From The Lab

"Curse The Images Of Dreams"

Curse the images of dreams,
Damn the vivid pseudo-show,
Flowing past the eyelids, streams
Locked ideas the brain has stowed.

Agony in little games,
Happiness in horrid gifts,
Madness lacking proper names,
Sends the soul through torrid fits.

Beast of burden fade away,
In the dying of the night,
Colors dull into the greys,
Vivid tones of black and white.

Let the contrast of life start,
Opposites that dance in tune,
Thus let sleep gap far apart,
Constant, as midnight to noon.

From The Lab

The Lovely Dusk

My lady, how do you entrance me so,
In your darkened dress of lavender-blue?
As if built for dreamers, thieves, and poets,
Whom inhabit the beauty of your gifts;
My demure queen, the honor which is mine,
Please accept a lowly writer's small tithe,
And understand it's the best I can do,
For being as intimate for this long,
Beneath the silvery moonlight and glow
Of the twinkling stars that you choose to shine,
Perfumed in the scent of midnight and romance,
With a natural calm that gently sings out,
In a nocturne of crickets, birds, and breeze,
My lady, this longing is true to heart.

From The Lab

Inattentive

Oblivious, she plays her games
With the freedom of a child
At sea. Unashamed, staring
Directly at her watchmen,
Who stare from the corners of eyes,
As if daring them,
Tempting them to engage.
The breeze tosses her sandstone hair,
And the lilies tucked behind her ears
Flirt with escape, all the sweeter
For where they rest. Coveted;
Worshiped on bended knee.
And she knows it. Arms extended,
She dances on feet that never
Quite touch the ground; grasped
In the passionate embrace of invisible satyrs.
Loving the moment, enjoying the attention, and
Denying her suitors,
If only they gave her the chance to.

From The Lab

With These Rhymes

It seems to me that with these rhymes,
A fascination of the times,
A false reflection, slightly true,
Piercingly pure, a piece of you,
Hung there frozen within the tide,
Cresting again, in even strides,
All but alone, drifting away,
Endless floating towards today;
If rhyme could be, always, of this,
To comfort, entice, and exist,
To strike a quest, cause great unease,
(Trifles that bring some to their knees),
Then please allow poetic needs,
An ear, some bread, for our small deeds,
Then we shall push our job again,
Freeze thy blood and towards the end,
Once more direct the course of men
Through Destiny's last twist and bend.

From The Lab

Man of Many Disciplines

Embedded deep behind the eyes,
In stagnant pools of talent, lies
A beaten drive to make the mark,
To reach a soul and touch the heart,
To tread the water to keep wise,
Creating an art pour l'art.

Through pencil marks upon the page,
Intrusions of the sketcher's raid,
Kidnaps the spirit of the thing,
With fragile lines which meekly sing
Of praises from a studied mage,
That magic that a drawing brings;

Infect the world with color bright,
In tones made duller from the light,
For what is real in canvas scenes
Could never fade the true world's dreams;
While paint can capture half the sight,
The other half's beyond it's means.

With letters carefully arranged
In words that shelter from the rains,
Protects the mind and projects thoughts,
And binding sentences that caught
Moments in time, when all's deranged;
Here lies the proof that he once fought.

Greetings, Weary Internet Traveller

Welcome to Afro Shamrock and its random thoughts for a random world. Expect this site to be a showcase for my various writings and other such nonsense. There's not much to say here so stay tuned and come back often.