
but the tears fall inside.
You heed not love's claim,
but the hurt won't subside.

What can you do,
when the dreams don't return...

You sleep not at night,
as the nightmares define.
You wander without sight,
as the dreamless are blind.
You sit by the roadside,
as you are left behind.

What can you do,
When you are all alone,
When the hope has all gone,
When your heart is as stone,
When the dreams don't return,

What can you do,
but to tarry along.
Where else to turn to,
but into your own.
Where can you go,
but into the gloom.
What more to do,
but to drift all alone.

An Ode to Warrior Celts

Out of mists and under fog
rose the cry of warrior lords
blue faces O! Woad
screaming forms charging bold.

swift as winds fierce as beasts
led by druids with runes ablaze
enchanted clouds of battle rage
bards a-singing their battle staves.

the whistling whirls of deadly slings
blades of bronze that bore such sting
fey blessed men with red-eyed gleam
blood chilled cries and raging screams.

a terrible foe to those who seek
to claim the lands beneath their feet
for no other tongue can ever sate
the bloody hunts of Celtic fate.

alas like winds they fade amiss
driven and chased like hunted beasts
all but forgotten in dreams and songs
as the last spell leaves the druids lungs.

against a foe unmatched they fell to rest
as javelin and blade doth rend to shreds
the march of progress on disciplined roads
doth sweep aside the enchanted groves.

they live now in faeries' eaves
memories of times that never sleeps
as their songs enchant their spirit seeps
into the blood of kin sundered by deeds.

"we sing to the lords, the huntsmen who sleep"
"an oath bespelled by blood and by deed"
"under sacred groves will once again"
"dance the Woad with blue painted skin."

Love Is...

Love is as the tides
that teases the patience of empty harbours
an aroma of infinite wiles
that vanishes as often as fickle vapours.

Love is a bridge at times
that seeks to connect opposing shores
only to fall as certain as rhymes
and dash to pieces what hopes was before.

Love is a new beginning
a tale to start the futures to come
only to lead to further endings
and drown the future in empty chasms.

Love is at times a boon
the gift of passion that lifts the gloom
but in the end it's over too soon
a prelude to pain in history's tombs.

Love is just a guise
that we dress our pregnant pride
an emotion doomed by pretty lies
a borrowed shade whilst rains subside.

Love is a beggar's call
dressed in rags of feined innocence
to beg the scraps and table fall
and dread the strength of self-indulgence.

Love is all in all a lie
that we tell ourselves to ease our sins
for none admits their selfish wiles
solitary fears and lonely pains.

Lost Echoes

I was born out of immaculate desire
conceived upon the eaves of absolute perfection
fathered by the quickenings of hope
lofty ambition was my birth mother
alas this cumbersome existance
is just a borrowed splendour
a crafty reflection of what I thought
nothing more and none other
what ripples that may
have long since subsided
what echoes that remain
are lost in the distant void
subsumed by the tenors
the bitter notes of fate
the malignant melody of chance
the cold blare of harsh reality
and as the last of my echo bounces
upon the last few surfaces before it vanishes
I lay aside these heavy reins
and let the darkness engulf
as I like my pathetic echoes
subsume into unknown reaches
slowly and slowly ever so slightly
upon fragile winds and delicate vapors
into the embracing silence
of vanishing echoes.

A Little Sparrow Sang To Me

I was out in town that day
through busy streets and alley ways
as often times my gaze was tied
to cobbled stones and dusty strides
in thoughts and deeds a solliloquay
a lonely and dispassionate lad.

Moving on through busy throngs
deftly stepping won't tarry long
my business brisk then off to home
for in this town I am all alone
never to be or ever to belong
on these foreign shores never my own.

Then a gentle rumour tickled my bones
a windy flavour borne by flighty tunes
upon eaves I glimpsed a dappled creature
clad in yellow feathers and merry cheers
and where it danced the very sky did shone
in its song a melody of million laughters.

In that empty maw where my heart is kept
a spark, a flicker, a once forgotten light
"awaken!" sang the sparrow "tarry not in dreamless state"
"remember" it said "life is like a piece of cake"
"to reap its flavour, the happy or the sad"
"you must take a bite and taste what life dictates".

I was intriuged and just interested enough
to began to seek this little sparrow of laughs
but even as I raced to where I spied it last
it would jump, hop and fly away too fast
here and there, I was led around the bough
but catch that litle bird I never did, alas.

Until later, much later did I surrender to rest
for my stength was drained by this silly little jest
then the sparrow did perch once more over my head
and whispered "tarry not for there are dreams to be had"
then it up and flew away leaving me with nothing at best
but beyond that flighty bird, there are other things that life begets.

I lifted my eyes and found in wonder
that the streets does seem to be now a little calmer
the alleys are no longer darkened in shadows
but are sprinkled with life's many rainbows
there are people here that I once never would hear
and things to do that would keep me for hours.

I have wandered far it seems in pursuit of the sparrow
that I have found again what I have long enclosed in the shadows
my downcast eyes are free to roam all the colours
my shuttered heart now feel all of life's little flavours
long have I ambled on this path of straight and narrow
now am I free to wander to reap what life has to ofer.

I am out in town most these here days
through familiar streets and friendly alleys
as often times my gaze would sweep
at all the richness that life does keep
of all the things, the people, the sights and sounds at play
O! what a lovely place is this here town indeed.

A little sparrow sang to me
a song of life and in all its glee
though I never did see that sparrow again
I would sometimes hear its song in refrain
"awaken" it would say "harken to me"
"for life is never meant to be in vain".

I Walk The Streets At Night

I walk the lonely streets at night
perusing the tell-tales of life
slowly borrowing the sights
window to window and door to door.

Such Visions my only respite
for fate does tend to deprive
the flavours of simple delights
the warmth that love does adore.

Out cold on the pavement I sit
looking in through the mirrored veils
the laughter that others partake
are but echoes on stones that disappear.

Whatever was for me to keep
are shadows wreathed in darkness deeper still
like clouds in the wind's violent wake
and the drops of a vanishing tear.

What views that I ever survey
are but moments lost in a dream
every touch that I though I did feel
are suspended beyond all my grasps.

My wishes grew beyond this grey
hoping to be on the other side of the gleam
for colours to brighten my faded reel
and whispers teaching me how to laugh.

But I still wander the streets at nights
without doors nor windows to open for me
for in the cold on the pavements I sit
without hope nor the warmth of a love.

The avenues are all locked up tight
what ever is there for a soul that is me
forever dancing the night's silent beat
wishing at the moon and the stars far above.

I Told Myself

I told myself
again and again
I never cared
nor gave a damn.

But why is it there
this feel of chagrin
even when I've long
recovered the pain.

Too long now
since twilight's fall
the setting sun
have left no dawn.

From empty aisles
in abandoned malls
echoes still sing
but the melodies are gone.

Anchored beyond
once azure skies
lies the broken remains
of lost horizons.

Once decked and followed
by nimble suitors
now lost forever
manicured in gloom.

In whatever form
by whichever route
this forgotten tale
must perhaps be told.

In the flowering of time
the blooming of days
what remains of hope
might somehow still dream.

For even in darkness
perhaps I still wish
to awaken once more
in the light of the day.

Muqaddimah, The Codex of Lan

" Above and beyond everything else,
I must enforce these rules that I have ,
for better or for worse I must never digress.
Let other souls waver in the press,
But I... I must remain ever as constant as I must."

What Words Can Never Say

So many hopes and so many feelings,
Hanging like ropes that keep us from falling,
Such fertile dreams that now are remembered,
The future that seems like a fear to be conquered,
All these that lie on the tip of the tounge,
The answers to why and the song to be sung,
But all the subtle ringings are silenced on the way,
All this that I am feeling my words can never say.

