My Last Lover

I think that poor Porphyria

Hath had her blame enough elsewhere

And so, my dear Cytherea,

I've taken extra special care

To shift the blame for you to bare.

Now as Hephaestus, that's my role,

I hatched a plan to catch the thief,

And forthwith to my smithy stole

To smelt a brazen net motif

And thereby grant myself relief.

Within that cave of forges wrought,

I called upon the Cyclops aid

And with gold maids whom gods had taught

Began, and other work forbade:

A hero's arms were to be made.

It took sometime to dig the hole.

I dug it by that old pear tree

Among whose leaves you oft would stroll

To set your struggling passion free,

I dug it deep enough for three.

And as the rain set in tonight,

The sullen wind came out to play.

They spattered me with all their spite

As if my plan they would betray

By all the mud in the hallway.

But with this muddy trail's begun

The final stanza I shall write

So let the mud be like the sun,

Old Helios, that kindly light,

To lead all here, for I invite

With bitter pen and bloody hands,

From now into eternity,

The nymphs and satyrs of all lands,

The gods and all the world to see

Me grant you immortality,

The gift for which Achilles died,

Preferring glory over life.

I think it was his selfish pride

That ere the arrow, plunged a knife

Into his heart. But now, dear wife,

Tonight I watched as Somnus crept

Into our room to pay his debt,

Then silently, as you both slept,

Beside the bed myself I set

And wrapped you in my brazen net.

So do not stir, but lie quite still

And feel my knife so gently pressed

And set with long awaited skill

Against your supple skin and breast,

The blade still warm from its last quest -

For Ares' blood still soaks the blade

And drips upon your precious skin,

While lifelessly, his debt now paid,

Beside you, flowing from within,

His blood engulfs the sheets in sin.

I slip the covers from the bed

And run my fingers through your hair.

A tear upon your cheek is shed,

Your clothes lay scattered everywhere

And perfume floats upon the air.

In this last moment, let us stay

Engraven by my poetry.

Since I was naked for a day,

Thus shall it be eternally:

Your naked skin, this knife, and me.

______________________________

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

For Once, Then, Frost

Dear Mister Frost, I find myself

In need of that deep well,

At whose own curb you once would kneel

To see what it would tell.

But having once at well-curbs knelt

And found to my chagrin,

I had to look so far beneath

The well-curb bruised my chin,

Thus, though in summer heaven, I

so godlike did appear,

I did not have the chin to be

What you might call, a seer.

But now, dear Frost, I'm back again

To see what I can find:

A pebble, or a piece of quartz,

Or something of that kind.

I seek the wisdom of the well

Who once gave something back.

A well, as far as I can tell,

Who never yet did lack.

Beyond the surface, dear, old Frost

I seek to counsel deep,

Yet all I've see are rippling jests,

That lulled me off to sleep.

Now in this hour of great distress

Beneath the shimmer dwell

The answers to my golden quest -

Oh, please entreat that well!

For truly, Frost, I know you saw

For once, then, something there,

So let no drop nor puff of cloud

Impede what you can share.

The shining water, all too clear,

Reflects back only me.

And though I try to see beyond,

I'm all that I can see.

______________________________

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

If it be thou

The waves rise up and toss against the boat.

The storm and tempest rage.

Not just from fear, I hide amidst my coat,

But also from his wage.

The wind will not, as much as I refuse,

Relent its vicious cry,

But thunders on, in vengeance and abuse,

My battered soul to try.

And to accuse, the rain and sleet and hail,

Descend upon me now.

With untold force, they crash against my sail,

They will that I should bow.

So in the deep, as lightning strikes with pow'r,

I sink into the sea.

Just praying in this last and lonely hour,

That He will rescue me.

______________________________

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Sonnet 10

Today I met a girl with pretty eyes,

Dark hair and something shining from within

But often pretty eyes tell pretty lies

That lead one in the ways of wanton sin.

Now, as a man, of course, I paid no heed

For pretty eyes can ne'er my heart deceive

And so as Reason left upon his steed

I could not, from her presence, take my leave

Nor wished I to, not now nor e'er again.

Instead I reached my hand up to her cheek

And brushed her hair back from her eyes to gain

A deeper look, to see if they would speak,

And speak they did, those pretty, pretty eyes,

They told me only lies and lies and lies.

