In Dreams… A Poem by Sullivan the Poet

 
Oh! Soft corruption, sweet decay,
to cloying soil my bones forsake;
Bid time slow eat my flesh away,
its‟ juices flown, cold stone to slake;
When form and figure all are gone…
My heart, set free, in dreams goes on.
 
Spare me your grief, your laden tears,
not for my soul your gods entreat;
Nor stoop backed burden of more years,
left still to run on crippled feet;
As must soil heaps my head upon…
My heart, set free, in dreams goes on.
 
Call loud my sins, misdeeds proclaim,
paint black each trespass on my soul;
Each evil done attach my name,
pile high each spot like ebon coal;
Cold, cleansing, flows my Rubicon…
My heart, set free, in dreams goes on.
 
Taint not my corpse with men of God,
let not stale absolution drip;
Or pious words corrupt the sod,
from bloodless, sanctimonious lip;
Men‟s prayers, like echoes, soon are gone…
My heart, set free, in dreams goes on.
 
No maudlin hymn above me raise,
chain not that anchor to my shade;
Dare not in my name deaf gods praise,
I worship not what man has made;
When last my bones death‟s shroud must don…
My heart, set free, in dreams goes on.
 
Speak not o’er me of journey’s end,
nor rest, nor peace, nor setting sun;
Nor soft, to paradise pretend,
but loud of travels just begun;
Till wraiths we each embrace anon…
My heart, set free, in dreams goes on.
 
Garb not my tomb with polished stone,
pale markers non my grave adorn;
As free man, naked, and alone,
permit me part as I was born;
For in each life it touched upon…
My heart, set free, in dreams goes on…

 
 
© Sullivan the Poet 2008
 
 
In Dreams…’is an excerpt from:
In A Mirror Darkly..
 
Published by Sullivan Publishing
ISBN 978-0-9568876-3-4
Copyright: © Sullivan the Poet
Printed in the USA by Lulu.com

 
 
The Poet Sullivan

 

BIO:Sullivan The Poet
 
Born a British subject of an English mother and Irish catholic father in the late January of 53; Sullivan spent his early years with his family in the Far East. Returning with his parents to England in the late fifties where he was subsequently educated.
 
Thereafter pursuing what could perhaps be best described as a broadly colourful career; with callings as diverse as gun dealer and consultant, freelance journalist, magazine editor, commercial photographer, publican, fleet limousine operator, lecturer and an unpaid ‘Special Needs’ tutor: To name but a few – even a brief spell under the flag enjoying the Queen’s shilling!
 
Throughout which the only truly common thread has been his writing, an enduring passion never completely abandoned; fuelled by his lifelong fascination with not only the beauty of the English language and its literature in general, but the richness and diversity of its poetry in particular. A fascination well illustrated in the almost perverse multiplicity of styles and subject matter contained within this slim volume and others…
 
Widely published in mediums as eclectic as his work, from poetry anthologies to text books; wall hangings and mixed media fine art works: Sullivan is seemingly content to share, with anyone and everyone, and in whatever poetic medium takes his fancy; his works, his philosophies, his passions…
 
Dave ‘Hoppy’ Bennett
 
http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk
 
 
robin@artvilla.com
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

A River Run… Poem by Sullivan the Poet.

Run River Mike Sullivan

 
 
Bubbling, taunting, time’s dark tide,
each eddy swirled,
in sagging flesh;
In days, in hours, speeds our slide,
our being hurled,
to tomb from crèche.
No sooner fecund than denied;
Disdain time’s breakneck, lethal ride.
 
Crack boned, withered, stooped and bent,
each moment run,
folds ‘pon its mate;
Life’s blood, creeping, near to spent,
each rising sun,
adds yet its weight.
And thus each second ‘thout relent;
In crushing, marketh man’s descent.
 
Weak’ning, feebled, sinews strain,
to beg their frame,
once more erect;
Wanting, trying, through the pain,
to brief reclaim,
lost self respect.
How vengeful gods make years our bane;
When potent youth’s spent wraiths remain.
 
Mirrored, frowning, lines portray,
each furrow ploughed,
without consent;
Scribing deep each steel edged day,
In veins stood proud and wrinkles lent.
Thus revelling in man’s decay;
Does time our swift’ning span display.
 
Knowledge, hard won, weights its worth,
‘gainst failing mind,
that scarce recalls;
Wisdom, harboured, from man’s birth,
To nought consigned,
wets where he falls.
A lake of tears, a cup of mirth;
To silent slake some acrid earth.
 
Hard life, hard passed, fades to grey,
consigned to dust,
all trials borne;
Each pain endured, cold away,
each love each lust,
cut down like corn.
No mem’ries triumph o’er decay;
None worthed above another’s fey.
 
Living’s harvest, loving stored,
lays doomed to soil,
to rank decay;
Each ear, each grain, scant reward,
all life’s cruel toil,
passed dark away.
No bellies filled with living’s hoard;
Its sum from nought, to nought restored.
 
Conq’ring, lacking, coined the same,
no winnings pays,
nor debt foregoes;
Dies cast, random, call the game,
Yet not one day’s,
their falling owes.
Sham spoils the cheated victors claim;
When whispers time the Reaper’s name.
 