Sleeplessness, Too Much Coffee and The Internet

I am usually candid, reserved and somewhat silent
But the grogginess of not sleeping
Have always conspired to affect my judgement
The disruption to resting
Has rendered my synapses somewhat inefficient
Making me less constrained
to render careful thoughts to actions
The consumption of coffee
Is also somewhat a challenge
For the caffein that I take
Doth cause indirect corellation
This giddiness of the head
A lightheaded emotion
I have become a thing
of unintelligeble compunction
Such that it is
That in normal communication
That I still pause to think
Before exchanging information
But such as in things
In instant communication
I often overtype
Hitting "sent" before consideration
only to realise now
Its awful implications
To those I have frightened
With my tasteless jokes and awful renditions
I say my farewell
And bids my apology in regretful silence
For these sleepless behaviour
lack of tack and perhaps an unbounded imagination
You will see no more of my stupid and inconsiderate posts
I am sorry again for my sleepless and caffein fueled pontifications.

A Chance Encounter

When the doorbell rang that day,
I rush to answer on my way,
A voice that echos "Hello" to me,
Such sweet supple melody.

Why she came I can't remember,
Perhaps some trivia or such another,
But I do know that she was here,
And for a moment I thought that love did appear.

Twin gentle eyes that swings to me,
Joined by a smile that speaks truely,
A picture of heaven stood by and by,
An angel right out from the sky.

Where do I begin and where to start,
As this lovely lady captured my heart,
Long have I waited for this to be,
But long have I feared what it would decree.

For once long before have I felt this way,
Only to know the true meaning of dismay,
What lies beyond this meeting by chance,
Dare I pursue and once again risk to dance.

How can a lady one such a stranger,
Quickened my love with just a whisper,
Why can I still see craddled in stars,
That lovely lady driving off in her car.

A new day hereafter a chance to begin,
Should I risk it ever or dare I abstain,
Rainbows are dancing sunshine is shining,
Old songs of dreams have just begun to sing.

Was it fate or chance encounter,
Is it destiny for me and for her,
I wish I knew and I hope it was,
For my mind is troubled my heart at loss.


In the midst of indulgences,
in the wake of excess,
I peruse the differences,
that all things must possess,

a murmur here a whisper there,
the utterances that I vainly digest,
to figure and decipher bare,
the indigence which truth hopefully divests,

taken leave of my thoughts and senses,
going off the straight and narrow,
through the wilds and jagged fences,
uncharted streets and tear streaked windows,

shed from the yoke of bitter order,
removed from care of flighty fancy,
aloft in the float of nether powers,
stripped from joys from piety and mercy,

in the grip of winds obscuring vapors,
in the tempest of rain the temper of storms,
in the deeps and scenes observing in candor,
my tattered vision sees no gentler sojourns,

alas in exile in thought and in form,
my remaining moments to dance in the gloom,
no less distraught no chance reforms,
till the fading sonnets the end is soon.

A Seed I Am

A seed I am,
A notion perhaps,
Or am I something more.

The wellspring of a thought,
The consignings of belief,
Or the conclave of ideals.

Born to construe,
Planted to grow,
Or left to endeavour.

The constrainings of chance,
The parodies of fate,
Or the fulfillment of destinies.

Instilled by life,
Conditioned by knowledge,
Or evolved intrinsically.

A planted tree,
A weed some doubt,
Or overgrown shrubbery.

Watered by experience,
Enriched by dreams,
Or cajoled in a nursery.

A seed I am,
A seed indeed,
The portends of the times,
The maturing of this age.


Boundless vistas,
the unmeasured stretch of the heavens.
Leagues of oceans,
unexplored isles and depths unknown.
Unbounded dreams,
that roam beyond untold unfound unclear.
Enshrined encased in esoteria,
the coolness of feel, the sadness of tears.

This Is A Dream I have

If forever was to be,
If tomorrow never comes,
I would sought you for me,
To embrace what love becomes.

Forever is for naught,
Tomorrow is ever here,
In vain is all I sought,
A dream it is, I fear.

If only I was more,
If only you were mine,
No matter what remorse,
For your love I would forfend.

But I am only me,
And you are ever more,
What hopes may ever be,
Are but dew drops in the snow.

If tales are ever true,
If acts changes no course,
What fate would have construed,
What paths might we have crossed.

Alas tales just passes on,
All things are bound in turn,
Never ever will dreams be borne,
Only in the bosom of slumber's return.

If only for a while,
If ever fate is kind,
My heart does ever cry,
For that bliss I will never find.

This is a dream I have,
It is a hope that never wakes,
This is a tale I craft,
A vision I can never partake.

That Moment

A second before now,
A minute after then,
How can you ever know,
That magic moment when.

All things fall into place,
When she walks into view,
My world spins in a daze,
My heart beats all askew.

Is it that lovely face,
Or that sweet sweet smell of her,
That lovely voice that says,
"Hello" as if a purr.

Before I never knew,
But now I always dream,
No one can be as you,
As perfect as I deem.

Is love truly as blind,
For indeed I have seen more,
But all that my heart now finds,
Is your face that I adore.

How can I define,
This love that sparks in turn,
Is this that tale through time,
The love that ever burns.

What fate has bound to me,
That moment when fate has willed,
A dream of what could be,
A hope that finds me still.

Whenever it came by,
Whatever is the cause,
It's too late to wonder why,
Once happened I am lost.

A Journey To Oz

A journey once did they undertake
to the great Tower of Oz for what they did seek
to the great wizard as supplicant they would beseech
his aid in their quests for their dreams and destiny's wake

led by Nina a lady in icy white
the Ice Queen she was whose gaze could freeze a soul
off to search for the redemption that she knows
resides in these her charges within their separate plights

there was Sulin the doused firefly
who lost her spark her spontaneous gaiety
marroned forever in the dark and gloomy
less she finds again her light that's gone awry

dear Ling that crumpled butterfly
weighed down by cares she wallowed in the depths
burdened by concerns and by threats to her health
she lost her lustre her spirit's will have gone by

there was Lan the man of tin
made of metal a heart he has not
struggling to contain emotions and rust spots
he may very well be consigned to give in

there's Ghaus the old man winter
a man at the peak at the top of his life
with accomplishments aplenty to mark his past
what more in this world can reshine his veneer

joined by John that sullen rock of loss
weighed down in life he was awaiting to sink
there is no more in life that he so thinks
would give him cause to smile, cheer or applause

and also Chu that unhappy swallow
who among ducks shrouded her life an ugly hue
what is more for her to attend and to do
not to be in the crowd but to shine and glow

the beautiful Azleena the sad princess
whose life had chosen a sad fairy tale
so many unpleasantness her story would regale
leaving anyone with a sob and a tear no less

then at last there was Janice that hidden flower
a beauty asleep awaiting to bloom
shy and quiet but with potentials to groom
a lady of quality who sleeps in the mediocre

nine they were these walkers to Oz
a fellowship of friends marching to their dreams
a journey beyond hope beyond even a dare it seems
to seek for the sun in the lands of deathless frost.


I wish upon a wish,
I dream upon a dream,
Alas hope is all adrift,
Fate floats upon the winds.

My gaze upon the weave,
My steps upon the line,
But the future oft deceives,
Tomorrows doth decline.

I fly up to the clouds,
I rise up to the sun,
Never knowing all throughout,
The fall will be my end.

I plunge into the sea,
I dive into dismay,
Its plain as it can be,
Despair's the only way.

I set my self adrift,
I left my soul asleep,
No ambitions to conceive,
No troubles to defeat.

I live upon a life,
I sit upon a sigh,
No future to realize,
Surviving by and by.


I have slipped
slip! slip! slip!
on the deluge,

I have tripped
trip! trip! trip!
on subterfuge,

I am falling
fall! fall! fall!
into the pit,

I am running
run! run! run!
from the heat,

I am demanding
mine! mine! mine!
my just dues,

I am receiving
none! none! none!
but life's refuse,

I have gone
gone! gone! gone!
beyond all hope,

I have found
found! found! found!
my farewell stroke,

I am falling
down! down! down!
into the deeps,

I am sinking
sink! sink! sink!
to that blissful sleep.

In The Footsteps of Herodotus

A gaze
beyond sight
beyond vision
across the tumults of time.

A plunge
into past
into origins
lost to the centuries.

of a man
a visionary
the progeny of histories.

