138. Compassions’ Fool

Purged from the pains held inside,

Pain finds a victim, nonetheless.

Traversing the corridors tear-cried,

Tormenting pleas and lamentations,

Murdering a soul that’s died;

Many times been buried whole.

Tragedies in black and white,

Thrive in kind, unfortunate-fools,

Drenched in the mournful mists of night.

-The mis’ry fogging passioned-dreams.-

For nothing is ever put right.

Compassions’ agony is sure,

Hovering in distorted airs.

Expressionisms tell their stories,

Tip-toeing up minds’ unconscious-stairs,

On said victims’ door to knock, knock.

The sound which invites, yet scares,

Open door brings forth new frights.

K. Aldaya, 5/11/05

Picture: “Some People Feel What Others Dream Of” by fantasyn on bestuff.com; http://bestuff.com/stuff/some-people-feel-what-others-dream-of

137. Hearts of Hope

I rode by Hope Drive today,

On a day as any day,

Steady on the sought-for path,

Chasing fluid-dreams that below gray clouds hath.

What is it about this land,

Which makes us e’er strive o’er sand?

Shifted by the winds of chance,

On roads we flow on in a lively dance.

Little known about the course,

But for the sun and moons’ source.

Predictable dances danced,

To the flourishing of us: daily entranced.

Bearing caskets of regret,

And pains dug-up from times’ set.

Creaking-timber haunts foots stepped,

Upon aged-stone where progress is oft’ backswept.

Then a season comes to clear,

For a moment trusts seem near.

On a day like any other,

The tired road traveled passes another.

Desires to continue…,

Trust in humans found anew.

“Life is short”, we echo out,

As a brazen bell of funerals devout.

So we drive along our way,

Each and every bloody day,

Stepping on the cracks we’ve made,

On roads we ride on in daily masquerade.

Our footprints cut in the cracks,

Pouring crimson hurts from backs,

Over-burdened with remorse,

From the afflictions of predescended course.

Even with our scarlet feet,

Weeping from our journeys’ seat.

Eyes glisten with the sure sight,

Of a Hope Drive: reminding us of the light!

I rode by Hope Drive today,

On a day as any day,

Steady on lifes’ constant path,

Chasing the hope of dreams which each heart hath.

K. Aldaya, 5/7/05

136. The Buried Past

How can I help you understand,

What I’ve seen and known?

If there’s something to comprehend,

It’s not to use that tone.

Exhuming secrets long o’er-grown,

Isn’t your work of hand.

Tell me how to explain in words,

The scen’ry shrouded,

With stinging o’er-powering senses;

Absorbing the clouded,

Days of what is sought in crowded,

Rooms, found afterwards.

Quick, be still. Calm inquisitions.

Forcing forth sealed-core,

To recollect its’ provincial,

Ghost-shadows, broke and tore;

Which plague the confines to the pore;

In repetitions.

Please let the time forget itself,

Be ye still and know,

That although I may oft’ look lost,

Hope is found with cost low;

To all who seek to be thou so:

Dwellers for times’-self.

For time must seal itself a grave,

In everyone bound,

By the inhalant-smells of death,

Faulting ‘long cold, hard ground,

Spreading the stark resonant-sound,

Of the ancient knave.

For in each of us there lies,

What cannot be had.

To live, be, in this torrent-sea,

We must lose olden-bad,

And forget the set-stained sad of…,

Days lost to the skies.

K. Aldaya, 5/3/05

Picture: “The Ecliptic” by Larry Landolfi; https://500px.com/photo/339318/the-ecliptic-by-larry-landolfi?from=user

135. The Fortunate End

Oh my darling cry thee not,

When in the murky waters lie,

‘Mersed deep and sought…,

Smothered ‘neath the open-sky,

Over my corpse weep not.

Oh my darling mourn thee not,

For natures’ course has finally met,

The fortune of the long unwrought,

For many suns and moons have set,

With dirty-hands, which hard have fought!

K. Aldaya, 4/19/05

Picture: A fashion photograph taken at Weeki Wachee Spring, by Toni Frissell, first published in Harper’s Bazaar (December 1947); http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weeki_Wachee_Springs#/media/File:Weeki_Wachee_spring_10079u.jpg