An Echo of Trumpets

Banner

Herald the thunder, ragged
Battle banners, set flying
Like the broken blade, jagged
Remnant in war met dying

Harbinger, bring the sorrow
with ease of grace so willing
to greet fate, on the morrow
the blade to blood, oh, spilling

Roar the tune before us, blaring
Ride for glory, whenever
the call to arms comes bearing
Be it our last endeavour




© All Rights Reserved A. F. Stewart

Barren Wilderness

FTF Tree

Through the undressed trees, the wind howls
a wild shriek of fury spent, but never quashed
A thin voice wavers, yet still it’s heard…
There’s nothing to be done, for I am lost

A wild shriek of fury spent, but never quashed
despite the vanquished, despite the insurgence
of boldness, the resolve towards supremacy

A thin voice wavers, yet still it’s heard
Above the roar that stains the dark lit sky
A noise in vain, the resonance of defiance

There’s nothing to be done, for I am lost
my will long spent amid the damage
my withered bones to lay forgotten


© All Rights Reserved A. F. Stewart

Finality and Twilight

In the last rays of swirling light

when the earth kisses the dusk,

will you dance among the graves

and sing a gentle song for Death?

When the earth kisses the dusk

where will your tired footsteps lead?

To a tombstone not yet etched?

Will you dance among the graves,

a ghostly apparition in your arms,

that bitter, closing waltz, macabre?

And sing a gentle song for Death,

laugh bravely as you pass his shadow.

He awaits only the sweet music’s end.

© All Rights Reserved A. F. Stewart

Rain

Shall a host of angels shed their tears

as all the sins wash away in the rain?

Will their broken voices sob in weeping

for the cold, wet bodies on the ground?

The storm soaked earth flows sodden

around houses, cleansed and forgotten.

Once homes, they stand empty now,

while their tin roofs dance with raindrops.

Water tumbles, pouring from the grey sky,

tears unstoppable, the rains of heaven.

 

© All Rights Reserved A. F. Stewart

Cimmerian

In the stygian waters you descend
drowning, dying with every surge
far underneath, fighting to emerge
In the stygian waters you descend

Drowning, dying with every surge
of breath, lost to expanding tide
your nebulous, inky fate implied
drowning, dying with every surge

Of breath, lost to expanding tide
trapped with your voiceless screams
riding the swell of broken streams
of breath, lost to expanding tide

Trapped with your voiceless screams
Into the stygian waters you descend
Shut your eyes, persisting to pretend
Trapped with your voiceless screams

Into the stygian waters you descend
drowning, dying with every surge
far underneath, fighting to emerge
Into the stygian waters you descend

© All Rights Reserved A. F. Stewart

One October Mourning

It was a morning in October,
When the wind was rushing over
Pines and fields of four-leafed-clover.
Clouds were hanging over Dover.
 
A stranger wandered into town,
Dressed up in black, with hair of brown.
His grave-eyes wild.  He wore a frown.
A stick of wood, he whittled down,
 
Into a marionette with laces.
He carved three entrancing faces.
One whose tears could fill six vases.
The second’s smile, its face embraces.
 
The third had blanketed eyes, to snare
Mortals who really didn’t care,
And those who sadly couldn’t bear
Life’s sinuous dancing, pounding ware.
 
To each creature he met along the road,
And through the town, where e’er he strode,
He’d listen as their emotions flowed,
Reading out their life’s true code.
 
If deep down, Earth’s true treasures lie,
And with the wind, they longed to fly,
A puppet’s smile would meet their eye.
“Your life’s worth more than gold,” he’d cry.
 
If cliffs and canyons gorged on them,
But yet, they clung to a thorny stem,
And felt their life still held a gem,
With the sad face, he would not condemn.
 
But if he found within their heart,
That with this life, they longed to part,
The doll’s blank face–his abstract art–
Would, with its desert eyes, impart
 
The truth about the world beyond.
The puppet waved its magic wand
To help escape life’s clutching bond,
And, with the man, their souls abscond.
 
Behind him, the lost souls trailed away.
They vanished that October day.
Left us behind, to romp and pray.
He will return when life looks grey.
 
 
© All Rights Reserved Caroline Adele O’Brien

Irish Lament

Bring me home, oh roaming wave
to breathe my last by the shore.
Lay blooms on my gloaming grave;
wildflowers, that I adore.

In youth I raced the ocean,
my wild heart set to wander.
Dusk shadowed my devotion,
so on death I now ponder.

Ireland waits, oh fair isle,
beyond this froth of sea foam.
Gone are days of no care, while
mortality brings me home.

© All Rights Reserved A. F. Stewart
From the book Reflections of Poetry