The tales
of his times
his ancestors
and contemporaries.

His travails
across states
across nations
into foreign cities.

His paths
crosses deserts
mighty rivers
untold boundaries.

His quest
to seek answers
unveil legends
understanding diversities.

His wisdom
in valuable lessons
handed down
for posterity.

A tale
of Herodotus
the cronicler
of times and histories.

What You Do To Me

When I lie awake, awake at night
trying hard to sleep, that simple delight
what did I see, but your sweet sweet sight.

When I finally drift away, away to space
into sweet sleep's, gentle embrace
what did I find, but your beautiful beautiful face.

When I wake up, wake up each day
what did I think, would I thought of today
nothing but you, your lovely lovely sway.

This is what you do, you do to me
all that I am, all I will ever be
I lay to you, my angel angel thee.

A Whisper Drowned In Tears

I hear it now so clear,
a whisper drowned in tears,
a sombre lullaby,
most bitter of goodbyes.

Standing on these shores,
regretting past befores,
as time sauntered by,
and I'm to ponder why.

My gaze construed my sight,
ablaze into the night,
my dreams of new horizons,
it seems askew forlorn.

As hope has gone away,
I spoke unsung dismay,
that glimmer in the dark,
have simmered and unspark.

The oasis of the heart,
once bliss without a blight,
now sundered and condemned,
dust-choked and harsh-dried land.


I have felt both
the pain and ecstacy
the taste of honey and bile's bitter remedy

I have seen all
of life's constancy
its hopeful beginnings and in death its ending litany

the touch of love
a viper's deadly kiss
that fearsome embrace that crushes nubile wills

the grip of hatred
the caress of cold iron's brisk
and the sudden swiftness of sharp tempered steel

the tread of friendship
amongst grounds diverse unfamiliar
that gentle bond which crosses all borders

the grimness of emnity
shrouded amidst and unclear
a tenderness that severs all things once held dear

that brazen caress of truth
a freedom to all to see to touch and to know
but a pit too deep to digress before sorrow touches all

the insipid trimmings of a lie
that covers routes most hidden forsaken far below
a little cloud on a dare that shadows the sun's prickly thaw.

What I Long For

I have seen the world in my days I deem
I have travelled far and seen spectacular sights
the first drops of dew on morning leaves it gleams
the hummingbirds that flew suspended as if by slight
the last grasping rays of tropical sun that seems
to descend into waves as if plucked by the night
the sprays and cascades of a waterfall's stream
that jaunty parade of bubbling delightS
but what I long for in all my dreams
is only for a glimpse of your beautiful sight

I have heard of songs crafted by art
inspired by muses but to angels belong
symphonies and melodies that stills the heart
concertos and pieces a soul's dipthong
I have heard sweet sounds that nature imparts
the chirping of birds as they fly along
the soothing waves of the sea's caresses light
as they whisper to the sands of the beaches in throngs
but in the ear that sits in my innermost heart
for your lovely voice is all that I long

I have felt the softness of silk's embrace
the sweet lures of a virgin's caress
such delicate tinglings as the warmth encase
in the balmy waters of a hot spring I rest
the refreshing touch of breeze the winds that race
across bays as if a lover trying to confess
the coolness of shade as it comes to replace
the burning rays of sun that has been a duress
but beyond these sensations I long for only one grace
for a timbre and feel of your gentle touch upon my flesh.


I step in silence
I walk in shadows
My gaze envenomed
My looks are daggers

A drop of poison
A prick of razors
Upon blades of iron
Upon tips of arrows

Thy flesh thy mettle
Do crumble so supple
Thy life to angels
I consign immaterial.


Dampened by youth,
Escape is only for a while,
Are we not drawn,
To those nets,
Hovering to catch us all.

Deep we shall fall,
Encapsuled in its embrace,
Awaiting our time,
That final call,
Hounding all who live.

Destiny's final twist,
Enroute to the doom of time,
A soul's resting space,
The wait for final judgement,
Heaven's will to all.

Doomed are we all,
Enshrouded by this fate,
Athwart our mortal wiles,
This we cannot defeat,
Hunters who never sleep.

An Island I Call Mine

In a sea,
as wide as it can be.
Beyond land,
as far as I can.
Through the shoals,
where waves are out of control.
Over reefs,
many a sailor's grief.

There it stands,
an island I call mine.
Where I am king,
over one and everything.
Trespass not,
or you shall likely be shot.
This I swear,
for all witnesses to bear.

Beyond time,
here will I refine.
A heart of hate,
doomed by unfeeling fate.
A tortured mind,
consigned to twisted rhymes.
My revenge,
will be at thy expense.

Here I stand,
upon these blackened sands.
On these shores,
I plot to even scores.
Harken to me,
for you will all soon see.
All will rue,
the day I claim my dues.

Fate is never kind,
so take what you can find.
The world is never fair,
it belongs to those who dare.
I summon the clouds of storm,
to wreathe my once gentle form.
Lightning shall now dance,
where trust once walked in front.

Woe betide dismay,
I wish upon all today.
Crushed shall be all joys,
no more laughters after my ploys.
Fear and brutal dreams,
I forge and build to brim.
From this island my domain,
I shall bind you all to pain.

A Stitch At A Time

Upon the silken strands
that fate have wove for me
into the artful dance
that is life's tapestry

I glimpsed not where it ends
though I knew from whence it came
too many knots to untangle, unwind
how difficult is life to frame

As the spindle churns and loom imprints
the tale of life adjourns to each subtle refrain
how glossy is the past in the sight it glints
that we often are trapped in its gilded chains

But life moves on and the patterns change
each one overlapping, replaced by the new
no matter what joy or indeed what pain
we must learn to reform changing colours and hues

Though the gears and grooves are sometimes choked
knots and tangles will often construe
patience and care most often would work
and sometimes a smile would also do

Remember to keep in the workshop of fate
sharp scissors of wit to untangle what may
a bottle of good humor for which to lubricate
and a dash of forbearance to anchor the day

When tears flow and sadness abounds
let it go and let it drown
paint it blue in colour all around
and then add yellow the color of the sun

In the patterns of life
a storm would we often glance
but despite its strive
in its wake rainbows would dance

Soo many patterns soo many hues
It is oft difficult to count all that was
soo many colours that chance would drew
I am often tired just keeping scores

As I think of the knit that fate may bring
living the day from hem to hem
maybe it is better for us I think
to just live our lives a stitch at a time.

A Farewell In Gesture

Upon the eaves of tomorrow
I bid adieu in quiet sorrow
upon the weaves of today
I leave to wander quite astray
Upon the leaves of yesteryears
I speak of apologies in measures
Upon beliefs of the future
I rescind to the memories that I will treasure
Upon these words I tender
I to thee a farewell in gesture.

Of Eowyn And Faramir

It is a tale of painful heartbreaks
of an unrequited lover and a disconsolate son
but in the ends a joyous tale awaits
for when these two souls are united as one

the first is the lady most beautiful and fair
the Lady Eowyn the fairest of the Rohirrim
lost for the love of Aragorn and torn by despair
in this world of the living nothing holds her to dream

wounded in battle by blows from Nazgul mace
wounded in heart by a love that was not hers to receive
left behind to heal and to recuperate her grace
but perchance a soul can't be mended as the body is

days she spent under the matron's worried eyes
in the healing house confined her pacings devoid of joys
to the east her eyes would wander, her heart likewise
where Aragorn, her brother Eomer and brave soldiers faced Mordor's ploys

a wish in her wounded heart, a dream perchance
to ride with those heroes to death and into glory
for as this world no longer holds a chance
than her only hope is to die at least with majesty

the second the Lord Faramir the most beloved of Gondor's captains
brother to Boromir the firstborn of Denethor slain by Orcish arrows
blamed for a crime he was never responsible nor by actions
the loss of a son by a father who mourns in sorrow

accused of consorting with Gandalf by his own sire
the prey of Denethor's disturbed mind, a sacrifice for sorrows
wounded by Nazgul dart as he vainly fought a losing venture
singed by fires as mad Denethor sought to have him burnt in the barrows

but returned he was to the world of the living
called forth by the touch of a king and the aroma of Athelas
mourning the loss of a brother to enemies and temptations of the ring
grieving for a father whose love he lost to madness and a Palantir's mental grasp

as he sat on rooftop gardens his eyes are also to the east
in his mind the hopes of a subject received of his rightful king
his dreams are of peace and the foretelling of lasting bliss
for his eyes have seen the cold beauty of a maiden of the Rohirrim

to the matron of the healing house under whose charge they both lay
a request was asked by Lord Faramir for Eowyn to join him on the rooftops
in the gardens they both would spent their hours of each day
both looking to the east as a succour for their tears and sobs

how cold at first their touches were just looks and helpful nudge
for the cold wild maiden from the plains is truly distraught
in Eowyn's soul an empty place where none dare trudge
in Faramir's heart the hopeful blossoms of a romance that he sought

hours they would spent on the rooftop gardens above
often in silence just the company of one and the other
then one day he held out his hand to assist her to strove
walking by and by a hand in each others would they wander

then the silence he did break asking of her affections to Aragorn
he questioned her of her hopes of battle and glorious valour
for the love that she mistook may not be romance but a soldier's bond
it is often that a soldier would deign to feel for a king's noble demeanour

the love of a subject to a king is not romantic in nature
but a recognition of noble threads upon the mantle of kings
such love was her affection lost as she was in her dreams of valour
that she mistook upon a whim of Aragorn as more than her king

until at last she did agree her love for Aragorn was perhaps a whim
but now she reveals that her soul was indeed now empty
for without that love there is nothing left for her to dream
he held out his arm to her again but this time not as a helpful deed

but as a man for a lady who holds his heart as hostage
"I might not be a king" said Faramir "but will you Eowyn be my queen?"
"only a captain am I but for your love a kingdom I will create"
"I pledge my love to thee my lady O! beatiful Eowyn"

his hand did she took with a tear in her eye
for indeed in attendance each day on the rooftop gardens
a feeling did creep into her soul and her love did fly
for the man she has grown to love in the silence they both warrants

"What would you want my lord, with a wild maiden without guile?"
asked Eowyn amidst tears of joy as she melt into his embrace
"What more could I ask for but of your beauty and sweet smile"
said Faramir as he gently kissed her slightly upturned face

so united into one their souls entwined at last
the Steward of Gondor and the cold maiden from the plains
by love's gentle grace they emerge from their pasts
as lovers often do as they are healed by love's refrain

In Ithillien did they dwell, Minas Ithil rebuild
as Prince and Princess to serve the grace of Gondor's King
such sweet bliss they have wed by Aragorn's will
to their dying days in love and hand in hand they cling


A lady tall and fair
pale of skin but with fiery fiery hair
a maiden of the Rohirrim
a daughter sired of kings
a lady high-bred, noble-born
but weaned on battle cries and warrior's songs

wielding sword as well as knitting stave
caged by form as well as duty's sake
a spirit that longs for battlefields
and a heart looking for love's gentle release
a prisoner caged in golden halls
by gilded chains of fate enthralled

a delicate beautiful lass
of fine silk and fragile glass
but a spirit of hardened steel
tempered with courage and strength of will
upon dreams her hopes are set
to redeem the tally of a life in regret

for the unrequited love of an exiled king
and the glories that battle does sing
rode Eowyn in disguised plaid
with the riders of Rohan to Gondor's aid
for death for valour and into glory
a spurned heart looks not for any victory.

The Tale of Yaqjud-Maqjud And Alexander's Dome

In the mountains of the far east
in the lands of central Asia
there once was located a valley
populated by two tribes of warriors

"Yaqjud" was one named
the other called "Maqjud"
tribes of such violent means
that their tales are full of terrors

none dares to tread near
for within that dreaded vale
"Yaqjud-Maqjud" would let loose
on any that wanders close

such is their wicked and evil ways
that the lands over and beyond
are left behind abandoned in haste
none dare to settle anyplace here on

as the years drifted by
then comes the time of great Alexander
a great general gifted by god
a man destined to legends of valor

in his march across the world
conquest and victories in his wake
came Alexander to that vale
to meet with the tribes of "Yaqjud-Maqjud"

appalled he was by their devastation
such callous disregard for nature and humans
even he in his voracious campaigns
left rule and order in lands he conquered

reason he tried to inflict a settlement
and when that failed he resorted to coercion
but of no avail was his efforts to them
his words and actions gave no resolution

so Alexander pondered upon "Yaqjud-Maqjud"
until at last he decided to imprison them both
a dome he envisioned upon inspirations by God
to seal in the malcontents under metal and earth

a trench was dug around this vale of dread
to be filled by molten bronze, gold, copper and lead
a barrier of metal a hundred paces in stead
a wall a prison in the vale "Yaqjud-Maqjud" to be kept

after the massive walls were erected
screaming and howling was "Yaqjud-Maqjud"
damning the world and Alexander included
to suffer their wrath after their freedom concluded

then Alexander had his armies cast
molds of spherical cut dome pieces
giant structures to be contructed
to build a dome upon the walls that rises

piece by piece and one by one
the dome came to shape and the valley sealed up tight
amidst the howls the screams of "Yaqjud-Maqjud"
then earth was piled upon dome to seal their plight

imprisoned were the twin tribes
these arbiters of devastation
as Alexander sets a guard
upon the site of their domed prison

off went Alexander to his conquest of the world
until later was all forgotten
of the prison and "Yaqjud-Maqjud"
the watch he task to keep are left unbidden

while we forget this tale of dread
"Yaqjud-Maqjud" in their prison sleep did not
scratching and eating their way through
tunneling the walls as they patiently dig out

as they are left imprisoned in the darkness
as monsters they became cannibals by need
as they worked tirelessly to break out
they eat their own dead as sustenance to their creed

as pale as death, nails sharpened by tasks
as hungry as hell, ravenous by need to feed
their teeth drips with blood of the dead they did eat
what terrors they become should into the world they freely slip

after destroying what was left in their prison their vale
they now look forward to devastate the world at bliss
what beast they will be what monsters from nightmare hails
the vanguard of "Dajal's" armies that one-eyed spawn of "Iblis"

for in the ending of days the time of Armageddon
shall the foul "Yaqjud-Maqjud" brings terror and bloodbath
as they are loosed onto this pristine earth
eating all in their wake consuming all in their paths

of those to be saved are only those who beheld to faith
remaining strong in their worships to God
or those who gave in to the "Dajal's" sweet staves
those who are lost forever to "Ibliss's" thrall

but these tales must wait till the ending of days
the stories that will resound upon Armageddon's wake
for now the horde of "Yaqjud-Maqjud" awaits
tunneling out of their prison's slate.

The Summit of Mountains

Alone, unattended though unforgotten
upon Everest on K2.
Or at anyplace,
where the mists of mountains flew.
There lies many a monument,
for souls and bodies left frozen askew.
The price paid most often,
for the ambition that mountain peaks does drew.

Mounds of frosted rocks,
adorned by plaques, medals and wooden carved letters.
A reminder of tales of that frightful fever,
that gripped the hearts of many a mountaineer.
To summit upon a top,
oh! the ecstasy it gives so sheer.
That death and dismemberment,
a price most thought to be in fair exchequer.

What puzzling rites does this action grants,
that simple stepping of a foot upon elevated grounds.
That draws thousands to their deaths,
or at least to life most difficult measured in months.
To suffer in altitudes above a thousand,
to slowly die in body feeding the ambitions of the mind.
What grace does this beckons,
for the abandonment of sanity and warmer climes.

But all in all in the face of history,
of Tensing and Hillary we will remember to posterity.
Those who were first,
to taste of Everest's majesty.
Such is perhaps the prize of victory,
to be there and to taste of its momentous glory.
Not much perhaps is the allure of publicity,
as to the satisfaction of summiting the peaks personally.

A fever it is a flight of fancy,
this dream to tread upon grounds most unattained.
But it is a pattern as to human progeny,
to seek and desire the most unreachable of terrain.
Though one can only wonder,
I can definitely say for certain.
That I will see in memorium more names on metals and wooden,
laid below... the summit of mountains.

