Rubaiyat Of Ghosts Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

One can, who strangers scan, too few admire,
as most play ghosts deprived of phantom choir,
tripping, tripping up, upon life’s board,
stillborn refuting intimate desire.

Love lost? who counts the cost when in Time's scales
all causal links stay hidden.  Passing wails
with Captain Ahab in pursuit too soon
are Mobyl Dicks whose whale revenge run stale.

What of tease dreams now barren, mirage moons,
what of pleas, teams dissolved, cocoons
for hibernation of for haunting doubts
converting alpha males to witless loons.

Spilt milk, such ilk, is water under bridge,
lies lie forgotten, in cold-storage fridge,
tomorrow offers opportunities
waif wraiths expel, flick phantom feeling's midge.

In game of give and take what ranks the higher
self-interest or charity? Enquire
about ambitions intimate, bond word,
suspicion from the shadows whispers: 'Liar! '

Last passing leaves leave, life's page age admires,
most boasts seem ghost hosts, post haste wraith dream wires
tugged tripping, hesitant, across life’s board,
stillborn, denying deepest heart’s desire.

As puppets men, leaves, dance as seasons' wire
blows hot and cold, taut from birth to death, slight wit acquire,
taught to act but not to BE! - sharp sword
of Fate each early, late, just must retire.

For few dare seek far stars, or yet aspire
for freedom, seldom glance above muck mire,
fear chloroforming chlorophyll cuts cord
that holds life's journey from horizons higher.

The burning bush survived the blazing fire,
and witness stands to God the purifier, -
yet oil on troubled waters oft is poured
as Fall to Winter wanes, frost snaps high-flyer..

Through sects' protection most fear to inquire
into life's why's and wherefores, strum joy's lyre,
for seventy or eighty years life’s cord
they eke out, seldom seeking, tortured, tire.

Lifes leaves soon grieve, deceived by Summer, ire
replacing lush greens flush, Time sees misfire
intimations of immortality
when verdant vibrance turns red, brown, then mire.

Life calendar contains a finite quire,
whose daily leaves, worn, torn, are not for hire,
yet oil on troubled waters oft is poured
by those who spurn each prophet as a liar.

Life is too short. Who’d play the poet’s lyre
must tame the vagrant strings, the versifier
tunes into harmony whose every chord
responds to inspiration all desire.

Leaves drop, hearts stop, in season all retire
from green-scene bud to has been dud quagmire,
so little space to race then silent doom,
strum still tombed, dumb will catacombed entire.

Let love lost bury if not love, love's loser,
Judgemental values often damn accuser,
find wings for further flight with insight spread
ahead lie other beds that cry: ... amuse her!

(5 June 2013)