Comes the darkness, comes the why,
we pain to live,
for naught but this;
To bear each blow, breathe each sigh,
our all to give,
for one cold kiss.
In death’s embrace from womb we lie;
Each moment lived to naught but die!
 
 
© Sullivan the Poet 2008
 
 
A River Run…’is an excerpt from:
In A Mirror Darkly..
 
Published by Sullivan Publishing
ISBN 978-0-9568876-3-4
Copyright: © Sullivan the Poet
Printed in the USA by Lulu.com
 
The Poet Sullivan

 

BIO:
Sullivan The Poet
Born a British subject of an English mother and Irish catholic father in the late January of ‟53; „Sullivan‟ spent his early years with his family in the Far East. Returning with his parents to England in the late fifties where he was subsequently educated.
 
Thereafter pursuing what could perhaps be best described as a broadly colourful career; with callings as diverse as gun dealer and consultant, freelance journalist, magazine editor, commercial photographer, publican, fleet limousine operator, lecturer and an unpaid „Special Needs‟ tutor: To name but a few – even a brief spell under the flag enjoying the Queen‟s shilling!
 
Throughout which the only truly common thread has been his writing, an enduring passion never completely abandoned; Fuelled by his lifelong fascination with not only the beauty of the English language and its literature in general, but the richness and diversity of its poetry in particular. A fascination well illustrated in the almost perverse multiplicity of styles and subject matter contained within this slim volume and others…
 
Widely published in mediums as eclectic as his work, from poetry anthologies to text books; wall hangings and mixed media fine art works: „Sullivan‟ is seemingly content to share, with anyone and everyone, and in whatever poetic medium takes his fancy; His works, his philosophies, his passions…
 
Dave ‘Hoppy’ Bennett
 
http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk
 
 
robin@artvilla.com
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

The Silent Thief.Poem.Sullivan the Poet.Video/Audio.Candice James

 

The Silent Thief..’

 

 

It crept in soft ‘pon velvet feet,

a yesterday to steal;

A birdsong day all summer scents,

fair seasoned and genteel.

So small a day it scarce was missed,

one rain drop lost the brook;

Two dozen hours from all a life,

so easily mistook.

And in its stead did leave discard,

a fogged and dull lit gloom;

All hid behind familiar doors,

a strange and empty room.

 

I missed that one day not so much,

nor yet the next it stole;

A dirty day all damps and blows,

that scarce but left a hole.

Or bare the next, if truth be told,

or was it one before?

When sly it took a friend’s kind face,

from out an unlocked drawer.

And with it neatly enveloped,

all fastened with a bow;

A sheaf of happy memories,

once held and treasured so…

 

Til ‘fore I knew each other day,

or least I felt it so;

Fell silent ‘hind a rust hinged door,

through which I could not go.

No care to how I threw my locks,

or latched each window tight;

Another precious jewel was stole,

with each new morning light.

As if I held all of my life,

within these helpless hands;

Which day on day, try as I might,

slipped through like time’s cruel sands.

 

And so; I roam these labyrinths,

each crueller than the last;

In search some brightly open door,

to window on my past.

Dark corridors within my mind,

all tortured twist and bend;

And wooden troops dressed arms apart,

these doors, on guard, extend.

On, on, to twist each hard seized knob,

test each reluctant key;

To beg a bright familiar room,

that still remembers me.

 

With arms outspread to take me in,

all fold in its embrace;

Oh! Let me hold between my hands,

one full remembered face.

To know the hearth that embers there,

and bathe within its glow;

Beg gaze upon my grandchild’s face,

and breathe “I love you so..”

Or would that every kindly soul,

that smiled with love on me;

Might not, all gaoled, ‘hind dead-locked doors,

forever strangers be…

 

When in that demon’s maze I found,

all in his khaki suit;

My dearest love made young again,

my daring young recruit.

Rose young from under Flanders’ field,

and home the dreadful war;

Come steadfast ‘cross these work worn years,

to free my mind’s locked door.

So know you when I sightless stare,

my senses, thoughtless, flown;

Though lost your vale of tears my love,

that I am not alone…

 

‘Sullivan the Poet’ 
 
“Verse – Perverse & Obverse..”

***
2 Poets Laureate — New Westminster Poet Laureate Candice James and Canadian Parliamentary Poet Laureate Fred Wah at Royal City Literary Arts Society Setp 22, 2013 membership drive
Candice James
***

Poet Laureate, New Westminster, BC

President, Royal City Literary Arts

Honorary Professor International Arts Acadamy, Greece

Board Advisor, Interantional Muse, India

Board Advisor, Federation of British Columbia Writers

Candice James is Poet Laureate of New Westminster, B.C. and President of Royal City Literary Arts Society. She is a poet, musician, songwriter and author of six poetry books A Split In The Water (Fiddlehead 1979);Inner Heart―A Journey; (2010), Bridges and Clouds (2011); Midnight Embers–A Book of Sonnets (2012); Shorelines-A Book of Villanelles (2013); and Ekphrasticism (2014).   Websites: http://saddlestone.shawwebspace.ca   and  www.candicjames.com

***

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