From A Sniper's Perch

I have seen many targets
through the crosshairs of my scope
assigning to them a berth
on the deck of Charon's boat

in the heat of dreadful summer
under the sun's tireless rays
deep in the midst of winter
under snow and cold cold sprays

whatever the environment brought
I will deign to blend in as well
in camouflage a hiding I sought
waiting for a long long spell

among hedges on mountain ledge
in the shrubs of forest and dells
under tarp in desert sands
behind shades in buildings tall

drenched by shivering rain
wracked by sandstorm winds
with patience I am awaiting
for that one shot, one kill clean

my 7.62, a rifle from Remington
chambering a round of matchgrade magnum
topped by a scope from Bushnell's production
a ten times vision to assist my ultimatum

firstly the range by laser light
calculating the drop of bullet and windage routes
adjusting my sights I compensated to right
making sure a hit is what will come out

pulling back the bolt the rifle I cocked
inserting a round from my ammo pouch
lining up my sights my scope I locked
upon my target from my sniper's perch

a grip upon stock a shoulder to rifle butt
a breath I intake before round become shot
its strap I wrap around my arms real taut
releasing half my breath holding the rest before the jolt

upon the moment my crosshairs lined up
with the targets head I gently squeeze about
a pound of pressure nothing to add up
to release the hammer upon bolt to strike out

ignited the powder in my round loaded up
whose grains I measured painstakingly precise
expending gasses did ram the bullet out
a mass of metal that tumbles clockwise

from chamber to barrel the bullet rotates
from barrel to air slicing in the wake
travelling in seconds its impact most accurate
from air into flesh as a forcefully driven stake

its entry a hole nothing more
a gaping wound upon soft flesh
but the exit it brings to fore
is a twisted travail of rupture and mess

splattering blood, brains, organic matter
upon walls and any that's likely near
what a rush of Godlike power
to take a life upon a whim a rapture

as I watch through the scope real time real life
my victims squirming writhing their last gasps
in agony realizing that they have had their last breath
their souls arising from their bodies into death

I never questioned nor gave a thought
to kill from a distance gives no remorse
my faith in orders my superiors brought
to my nation of birth my loyalty's recourse

until one there's another and the next one hence
targets are nothing but missions to complete
till later I became as numb as my gun
with nothing to tell have a heart I once did

a vessel most hollow empty in respite
an elite among few but with none to delight
for the road that I walk are beyond all light
shrouded forever in the duties I must expedite

an enigma to follow for those without cue
to what I have done, what I still have to do
a soldier I am, a killer of women and men
but a poet at heart who weeps in the night's silent hue

what dreadful things are noble principles
when clashed with loyalty and baser pedantics
for only in the heart does it really suffers
when in mind ethics are overruled unpatriotic

once targets are strategic and tactical in nature
or villians too slick to be reached by courts of law
now politics and favors begins to appear
targets selected are more in the interest that draws

but still to the cause I must stay
to the flag, the nation, my commander in chief
for long long ago an oath I have said
upon my honor, my word and my beliefs

doomed to a life in solitaire I must
at least until this is no longer mine to undertake
but how can I find the redemption that I seek
for the lives and souls that I did terminate

wishful dreams from a sniper's thoughts
the soulful longings of a lonely soldier's heart
the poetic rendition a philosophical search
for truths and meanings to a dreadful task

a lonely view from a sniper's scope
the life of an assassin sanctioned by state
the lonely view from a sniper's perch
of a soldier's sacrifice for duty's sake.

A Soldier To your Heart

I might be just a normal man
but in the matters of the heart
I am a soldier born
a warrior by nature bred

Meek I might be in demeanour
weak in physical stature
but if you ever ever call
I will be a soldier to your heart

I need no drums no trumpets
no flutes nor bagpipes to blare
just a note of your sweer sweet laughter
leads me to arms and into any dare

I might not be a Rambo
but my enemies beware
my hands my mind my countenance
are weapons beyond compare

I might not be in the Marines
but just by your simple "hi"
to the halls of Montezuma
and Tripoli's shores would I swim by

I might not be in the Rangers
but call me if you want
I would race to lead the way
into death if that is your whim

I might not be an Airborne Trooper
but I would drop out of any sky
to whatever place should you choose
under silk parachute would I rendezvous

Upon your word on your every request
give me an order and I will salute "Yes Ma'am"
for you I am ever a soldier
for your heart is my supreme commander.

If You Ever Asked A Soldier

If you ever asked a soldier
as to why did he went to war
to fight and die in foreign corners
why do they relish this horrible endeavour

though not accurate in all the census
what you will hear will echo familiar
the answer most likely that you will hear
is perhaps delivered in this exact temper

it is not my wish to become a soldier
nor my ambition to kill and conquer
I am for the most a man as equal
as any that walked through life's adventure

but I always have this curious tingle
whenever I sing the national anthem
as I lift my sight to the the national flag
I felt these tuggings in my heart's bosom

I am not really brave though not a coward either
but I would if asked probably with vigor
lay down my life for pride and granduer
fighting to the end against scourge and terrors

for deep within my core my very being
sits a boy with his wooden sword unsheathing
with visions of glory that war does bring
the dedication to duty that my heart does cling

but above and beyond my childish fancy
is strangely enough my belief in serenity
I truly believe that for the sake of posterity
I will lay my life and partake in savagery

another anchor to my dreams of soldiers
is my belief in fellow men in valor and honor
for there is to me no greater honor
then to stand with another in glorious valor

for the true meaning of the word soldier
the true calling of the word honor
is perhaps the men you stand beside of
at that lonely hour when the need is most dire

The Mansion

Upon a hill
most desolate and bare
sits a lonely mansion
picturesque and fair

A massive Victorian
with stoneworked towers
mosaic glass windows
and sturdy weathered timbers

High walls surrounds the estate
crowned by a gate of ornate color
a sign sits plaintively and above
proclaiming the Estate of Hawkridge Manor

A road gently upward sloping
brings to a stop from gate to front door
the grounds in keeping are well-kept
well-tended a rare garden on the moors

The driveway ends in state
at a lovely terraced roundabout
in its middle a fountain stood
adorned with angels and lovely seraphs

A maze most confounding
sits in the front gardens quite plainly
the hedges tall and forbidding
its secret routes hidden most shrewdly

Where rendezvous are made
amorous or clandestine
within its green hedged walls
many an innocent lost their lustre most pristine

The doors are massive oak
adorned with the Hawkridge crest
a bird a raptor of prey
caught midflight its razor claws abreast

The entry a most spacious hall
with closets and cloakrooms spotlessly groomed
the floor paved with polished marble
its ceiling vaulted high and into the gloom

A grand staircase sits with pride
for guests as well as its residents
straight up to the floor of the first
a place of beds and washrooms where sleep calmly beckons

Guestrooms and bedrooms
adorns these sleepy halls
so remember to tiptoe
in your trysts and don't ever fall

Turning if you please
to the right staircase that looms
leading to the library, gentlemen's study
and smoke-filled drawing room

There lies knowledge in the library
in books and scrolls and tomes
the study a gentlemen's sacred sanctuary
the drawing room a place of business where friendly laughter booms

Upon the left stairwell
should you turn for just a glance
you might find the diningroom, lady's parlor
and ballroom for the dance

The diningroom for lunches, suppers and dinners
the parlor a retreat for the lady her fortress
the ballroom most grand decorated with brilliance
a place for functions, parties and merry dances

On the floor of the ground
doors on the wall to the left
leads to the kitchen, well stocked pantry
and servants' quarters in the west

The kitchen a wizard's laboratory
where grand sumptous feast are conjured
supplied as by magic stored in the pantry
staffed and manned by chefs most gifted

On that same ground floor
through the the doors on the right
are cellars underground, meeting hall
and a greenhouse under sunlight

cellars acts as stores
for more delicious gastronomic delights
the meeting hall for meets and gathers
the greenhouse where my Orchids grow colorful and bright

Through white painted french doors
that opens and leads out to the light
the wide terrace and back porch
a favourite breakfast and tea time site

Of floral and vegetable
the gardens so wide
providing much sustenance
both in meal and to the sight

A pavillion stands majestic and still
amongst gardens and by a lake
a lonely jetty and single boathouse
decorated the sights for the eyes to partake

Many a dip did I take
into the lake in many summers' peak
but mostly I would sit
and wonder at this vision magnifique

Near the borders a wooded glen
a shrubbed area as wild as it can
unsculptured nature to beautify and enhance
the taste and craft all gardeners should grant

Rabbits and other woodland animals
would caper and jump flitting all around
the delectable songs of songbirds singing
a lovely and gently melodic sound

A solitary path meanders
in loops and knots around
a trace for me to wander
taking in the sights and sounds

Welcome to my halls
to this place I have in mind
in reality it might not
but in the future perchance its mine

A mansion and my manor
in wooded glen on English moors
if by chance you should come hither
give me a call and knock on my doors.

