Andalus' poetry

[Andalus]

Since a few others have posted poems, I will post some of mine.

Here is one I wrote for a good friend:


A Reason for Tears

Without loss, there could be no relief;
Joy would be hollow, if there were no grief;
Could we know how to mourn, if we could not be glad?
So rejoice, that you have a cause to be sad.

From waking hours to the depths of night,
We face our sorrows as we take delight.
We must take our hopes as we take our fears,
And rejoice, that we have a reason for tears.

[Jubal]

That's lovely.

[Andalus]

Thank you.


Nightfall

From the death of day is born darkest night,
At dawn the light wakes; at dusk it dies,
Yet throughout, the solemn stars shine white,
Sleeping 'neath the moon's disguise.

Though hidden by the vaunted clouds,
Seated high in deep blue skies,
In shadow of darkness they rise once more,
To gaze upon all with unblinking eyes.

In shadow of darkness, a star may rise,
In darkness of fire, a bright star dies.
In silent night rush mournful cries,
Quiet echoes of weeping widows' sighs.

In death we end what we have begun,
Forever unfinished, unclaimed the prize.
To age, or plague, or invaders come,
One day each man in the soft earth lies.

Broken, we bow and bend the knee,
Bend the will our heart supplies,
In death what can be gained but naught,
Sleeping 'neath the moon's disguise?

[Andalus]

Echoes

The sound of an echo, in the caverns of my heart;
The deep throbbing pulse, as the beats drift apart;
The depths of my sorrow; the lost light of my soul;
The emptiness so hollow, and emotions untold.
The skeletal husk, where all that remains,
Is the missing face of my love.
And your name.

[CN2]

I love that last one  Short and sweet, but with such a strong point put across.

[Andalus]

I wrote this poem last winter, when I woke up to swirling snow outside my window and a day off school in store.

Morning Snow

As I wake from my sleeping haze,
What do I see through this window?
I draw the curtains and outwards gaze,
Upon a silent world of falling snow,
Snow is pleasure I cannot tell.
This snow is happy, sweet and soft.
Breaking the winter's icy spell,
Of cold and rain, of ice and frost.

Snow, so pristine, white and clean,
Virgin snow in drifts, untouched.
There the snow white dream lives on,
Across the fields, where the snow has brushed.
Not like rain, so harsh and blank,
Which squalls in torrents from the sky,
Snow but softly strokes the ground,
Where gentle snowflakes gently lie.

Snow banishes the fear and guilt,
The panicked worry, the busy mind.
Instead, I watch the flurries fall.
Across the sky, white blankets wind.
I could not say just what I see,
That stirs in me this untold joy.
But with this, the snow

[CN2]

I love it again

Have you ever though of publishing these....

[Andalus]

I haven't got nearly enough to be worth publishing,

Visual limericks are fun:

There was a young boy called Jos

[Andalus]

Broken Wings

The dragon lay across my path, yet I almost passed him by,
Until I saw the turquoise back, and the wings that would not fly.
The limbs still moved in utter vain, the strength within them spent,
Thrown to the ground by some freak of fate, his lifespan only lent.

Moved was I by the helpless beast, his beauty good for naught,
How could I leave and go on my way, and leave this creature fraught?
The creature, though, could not be moved, by strength of man alone,
I struggled, I strived, and willed him on, yet he lay as still as stone.
A fragile rock had he become, there lying all forlorn,
Afraid to move for fear of death, his soul and body torn.

"Oh dragon," I whispered, kneeling down, beside his battered frame,
"What great sights you must have seen, though now you lie so lame.
What wondrous scenes viewed from the clouds, the world before your eyes,
What marvels of a world unknown, as you soared the graceful skies."

To feel the wind against your wings, as you soared o'er fields and streams,
How I would love to have lived as you, to dream your dragon's dreams.
Who knows a dragon's mind or heart, do you even dream at all?
Did you ever sleep, and dream of this, of death's ultimate call?
Yet death must come to one and all, to all on this green earth.
I weep but for your beauty, beast, that was doomed to die from birth."

I sat there with him for an age, and for him did I grieve,
But time was pressing ever on, and in time, I had to leave.
I took a last glance back at him, this creature left to die,
And a solemn whisper left my lips; "Farewell, dear dragonfly."

[Andalus]

Cursed

Your face is a curse to me.
It draws me in and binds me to you,
You tempt me ever closer, and I am trapped,
I am held in your snare.
Your face is a curse.

Your face is a curse to me.
An enchantment cast upon my mind.
My senses lost as I marvel in your thrall.
And I am helpless to avail it.
Your face is a curse.

Your face is a curse to me.
For my thoughts dwell on nothing else.
The sole heart of my cares and greatest desires,
Your face everywhere like some haunting dream.
Your face is a curse.

Your face is a curse to me.
For would that I had all of eternity to live,
I would be pained to have so little time in your light,
Your beauty deserving of more than infinity.
Your face is a curse.