______________________________

I don't know what the intention of this was.

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

A Mite

I thought I would write…

I wanted to write

But no words came

Except to indict.

I thought I was right…

I may still be right

But the words are the same

And blacken the night.

I thought of the rite…

Was there a rite?

But the words are a name

That blinded my sight.

I thought of my right…

Yet it was no right

But the words to my shame

Brought darkness to light.

And now that I write…

The thoughts that I write

My words, in their aim,

Are worth just a mite.

______________________________

This isn't great, but it's something for now.

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Water

I

The water sank into the rock

And both were set aflame

The water then began to freeze

As winter slowly came

And as she froze, she split the rock

Who never once cast blame

For to the rock the water was

A sacred, holy name.

II

And while the water trickled from

His bruised and battered frame

She felt that she'd been joined to him -

That they were both the same

For as she spilt upon the floor

She saw with utter shame

By mixing with the holy rock

Her pallor red became.

______________________________

Legends of the Fall: She was like the water that freezes inside a rock and breaks it apart. It was no more her fault than it is the fault of the water when the rock shatters.

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Alone, one afternoon I read

The tales that Ovid used to thread

Of girls and boys and birds and bees

And all their metamorphoses.

But when I found his words too deep

I drifted gently off to sleep -

To sleep, to die, perchance to dream

A dream is all that it may seem,

But dreams are dreams, as love is love

The both of which come from above.

Thus did I find myself upon

The road, I think, to Avalon

For Avalon it must have been

As such a garden ne'er was seen

With fruit and flower of every kind

And not an one was yet maligned.

Methought this could be paradise,

But paradise -

I feared the price.

The price

The price -

The cost to stay

Perhaps it's best to stay away

For there I was somewhere between

The garden and where'er I'd been -

Where'er I'd been I do not know

I think it had been pleasant though

And thus I wavered for a while

On how in this there could be guile

With some distrust I looked around

For any signs that could be found.

The name engraved and glistening

That bid me there to enter in

Was raised above the entrance way

According to the old cliche:

The Isle Pomorum welcomes you

It said, but with an evil hue

At least, it so appeared to me

Inspiring the urge to flee.

But looking 'round I could not find

A reason for my state of mind,

For though the sign had made me quake

I longed that i might still partake

Partake -

It seemed a hopeless dream

A dream, to die, to sleep, to seem

But yet abounding did I see

No knowledge grown on bough or tree

Nor good or evil fruit was there

To tempt or otherwise ensnare

Not even was a flaming sword

Aglow campaigning for its ward

And as I sought that one last thing

I saw the most appealing spring

Which glistened as it flowed along

And was to me a siren's song.

But still I wavered at the gate

And shrunk to enter the estate

When all at once, like Socrates,

I heard a voice speak on the breeze

Or in my mind, I cannot tell,

But to my heart its message fell

And from that place I felt to run

To run -

It glistened in the sun.

I walked along the garden's edge

Surrounded by a little hedge

But kept my eyes upon the spring

To listen to the sirens sing.

Approaching with delight I saw

The hedge upon the spring did draw

And as I reached this blessed spot

All prior warnings I forgot.

Enthralled by such a priceless scene

A place no man had ever been

My gaze just then did fall upon

The loveliest flower in Avalon:

A lily at the river's side

With starry gaze my gaze espied

And there I stood from hour to hour

In worship of that sacred flower

Until at last I heard her call

To me as eve began to fall.

Then to my horror and dismay

That one last thing came out to pray

To prey upon my holy shrine

'round which he did himself entwine

'ere I could my beloved save

The fiend had sent her to the grave

And from my grasp he did escape

Delighting in his fruitful rape.

I knelt where she, now broken, lay

And raised her as my lips did say:

Talitha, please, I beg, cumi -

Then from my dream I was set free.

______________________________

Probably need some revision, but let me know what you think first, if it makes sense, etc. This is a Chaucerian trope.

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Sonnet 9: Not 116

Why should I not admit impediments

When I speak of the marriage of true minds?

Could one recall love's many elements

While alterations he so eas'ly finds?

If love does not with the remover bend

Nor move along a fix'd mark to remove

How swiftly then would tempests greet love's end

As wandering barks a pair of lovers prove.

If time and sickles drive love to the edge

Should love not bend instead of alter not?