A Wanderer Well Scarred

I am a wanderer,
my paths have walked the worlds
my routes are tangled untold
my sights have seen it all.

I am well travelled,
journeyed beyond the gates
crossed the mighty straits
and climbed the frosted peaks.

I am embittered,
having seen all of guile's designs
been shown the cruelties of men
having felt the scourge of women.

I am tired,
my steps are in defeat
my trails in marshy deeps
my hopes are dashed to bits.

I am betrayed,
by friends or those I thought
even time does runneth out
and fate cares all for naught.

I am lost,
streetsigns they no longer print
landmarks have all gone since
and breadcrumbs I did not bring.

I am scarred,
my flesh are marked by wounds
my heart were stabbed by emotions
my dreams have long been silenced.

I am a wanderer,
a wanderer well scarred.

If You Want Me gone

All through the days,
the distance of the years,
I have walked the ways,
awaiting on the tiers.

Dancing in your light,
awaiting for a smile,
loving your beauty's sight,
as I look on from the miles.

Never hoped to scorn,
nor to cause you any pain,
but if my presence you shun,
then tell me tell me plain.

If you want me gone,
just you tell me hon',
if you really want me gone,
just tell me tell me hon'.

If you want me gone,
then just you tell me hon',
this my only song,
the last of me you'll find.

If you want me gone,
please do tell me hon',
for you I will back down,
walking off to distant lands.

If you want me gone,
tell me tell me hon',
a kiss I blew forlorn,
memories to tide my time.

If you want me gone,
just you tell me hon',
if you really want me gone,
just tell me tell me hon'.

This tale of love's sweet snare,
of a man bound by his fate,
hopelessly ensnared,
by Cupid's arrows hit.

I am awaiting on the tiers,
by your graceful gentle trail,
hoping against tears,
that your love would find me still.

But if you want me gone,
then just you tell me hon',
this my only song,
the last of me you'll find.

I, Chameleon

I, chameleon,
as the creature of reknown,
changing and forming,
matching hues matching tones.

I, chamemelon,
that witty man of guile,
This tale is of a man,
subsumed by his times,
living by wit's end,
surviving by his wiles.
A hunter of comfortee,
booty's explorer,
looking for exploits,
to engorge his member.

I, chameleon,
in the times of rock and roll,
my hair is as Elvis,
guitar strings do I swirl,
my voice as gentle crooning,
a balm to swooning girls,
of their honey I partake,
to the music of the bands,
squirming in Cadillac backseats,
and humping on vibrating beds.

I, chameleon,
in the times of hippies,
to freedom I surrender,
to freelove I give in,
smiling as I perspire,
in the backs of Volkswagon vans,
in the arms of freelove chicks,
eating them as they give me head,
oh! what splendour the hippie life,
swapping partners witout care.

I, chameleon,
in the times of feminists,
marching through the streets,
fighting for female rights,
after tiring in the days,
giving encouragement in the nights,
comforting strong females,
I don't care if they are on top,
for I come not as a man,
but as sexual partner on equal terms.

I, chameleon,
in the times of Agogo,
twirling my arms,
in the dance akimbo,
bellbottoms I sport,
sideburns I lampooned,
all in the guise,
to strand aside agogo's girls,
the wiggling of their hips,
beneath the thumpings of mine.

I, chameleon,
in the times of McCarthy hearings,
standing with hollywood beauties,
protesting their innocence,
the first amendment we protect,
our right to express and believe,
communist reds they might be,
but all colors look the same in bed,
blondes, brunettes and raven haired maidens,
whatever haircolor top or bottom to them I ministrate.

I, chameleon,
in the times of disco,
strapping on white shoes,
and dancing to the rhythms,
My hips aswaying,
my groins athrusting,
ensnaring mini skirted disco chicks,
athrashing upon dance floors,
apumping within through the music,
writhing upon them like Travolta.

I, chameleon,
in the times of anti-war,
chained together to protest,
shouting "not bullets but bread!",
lounging my sleepy head,
upon the mounds of sweet delight,
later on after making bail,
we protested by making love not war,
again and again I rammed,
into the tightness of Eden's earthly paradise.

I, chameleon,
in the times of Vietnam drafts,
firstly I dodge this terrible terrible draft,
seeking due comfort in females anti to war,
hiding in their sweet smelling closets,
partaking of them in their parlour,
but later I gave up,
surrendering to the draft,
to look after the livelihood,
of the working girls of Thailand and Vietnam.

I, chameleon,
in the times of poetic discourse,
that resurgence of the arts,
in New York and Chicago cafes,
being straight I stayed away,
from girlchilds of Lesbos and gay gay men,
but the female poets are poetically,
my prey and trophy's specimen,
avaunt into sweet dipthongs rhyming to the beat of drums,
the tamborine to signal my poems's stiff climactic pronounce.

I, chameleon,
in the times of spring break surfing,
living in endless summer,
certainly has its merits,
the first in my list,
the shedding of clothing by balmy summer,
exposing the many many delights,
cleared for me to partake,
arrayed are those thonged creatures,
playthings for my tounge.

I, chameleon,
in the times of rapping dudes,
my name was sparky mike,
with reversed cap and attitude,
girl groupies I tore asunder,
exposing them to merriment,
to the scratchings of the records,
spinning upon turntables,
as I rapped my mike athunder,
wenching on and under the tables.

I, chameleon,
in the times country western,
John Denver I emulate,
along with Willie Nelson,
a stetson on my head,
a guitar I gently strum,
my sweet sweet western drawl,
melts girls hearts and all,
a bronco I be riding atwisting and aturning
on haystack in barnyard stall upon a farmer's daughter saddled.

I, chameleon,
in the times of big-bike riders,
in biker's leather all clad,
atop a swinging Harley Davidson,
a sunglass shading my sight,
a shotgun in saddle bag,
beauteous biker chicks I pursue,
winning them in races and arm-wrestling match,
riding them across statelines and in motels cheap,
just in case they are severely underage.

I, chameleon,
in the times of street racers,
owning imported or muscle rigs,
souped up to the nines and digs,
in illegal races I ran,
sweeping prizes and winnings,
filling up my extra times,
filling holes in racer chicks,
faster! faster! the engine hums,
as the pistons struggle to rev in.

I, chameleon,
of past and future times,
doing my duties,
to repopulate the earth,
reorganizing human genes,
and partaking the sweets,
loving natures wonderful hills,
its gentle slopes,
wooded dells,
and riverine valleys.

Of Abrahah And His Pride

In the early days of faith
lived a great king named Abrahah
ruling his great estates
in his lands upon Arabia.

A great ruler
a majestic king
with a million subjects
seeing to his whims.

An army he has
mounted on elephants
numbering in thousands
what a sight beholden.

But with his wealth
and perilous might
comes the spectre of pride
the undoings of faith.

As Mecca's holy shrine
the Ka'abah was a prime
visited by the throngs
touched by thousands of pilgrim hands.

A great king was Abrahah
a follower of scriptured texts
but envious he was
of Mecca's great behest.

A monument he builds
to rival the Ka'abah
to pull away the trails
of pilgrims to his vale.

Alas but for naught
no one did even sought
to travel to Abrahah's
to the monument he create.

So enraged he became
that he seek to pound
the walls of Ka'abah
into bits on the ground.

A boast he made
mounting his elephants
a great army he led
to Mecca's sacred grounds.

Avaunt his soldiers
the elite of the day
marching through deserts
oases and Bedouin camps.

The Quraish lords of Mecca
were caught unawares
with caravans in trading
their kabilahs in disarray.

No army can they mount
to protect nor to defend
Mecca's sacred grounds
were exposed to Abrahah's lunge.

So the lords of Mecca
the kabilahs of Quraish
lift their hands in prayer
to God they did beseech.

So approached the army of Abrahah
to the sacred grounds of Mecca
trampling all in their path
with great tremors in their wrath

As they drew nearer
God did send and dispatch
the force of heaven's will
to seal Abrahah's fate

Giant birds of prey
ladened with stones from hell
covering the desert skies
with a rain of fiery hail.

Upon both elephant and men
do rain these stones from hell
piercing through armor and skin
with shrieks too awful to tell.

Throughout the desert skies
echoed their deathly cries
ripped and rend to shreds
by the stones straight from hell.

So perished Abrahah
a once and mighty king
whose pride pulleth down
of his glory no one does sing.

So ends this tale
of Abrahah and his pride
a lesson to instill
lest as too often we forget.

With Aragorn Before The Gate

From crippled Minas Tirith,
a city gutted and torn,
though victorious in recent battle,
the war has yet to be won.

So rides the Lords of Gondor,
the guardians of the west,
descendents of the Westernesse,
and heirs to Arnor's Crown.

Under that fabled flowing banner,
the standard of the west,
a single tree wondrously white,
in Mithril on dappled velvet black,

Crowned upon silk,
by seven silver stars,
sacred shining jewels,
symbols of the Eldar.

Aragorn in their lead,
an exiled king returned,
Elfstone, Elessar,
wielding Elendil's blade.

Gandalf at his side,
counselor and dear dear friend,
The Wizard of The White,
with sword and staff in hand.

Eomer Theoden's heir,
and his riders on fast steeds,
the horse lords of Rohan,
the horde of the Rohirrim.

The Prince of Dol Amroth,
riding with his knights,
lords tall and fair,
descendents of the elves.

The Rangers of the north,
riding with Elrond's elven sons,
sworn brothers to Aragorn,
protectors of the land.

The knights of Minas Tirith,
guardsmen of the tower,
clad in shining mail,
topped by white-winged helms.

Out companies of Gondor,
men from far flung vales,
cunning hunters with their bows,
and hardy woodsmen with their axe.

Of the fellowship that remained,
rode the hobbit Peregrine,
or Pippin as he's known,
a Squire to Gondor sworn.

There is Legolas of the elves,
with his dagger and his bow,
accompanied by dwarven axe,
wielded by Gimli son of Gloin.

Onwards they rode,
to the black gate of Mordor,
a challenge to mighty Sauron,
in defiance of his power.

Though their numbers were few,
a token of their gesture,
less than even the vanguard,
of ancient Gondor at its height.

But their purpose all unified,
was not to win through force of arms,
but in subterfuge they hope to wrest,
distraction and time for Frodo and Sam.

Mighty rivers they forded,
hills and mountains they crossed,
at every crossroads they left,
men with trumpets as heralds.

"Make way for the Lords of Gondor,
the Captains of the west,
the rightful king has returned,
Isildur's heir with Elendil's bequest".

Through conquered lands,
once sovereign to Gondor,
crossing through borders,
straight into the heart of Mordor.

Upon blackened sand,
on the scorched surface of earth,
they advanced with caution,
crushing all that opposes.

Until at last they arrive,
upon the hills before the gate,
on three hilltops they braced,
unfurled their banner and planted their feet.

So stood Aragorn at the gate,
upon the dead land of Mordor,
with his companions at his side,
shouting a challenge to Mordor's might.

Upon the three hills they formed,
concentric circles of well armed men,
a redoubt and bulwark to contain,
the seas of Mordor's orcs and men.

Stood Aragorn before the gate,
the king of men returned,
standing fell and just as fair,
in his mail of jet black hue.

In his hand with deadly grace,
the weapon of kings Elendil's blade,
renamed Anduril the Flame of The West,
the shards of Narsil broken but reforged.

Shouting out his challenge brisk,
to Sauron's emissary at the gates,
laying their gamble for even in defeat,
precious moments to the Ringbearers they give.

Stood Aragorn before the gate,
in just enactment of his powers,
for the crown that weighs upon his brows,
brings duties as well as honours.

Surrounded by willing soldiers,
lords and warriors prepared to die,
for despite their skill and untold valour,
by greater numbers they are outdone.

Standing in ranks upon three hills,
with weapons unsheathed and buckled shields,
awaiting the brunt of Mordor's charge,
embracing their cause and laying their lives.

Before their wake stood Mordor's might,
bloodthirsty orcs as numerous as ants,
trolls and giants lumbering along,
savage warriors with evil intent.

But still they stood firm and strong,
with Aragorn before the gate,
the last hopes of free folks all,
doomed guardians of Middle Earth's fate.

Fix Bayonets

Among men,
there is no terror nor glory.
Like those lived,
through the moments of war's infamy.

But among these,
there is no terror nor glory.
Like those who lived,
through "Fix Bayonets!" and the "Charge!" of infantry.

As Shakespear's prose,
to put it most delicately.
"Once more into the breach" my friends,
once more to death and into history.

Invented in the many many,
charges of Cumberland.
The fixing of a blade,
upon the ends of musket-gun.

First used to pacify,
the Scottish highland men.
But now a creed,
to the Royal Highland Regiments.

A blade upon a gun,
a piece of metal with tapered point.
A knife or dagger nothing more,
but to spirits a power it anoints.

Its sturdy steel,
rights the spine of frightened men.
Its polished blade,
brings courage to timid souls.
Its pointed tip,
the wrath of anger in pale young hands.
Its razor edge,
dulls the fear ten-times fold.

Sally forth the Highland Regiments,
The Irish Guards forming in cadence.
Grenadier elite of the Coldstream contingent,
the silent rush of the Gurkhas detachment.

Foreign legionnaires, French Vortiguers,
Hessian mercenaries and the Khyber Rifles.
Prussian drilled American Continentals,
the Stalwart Swiss and their German rivals.

From Austerlizt to Waterloo,
the open steppes to world war trenches.
Asian tropics, deserts North African,
To the Falklands and dune filled beaches.

What was acted upon battlefields,
in time repeated on many a battleground.
"Fix Bayonets!" that cry most shrill,
"Charge!" echoed by sergeants in many tounges.

A credo amongst desperate men,
the bayonet their last defence.
The rage of inspired soldiers,
as they charge through enemy lines.

The bayonet, a focus perhaps,
a prism of power to the hearts of men.
Upon its bloodied surface lies,
the spectre of death's graceful dance.

With a lung-full burst,
an awful throated cry.
Many a soldier would thrust,
his bayonet in headlong drive.

A forest of gleaming metal,
shining blades upon front-thrust guns.
The craze of battle-rage,
anointed by the bayonet's pun.

Upon war's tapestry,
they rush on into fate and into glory.
Spurred on by "Fix Bayonets!",
"Charge!" led on by its deathless majesty.

An Ode To The Green Jackets

Hurrah! Hurrah!
Cheers for the rifles,
Loyal Green Jackets.

Hurrah! Hurrah!
Cheers for the rifles,
Royal Green Jackets.

First in the field,
and the last ones off!

"Fix Swords!"
Their fabled cry,
into the mealstrom where Dante dwells.
"Form Ranks!"
The lads complied,
Letting loose their hell.

Spiral-grooved Bakers,
lightning bolts of death.
The long-armed rifles,
whose touch the ultimate test.

Of one shot kills,
and long-ranged hits.
Snipers at will,
and marksmen to wit.

With their deadly rifles,
and their long sword-bayonets.
Marching into parables,
upon legends and martial tenets.

