Tuesday, July 26, 2016

The Devils' Ball

©  2016 Steve King
All rights reserved

I watched as Mephistopheles
paraded through the shadowed room,
new spirits of the damned in tow,
come late from unconfining tombs.

The poor fool Faust regrets his lot,
now drawing sneers from those around.
The gilded idols spring to life,
Old Nick commanding without sound.

So here were all the devils met,
with song and sweet carnality,
all hot desire and cold regret,
hospitable as they might be.

Beelzebub appeared at once,
a leaden chalice held aloft.
He meted out the whithered bread,
intoning softly while they quaffed.

No seraph stands with flaming sword,
but writhing serpents guard the doors.
A well-marked Cain with cocktail tray,
still bows for tips the while he pours.

The Banshee comes, her sphinx at heel.
Dear Salome´ spins without care.
Alas, poor Grendel nurses gin,
the sport of devils everywhere.

Deceivers seek for other jobs,
a snare for all who’d listen in.
The Pharaoh’s daughter brings a taste
of bitter fruits for Solomon.

A weary Charon checks each coat,
While Dante marks the grim charade.
Cerberus sniffs for fallen treats.
Tiresias chants a bitter age.

O Star of Morning, Prince of Night!
Whose hand might stay these votaries?
Which prayer upends such dark delights,
misconsecrated reveries?

But who can tell them anything,
so caught up with their vile joys?
The fates are wagered like small change,
whole destinies are played like toys.

For me?  I’m happy to indulge
my tastes for spirits as I find,
and watch these wretches ply their mirth,
scant threats for Armageddon times.

I bid adieu to these mad things,
but someone stumbles in the hall.
I drop my gaze to grant small grace:
no need to watch poor Adam’s fall.

Monday, July 11, 2016

Distant Suns

© 2016 Steve King
All rights reserved

Hidden far within the folds
of each inviting new design,
clings a remnant of some foregone wish.

I will never be so certain
of what memory may hold,
or of how old yearnings were dismissed
in passages to what is now, and here;
nor how the things that conjured every dream
were always in the careless moment sold.

Yet I believe there bides among
these mysteries of all I am,
some inkling of how distant suns
might cast their fires upon new dawns.

So not for nothing have we lived,
though every story won’t be told;
and while we strive to move beyond,
and seize all things each day may give,
I won’t forsake old dreams too soon undone,
nor cede new dreaming only to the young.

A new poem for Imaginary Gardens... 

and the d'Verse open link