No One Here Will Now Rejoice

No one here will now rejoice,
Standing at your place of rest,
Mellifluous music lost its voice
With secrets in your chest.

Your breath had softly pressed
A flower for love to linger;
In my dreams you’re still caressed,
A ring’s still on your finger.

This may be my one last visit,
Horror’s living longer;
Torrid, turbulent, once exquisite,
What kills me makes me stronger.

The Lakeside Path

There is a Preacher waiting
Beyond the seventh lodge,
These words prepared are gravitating
If goodness leaves its watch.
A Gravedigger from the village
Gave birth, to a Perpetrator’s wires,
We cannot restore the image
From before you wandered the mires;
For they excavate an oblong hole
And with a Carpenter conspire,
As single-minded as the mole,
The mole with a mind of fire.
Earthworms hoarded in his tunnels,
Thoughts down there we cannot absolve.
The criminal-in-waiting constructing funnels,
Humanity stirring sanity, when mixed dissolve,
Paid to lathe a cedar box
He slipped into the void,
The space and filling where a fox
Had life’s spiders all destroyed.
The woodland will witness silently
How soil’s disturbed so easily,
The muted lake’s complicity,
The backhoe rested queasily,
His bed a spade, his mind now trapped.
And yet these three men are moving still,
We hear the sounds of Time elapsed,
While you are stones on the furthest hill.
We remember your joyfulness and laughter,
Mellifluous more than spring-tide streams;
We love you all forever after,
In waking grief and grieving dreams.
We’ll cloak your permanent youth in gold
And resurrect your beauty;
Something happened which can’t be untold,
Conforming to spinsterly duty.
We are faster in our failing,
We carry your bones in our cages,
We are stronger when we are ailing,
We have suffered the fourteen stages.
The ingenuity is endless
Of mens’ cruelty so defenceless;
Our daughters all now friendless
For those nights loom long and senseless.
Guard the path beside the lake,
Daughters home before seven,
May you never read this at the wake,
For there are no rules in heaven.

[For S. and For U., in my thoughts and prayers when I wrote this].

For Sale, Not For Sale

There is to be no writing, nor catharsis,
When an elephantine memory for detail
Is imprinted into the meta-tarsus
Where you put your future up for sale.
As a real estate broker the devil was dressed,
For the part he kept his everyday clothes;
The boards went up, buyers impressed,
There was some mention in industry prose
Of the hall which housed your missing soul.
Death by broken heart has a ring of poetry,
Outweighs misadventure or suicide’s hole,
Or takotsubo cardiomyopathy.

I placed a thorn behind my eye,
Beetroot blessed for routing the devil,
But the thorn took seed in a leftover stye,
And there he shaped his revel.
Passed a parcel of illusion
Through life’s spiralling petal,
Semi-conducted an earthly confusion
Using pieces of eight-pound metal.
If all I see is a construct,
Then death is the engineer’s basket;
The fable-stuffed hepatic duct,
I am removing this house from the market.