Dominic Windram

May I never cease to wonder:
At the cascading crystal blue waters
Of the waterfall; at each new dawn's
Sweet sunbursts of flesh pink magic.
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Winter's last rose; rose of regret:
O how once your radiant beauty
Shimmered in summer's potent hour.
Now your faded petals offer,
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These days, everyone seems distracted by their
Portable universes; their cool, handheld phones.
Nobody seems inclined to engage or converse
With anyone else. O what a sad state of affairs!
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O we poets are poor creatures:
Scratching around amidst life's ruins;
For Time's worn out, discarded details,
Like that famed scavenger: Rauschenberg.
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These relics are odes to creation:
From planets to fragments of atoms.
Certain turning of the sun; crooked fork
Of the trees and their sprawling branches;
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It's a tranquil night.
On the distant horizon,
I suddenly glimpse
A moonlit sailboat, slowly
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On Bonfire Night, a thousand bright lights
Explode in November's autumnal skies:
Moon Shadow, Crackling Glitter, Comet Bomb;
Deadly Dragon, Pearl Shots and Flaming Sun;
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I've heard the mindless mantras
Oft repeated & I'm not convinced:
'The guns provide us with protection!
The guns represent our freedom! '
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O you were once wild and beautiful
When summer's rays reclined in your hair
And your Being blazed in valleys and hills.
O you were a force so vital and rare
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The great artists pass through this life
Like stars of different seasons;
Like comets that span the centuries;
Like broken messiahs bloodied by doubt;
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Great creations are not rushed. They possess
A quiet fruitfulness. In due course, they
Tend to fall like ripened apples from trees,
On a vivid autumn evening, that's blessed
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These lilac flowers
Of pale violet are softened
By a veil of light.
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O they relaxed and sunned themselves at the beach,
While we stressed out about upcoming exams.
They walked hand in hand with lovers around parks,
While we contemplated Nietzsche and Kierkegaard.
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Late October's brown, red and golden bliss;
Flashes, fragments of cottages and trees;
Small islands afloat in the smoky mist;
Unmarred by the blasts of the centuries.
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I disguise my flaws with flowery words.
My metaphors are grand sublimations.
I hide amidst cloudy skies with the birds.
I don't really marvel at Creation.
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All those bureaucrats and so called liberals;
All those who castrate creativity;
All those who desecrate the intellect;
All those connoisseurs of culture; all those
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Rose leaves & water;
The pure light of morning;
Unspoken prayers.
I am now at peace with my
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