But unknown worth is standing on a ledge

While yet to know true worth is worth a lot.

Although I err, it cannot e'er be proved

For I can't write, but once I may have loved...

_______________________________________

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Still Joseph Dreamed His Dreams

The faded colors, torn

Stained and bled

With patterns of red

By the blood they bore.

Cold crept in around him

And he reached for his coat...

His coat... below the rim,

The sun... then he awoke.

It was still dark... still dark

He could see shadows though,

At least, alternating:

Darker, dark, darker, dark...

The bars and blackness flowed

And he was alone, waiting.

And the torn colors bled

Through the blood stain'd screams

Of the belov'd boy's dreams

The faded pattern, red.

But what of his dreams?

He tried to recall:

He tried... Stars? Sheaves?

Where? How? Did he fall?

Thick darkness gather'd 'round

But, he fled... got him out...

Another coat ripped away

And bound, again... again, bound.

Wherefore, didst thou doubt?

What did their mother's say?

And the colors ran red

While the pattern faded

And the thorns were plaited

Dreams... torn, stained, bled.

______________________________

Something I was thinking about... hope its not too incoherent.

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

My Verray Sonnet Eight

From quainten town he privily doth hail

Yet doth his mistress wend from grete citee.

And 'midst the reek of cheap perfume and ale

A singer sangen through the smoke, pardee.

For met they then upon the midnight road

Ne here ne ther, yclepped by some cross.

And so it goes as doth that gentil ode

Where harte is yven, broken, bled, yloss.

Albeit that he wearen crimson cape,

Not half so boldely can ther no man

With knife and guile awaiten for to rape

Ne swere and lyen as a womman can.

Tho' beest thou black as hell and dark as night

I sware thee fair, for I have thought thee bright.

____________________________________________

This is not a serious poem, I just thought it was fun and ridiculous, don't read anything into it.

Thought I'd add some glossary notes maybe (Generally the words mean just what they sound like) :

quainten = quaint

grete citee = great city

sangen = sings

pardee = just a word, like by God or something

ne here ne ther = neither here nor there

yclepped = called

gentil = noble or genteel

harte = a pun meaning heart or prey

yven = given

yloss = lost

wearen = wears

awaiten = await

ne swere and lyen = Neither swear and lie

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

From My Twisted Brain

In the early morn

Midst the rising dawn

Like a failed rhyme

Chained I follow time

Creeping along the lawn

And as I slowly fade

The progress nightly made

Slips by my Chrysanthemum

Erased at Apollo's whim

As light infects the glade

Unable to abide

His arrows burn my side

A victim of the day

A safer place to lay

Beneath my Lily to hide

_______________________

Something from my twisted brain - I didn't feel like thinking of a title.

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

I No Longer Stare

I used to sit behind you

You had pretty hair

Still do I suppose

At which I used to stare

There was nothing else to do

But I stare no more

Actually I do...

But not at you.

I stare into space

Space you no longer fill

Empty space filled with

Filled with not you

I stare at the tables and the chairs,

Some people, a window

Yes, a window, I stare out

Not at that soft, silky hair

I don't even notice you anymore

I look out the window

I no longer sit behind you

I sit far away actually

On the other side

At the back

The chairs, the people, the tables

They're what I see

Separating where I used to sit

Behind you, staring at your hair

I no longer stare...

Well, I do

But not at you

Out the window

I can barely see you

Sitting in the front

I sit in my own space

Which I chose

At the back

Away

Alone

I don't even remember you.

I stare away

Alone.

________________________

I have a lot of boring meetings. This one needs a lot of work.

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

In the Silhouette of My Pen

This is my pen

it cost seven yen

made by ten men

who practice the zen

at home in their den

but lacking the ken

of the art of the zen

these seven men

each earn ten yen

each time I then

make use of my pen.

__________________

This was written in the shape of my pen that I traced out over my agenda at a meeting... better than slitting my wrists I think.

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

My My My, Why Why Why?

Do you see as you stand

in the door in my hand

the flickering shadows

presaging the gallows

the which my good knife

with the soul of my wife

is warm in my hand

will send as you stand

in the door with a smile

does it fade 'ere a while

with the sound of your laugh

as you twitch in the bath

why such bewildered eyes

at me stare from your lies?

_____________________

Ask Tom Jones about it.

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved