WITHIN A MEDIEVAL GARDEN

1988

In a medieval garden, nestled 'midst the lights and trees,

Where golden crystal chandeliers hummed with whistling glee,

Amidst the glances of ill-fated souls, a man did glide,

Before the sinking sun, a scowling preacher did bide.

Days against the wall, cloaked in dust and sunlight's glare,

Lost in his own loss, a loss of self beyond repair.

Today, all that remains is a home devoid of cheer,

Where a breezy island wayfarer whispers in the ears.

The oak and willow trees, they speak in whimpery tones,

Of a white-robed God and angels on heavenly thrones.

Sisters dressed in blue, resembling nuns and priests,

Neighbors like twins, their connection never ceased.

A woman with a coat and tights, her leg a comical sight,

The Rabbi who knows your name, the Church down the road at night.

A shapeless-dressed lady, her gaze locked in a trance,

And a tall figure in a car, whose smile holds a dance.

Amidst the wedding party, help arrives from afar,

A figure seated by the screen, thoughts twinkle like a star.

Those who failed to assist, their regrets evermore,

As bedtime nears, green patches cast a tranquil lore.

Ordinary folks with music from a distant realm,

Where wailing bells and echoes from hollow churches overwhelm.

In the midst, a loud bell rings, its hollowness profound,

A "well-known man" stands, shouting a resounding "no" sound.

Through foggy jungles, his gaze searches, lost in the haze,

Striving to burst the bubble of the world's ordinary maze.

A wood-working shop-front reveals an aged secret-keeper,

Embracing an old woman, both worlds interweaver.

A poor sap confined to a wheel-chair, his presence meek,

Yet in place of youth's dance, his greetings they do seek.

As if the great Joke-comedians never had their jest,

Praise and joy abound, with gratitude so blessed.

"With each step, frozen faces smile, so small and fair,

As twilight blooms in the churchyard's violet air.

The black-robed patriarch pours water on the bell-flutes bright,

A sudden chill, a fairy-tree emerges, a haunting sight.

Skull and bones, almost beautiful, but a somber theme,

A faceless visage, lip-less, nose-less, devoid of gleam.

Yet in that head, the cranium points, an eerie sight to see,

For within its hollowness, a skull, its true identity."

Reviews

[Dave Brown]

quite frankly, until you did a review on one of my efforts, I didn't know you existed but I see here, in-depth poetry which is a pleasure to read and altho' I doubt I'll do much reviewing, not really something I do well, I will spend time, over time, to read your offerings.
Have a good day