Serving in ranks,
and in commission.
All those lads,
who served with distinction.

British toffs,
upscale gentlement.
Country esquires,
the gentry of England.

Cockney gents,
Portobello twits.
Wild eyed urchins,
from guttered city streets.

Farm bred lads,
from shire comes.
Cityslicking men,
from factory towns.

Scottish men,
highland and low.
grandsons of warriors,
with blue painted brow.

The fiery Irish,
their tempers true.
Never get between,
an Irishman and his brew.

Welshman born,
from hardy Wales.
descendents of bowmen,
the longbows of tales.

American loyalist,
from troubled colonies.
divided in loyalties,
to empire or dignities.

Different brouges,
of different tounges.
the quarrels they had,
when they get really drunk.

Different breeds,
of different kinds.
Different in creed,
but in one regiment they stand.

Rifles they are,
brothers as one.
their jackets green,
a mark divine.

Upon the slopes,
in Portugal, Spain and France.
Beating back the tides,
of Bonaparte's advance.

The match and the scourge,
for the Vortiguers of France.
the light infantry,
in skirmishes and advance.

Upon any grounds,
contested by France.
There's a gravestone that marks,
the grave of a Rifles man.

To Denmark, to India,
the Americas and hence.
The stern whip of a monarch,
against rebellious intent.

Their ranks a bulwark,
their shots just punishment.
Traitors and oath breakers,
they punish with impudence.

Upon nearby neighbours,
or distant frontier.
The creed of the Rifles,
for the glory of Empire!

Hurrah! Hurrah!
Cheers for the Rifles,
Loyal Green Jackets.

Hurrah! Hurrah!
Cheers for the Rifles,
Royal Green Jackets.

First in the field,
and the last ones off!

The Secret of Steel

The secrets of steel,
stolen by man.
From God's battlefield,
taken by mortal hands.

The perfect mix of carbon,
that delicate careful balance.
Upon folds of layered iron,
pounded into brilliance.

Damascus blades that sings,
the Snake blades of the Goths.
The spear tips of Zulu Kings,
the Samurai's swords of wrath.

Gilded Viking swords,
the curves of Malay Kris.
Swords from Toledo forge,
the lances of Navajo myths.

In all these things,
lies the distinct temper.
Of metallic mixings,
and the forge of masters.

But in all the thrills,
of legends and lore.
The secret of steel,
is a distant aurore.

In the beatings of Conan's drum,
that wild kingless barbarian.
His prayers to mighty Crom,
his god of earth and mountain.

Give me strength,
so that I might succeed.
Upon Valeria's lend,
whom at your side does sit.

But if you do not grant,
this humble request.
Even you I will shun,
for my fate is my own behest!

Therein lies the true temper,
the discipline of steel its secret emper.
The real secret of its deadly timbre,
is as much its makings as in its master.

For the power of steel,
is only as magnified.
By the hands that wields,
this vaunted of artifacts.

The discipline of body,
of practice and skill.
Maintaining the melody,
of ripened muscles and sharpened steel.

But ware the hand!
and ware the steel!
For it does not rend,
without an iron will.

The true secret,
the discipline of steel.
Lies perhaps interred,
in the strength of will.

Pendekar Melayu Turun Ke Gelanggang (In English)

The Malay warrior,
descending to the ring.
His dagger asunder,
long Kris unsheathing.

Dancing the rhythm,
stepping in cadence.
A floral arrangement,
but a strong deadly stance.

For my country's grandeur,
the the Sultan's royal grace.
all enemies that appear,
shall I conquer and disgrace.

Bloodied besmear,
besplattered by blood.
All acts of censure,
will I oppose and fight.

For the honour of Malays,
my nation's divine pride.
My life do I lay,
upon this sacrificial slab.

The Malay Warrior,
descending to the ring,
through trails asunder,
till death comes keening.

* Malay version here

Be still my beating heart

Be still my beating heart

be still...

of what glories of enruptured dreams
of what motives do I have to live
of what hopes upon which to breathe
of what indigence upon which to believe

be still...

no more beatings to guile's deceitful ploy
no more of that repetitive ungentle drum
no more pertaining to life's impossible joy
no more tendings to that incessent hum

be still...

let hot blood cool within your chambers
let life's echo loom to a distant whisper
let your valves unspool from unceasing labors
let silence replace your pulsing rancour

be still my beating heart

be still...

Pendekar Melayu Turun Ke Gelanggang

Pendekar Melayu,
turun ke gelanggang.
Pendua terselak,
keris panjang di tangan.

Meliuk tari,
mencorak pencak.
Bunga diatur,
kekuda dipasak.

Mendaulat negeri,
raja dijulang.
Musuh yang hadir,
digempur ditentang.

Biar berlumur,
dipercik darah.
Angkara mungkar,
akan disanggah.

Maruah bangsa,
keramat negara.
Ke hujung nyawa,
keringat membara.

Pendekar Melayu,
turun ke gelanggang.
berpatah arah,
ajal berpantang.

What Makes A Poet Great

hose words enchanting syllables,
those lines a cadence unrivaled,
those paragraphs sublime surreal,
whose poetry that shines eternal.

But of what qualities do we slate,
to pronounce the title of a great,
a poet's stylings his skillful tongue,
or his heart's emotional expunge.

Though I aspire to the mantle great,
I have ways to go before that treat,
but as my humble vision sweeps,
I do see a pattern to carefully keep.

For a poet to be called a great,
certain skills must the poet consecrate,
the mastery of rhythm rhyme and metres,
the true-felt feeling of a heart that matures.

A poet's pen is heaven sent,
only if his word does dazzles the sense,
skillfully rhyming in metres concise,
or astounding in a proses' lyrical entice.

A poet's poem is of any worth,
only if it transports the reader in truth,
to portray a feeling wonderful and nice,
or perhaps a wounded heart in repast.

For a poet to be called great,
of these delicacies must the poet partake,
firstly to be skilled in the linguistic arts,
the second to open their heart of hearts.

But a third perhaps the divine principle,
gained by tedious study or from God's crucible,
a gift a flair the essence of parable,
inspired by muses a floodgate of perfect ideals.

To be called a poet great,
to perchance fulfill that exalted state,
the thirst perhaps is to write and write,
repeat it again and again until we get it right.


Among the Greeks
the princes of men
of those of seek
to return Helen's hand

in the army of Agamemnon
was a wily wily man
for whom no task is anon
and no query to great to mend

Odysseus the ever ready
was the tenure of his appeal
the prince of Ithica city
and husband to beautiful Penelope

leaving behind a son in infancy
Telemachus the heir to his seat
a man doomed to vagrancy
wandering in suffering and defeat

a favourite of Athena
granted with her grace
the master of war and bravura
as nimble in any race

the smartest of all men
among the besiegers of Troy
his was the plan
to use the Trojan Horse as ploy

victory at last after years of war
but to this unlucky man
victory parades forswore
indeed he will lose all that was won at hand

after Troy's destruction
and Priam's ugly death
the Greeks returned with Helen
ladened with much wealth

ships ahoy! they went to shore
returning in glories and gold
but Odysseus and his scores
were reserved a terrible toll

earning the wrath of Poseidon
Oddysseus and his crew
for the blinding of his cyclops son
great anger was askew

to trials and tribulations
was Odysseus subjected to
losing all his companions
to Calypso his freedom threw

until pity and Athena's wisdom
lifted Calypso's veil
to Odysseus was given freedom
to return to his estranged isle

off to the Phoenicians
was Odyseus washed ashore
gifted by Athena's vision
a sea passage to Ithica did they bore

home at last!
on Ithica's golden sands
come Odyseus to rest
with treasures he won from Pheonician lands

alas his home was troubled
suitors to his faithful wife
thinking he was dead
laid siege to his house astrife

but again this odd man I see
with Athena at his side
with his son Telemacus in lee
routed those riotous suitors dead

so united at last father and son
husband and wife
to Ithica a prince rethroned
a man so very very wise

Odysseus at last
at home and in his place
a man quick in repast
with wit that cuts with grace.
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