The soft heart of the poet lives a life of its own, beyond borders, cultures, words, and silence.
ascending from the ashes
of quondam hours
lost in the sand of
an unnamed country
none of the four rivers flowed
hesitancy of even plane & lotus
to cloak & cast verdant shadows
no sanctuary for leper nor sparrow
crossing the frontier into
another mapless land
going to the customs office
an absinthe apparition appeared
what do you declare
paisley opium saffron & tea
paisley
woven upon looms
of life’s disappointments
plants & leaves not of
earthly species
opium
surely demons misguide
titian fields of flowers
transforms man beyond
realms of reality
saffron
taste of a flower
kiss or a lover
crushed into bitter wine
with the very hand
that guided the loom
tea
that rises from mere earth
from mountains above the clouds
waters drawn from an oasis
never looking up it spoke again
what is the address to which it travels
it’s been so long I have forgotten
& my very words were scribed
upon the precious cargo
what must I barter
what rites performed
in this uncharted domain
to reach the garden of paradise
merely your existence
ghazals composed upon your wandering soul
wax sealed parchment
palimpsest from vellum
for it shall never pass over the border
are often found
on rainy mornings
in early spring
meandering
beneath
pine groves
I tap upon the closed rusty gate
rubbled rhyme scattered lines
abandoned alliteration abound
forgotten & unwritten elegies
untranslatable verbiage
graffitied upon the walls
shall another villanelle be scribed
sestina no sonnet - refrain nor quatrain
all words lost in the dry well
crying into lurching lurking shadows
voice & inspiration decimated to dust
is this the day after the end of the word
unexcavated verse
disintegrated quill & gall
Invoking mute ghazals
searching for my muse amongst the ruins
kneeling to beseech forlorn gods
I rap upon the open rusty gate
hills are more lovely
in another country
no apparitions to cling
to remembrance
from another country
shuffle of the breeze
scatters my past
from another country
fragrances are more sweet
in another country
Do you know the difference
Or
Is there a difference
Between raging desperation
And
The mere lingering fragrance of
Melancholy
This evening the drawbridge is lowered
Then
Tonight I will see you in another country
A score
not of sad music but
two decades ago
twenty years
or even more
on the frontier
of the known & unknowing
a curtain of fog was lowered
forever dividing us
from illuminated windows
to walled up doors
echoes & mirages taunt
I reached out my hand
Aught from aught is aught
I reach out my grasp
---not even the wind
(Terrence Sykes was born in the rural coal mining area of Virginia. This isolation brings the theme of remembrance to his creations, whether real or imagined ...his poetry, photography and flash fiction have been published in Bangladesh, Canada, Ireland, India, Mauritius, Pakistan, Scotland, Spain Turkey and the USA)