And yet...
If your beauty is a blight, I would have no cure.
If your love is a wound, I would love that sore,
If your voice is my peril, I would face the worst,
And if your face is a curse to me, then let me be cursed.
For I would suffer this torment, and I would face any test.
For if your beauty is my curse, then there are none who are blessed.

[CN2]

Lovely

[Andalus]

To Think

To think that we live in a world,
Where a man may die for the shade of his skin,
That there are those among us who see only colour,
And are blind to the heart and the soul within.

How can it be, that our lives may be ruled by the simple fact of the race of our kin?

To think that there are those who care not,
For the faith and beliefs that their neighbours hold dear,
And others who would kill in the name of their god,
Or in the search for the answer, make truth disappear.

How can it be, that our choices in faith so rarely breed love and instead produce fear?

To think that we are judged by the way that we look,
The beauty of our faces and the strength in our bones,
That we must ever endeavour to appear better than best,
And keep what really matters hidden, unknown.

How can it be, that our true selves are ignored and our worth may be valued by appearance alone?

To think that still it matters to some,
If as a man or a woman a person is born,
That a random chance as we formed in the womb,
Could earn us one's respect, or another's scorn.

How can it be, when we all play our part, that it matters if one is a rose or a thorn?

To think that some can think of only themselves,
And believe all that matters is their personal gains,
That all they see in another is what they have done,
And judge all whom they meet by their wealth, or their brains.

How can it be, when we are all unique, that our differences may yet provoke such pains?

To think that our future can be ruled by our birth,
To whom we are born, and their status among others,
That a matter of fate, that we cannot control,
Can be the device by which one thrives, or suffers.

How can it be, when we all have a heart in our chest, that we may not all live as sisters and brothers?

When I think that our value, and our worldly worth,
Is so often judged but by accident of birth,
That no matter where we are born, in the whole of the earth,
Our life is decided,
By our religion,
Our race,
Our gender,
Our face,
Our strength,
Or our brains,
Our status
And our gains,

How can it be?

I give thanks that I was born simply a human.

[Andalus]

Dream of Beauty

A woven field of red and green,
Bright flowers beneath a sapphire sky.
A cloven path beside a gentle stream,
And on the breeze, a whispered sigh.

A mountain draped with pristine snow,
A silent stillness in the air,
Basking in the alpine glow,
A frozen world without a care.

A rushing ocean in full foam,
Crashing on the rocky shore,
Beneath the surface, monsters roam,
While above the waters, seabirds soar.

An arid desert of shifting sands,
The eternal sun burning from on high.
A calm still there, in the baking lands,
An untamed beauty in that place, so dry.

A woodland dell, in spring's first bloom,
The song of birds drifting through the trees.
Filled with the stem of nature's boon,
A harmony of life, and peace.

From east to west, and north to south,
Dawn chorus to the bright stars' dance
From mountain spring to river's mouth
The world declares its countenance.

The whole of nature on display,
Its glory open to behold.
The wonders of the world through night and day,
A vision of beauty, ages old.

Yet as I stand, on mountains high,
In forest glades, and scenes of bliss,
I know that beneath the crystal sky,
Dwells allure far lovelier than this.

And so I lie beneath a sky of blue,
In woven fields of red and green,
I close my eyes and think of you,
The perfect face of beauty's dream.

[Jubal]

Your writing is always so elegant... love it.  

[Andalus]

This poem is quite different to my others. It was written for a competition (where the theme was 'doubt') and is really more of a piece to be performed, rather than read on a page. But I think it still works quite well written down.


Empty

I have to go to the shops.
I ran out of milk.
No milk today.
Will the shops have milk?
Will the doors be closed?
What time is it now? I never know.
Are you sure the clock's right? It could be wrong. It could be slow.
If I go now.
If I go.
What if I get half way down the street,
And they close the shop?
There will be no milk. No milk for your tea.
It's cold outside; it'll soon be dark. I could take the car. Or yours.
It's not far.
I suppose.
It seems a waste.
It's only a cup of tea, after all.

I think I'll go now.
Have you seen my gloves? The black ones.
Did I leave them on the stair?
I'm sure I did.
Just there.
Just ten minutes ago.
I came in.
And now they're lost.
I always lose them. Always.
Should I go without?
It won't be long.
Just down to the shops.
For your milk.
I'm sorry.
I should have remembered. And now I'm late. Again. I'm always late.
I always forget.
Sorry.
My gloves. There. Just out of sight.
Do you want to come? To hold my hand.
An evening walk. Hold my hand tonight.

Should I get some bread too?
While we are there.
You always used to tell me what to do.
How to do it.
How to care.

Now I don't know.
I feel lost.
Lost without a guiding hand.
Lost to the path I walked, hand in hand with you. All is gone.
Only this doubt and the tears, the memories of the past, the touch of a dream, the loving words of you.

Oh, mother.
I don't want to drink black tea any more.