A Cut-Throat Island

a poem by Naveed Khalid, Pakistan

Day's old rum, like thy love of ancient lyre,
is cooled in the morning's pure serene,
of eternal silences by the green knoll
from valley's wild, ah, song!
of e'ery skipped beat my pulse tells no time
by the sweat of thy brow, grow vine ivy on the wall:
of what lies buried with thy haggard bones,
still haunts my head like old-fashioned masquerade,
father! in whose age-old love for seventy long winters
be still the first fall of thy November frost
against past woe's deceased frame upon the sand dunes,
that fair youth in whose tress of golden hair:
the scope of some dry leaves, of haystack and straw
carry no salt of seven seas beside the oak,
my deeds to pry, a star-y velorum, under the canopy of a hut,
looks me through day's old rhetoric e'ery flower upon a barren heath,
pricked out of silken satin, Santa's mini skirt
of a dragon skin at clover beach,
that old wooden house of mortal clay,
beset against time's devouring hand in mournful numbers,
small minions of soring thumb impressions to my decaying form abides,
that darkened earth's infernal grove is capped with snow;
wherefore oft thy patrons gather this strength,
of blood and mire down the lane in amberwoods,
be of such soaring looks to the lark
by swana's lake, a broccoli,
outspread as marigold in autumn of thy book
by the western isle, a wrecked boat is sailing,28
sailing away from the reality of yore battered things
her night-long love while musing o'er the dale in silent
hours of soliloquy, the eagle on wings of starry wheel the nightsky,
imbued with colours of poetry by the hedgerow of a cottage hill:
a steed of heaven's grace to her faults more
than the mockery of my foes begets her charms
of full blown pride this bed of crimson joy;
remains in the back log of memories a dream
of long ago to know his ways through such visitations
far from the maddening crowd life's long journey, o'ershadowed by
ten thousand and one jewel a night with holy dread;
tall pine trees in the rainforest stand still at Darien Peak;
above the archway, the setting sun like ready drawn arrows
is breaking the dawn at my door, of clay and wattle-made
thistles by the stream flows to Denver by the bridge
of broken mast-shaft at North such stepping stones
along the pavement of cow parsley, half-way between the carpet upon
thy iron car blows the trumpet horn at Matilda's farm,
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown in the late evening,
bespeaks our esteemed Poet's mind.

(C) Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights(C) 2019.
All Rights Reserved.

Date created: Monday, December 30,2019 14: 39 PM

Poem Revised on: Tuesday, December 31,2019.

* what needest thou the praise for want of word,
my son!

Title Revised: From A Cut-Throat Island To A Ring of Fire

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