A Whisper Of Words Are Frolicking In The Wind Poem by Orin MSH

A whisper of words are frolicking in the wind
Neither here nor there, we feel it on our skin
The eyes dilate, palsied hands a-trembling
The frosted speech hid half of what we mean
The other half concealed in an obscured dream
Wearied from pursuits of arcane verities
Among the verdure, leaves are crackling dry
And up above, the mystic clouds are riding high.

The arctic stars above, seemed cold to touch
The heavens, desolate with the sound of grief.
An ancient tree sheds its last golden leaf
There in this world something can be as much
The airy joys of life, the bane of Solitude.
A pensive note lies quivering in quietude
Of a summer forgotten amidst an icy interlude.

Windless, the climate of the weather grows
Harsh, lie the barren tract the moon did show.
Windswept, dejected like a throaty skull
Echoing madly in its cavernous tomb
Forgetting passage through the tumid womb
Moored to the shores like some forgotten hull
That lies abandoned on its sandy graves
While the vernal sea sings jolly with the waves
The thrilling tunes of joyous merriments
An avian orchestra with strangely trilling sounds
In the quiet murmur of an October sky
Where Cormorants & Gulls pray in their silent language
The Sacred Sorrows and the Secret Rage
The hills and crags, chorusing a Divine song
That beasts and fowls might think to hum along.

Often I feel the lashings of a bleak cold sky
The thunders and lightning of a weathered day
Damp with the dews of our forgotten ways
Pronouncing sunnier climes with hoar-throated voice
That speckled Finches and gaudy Grosbeaks
Should stop its wintry chattering noise
Perennial Ryegrass must now rejoice
In regions of such dismal state, a jarring Dissonance
Those dusty tomes had claimed an Aberrance
Our Savior Light and a Prophetic Dark
Afloat in the Great Deluge without an Ark
A savage home without favor and choice
The trickster Time is breaking in its bones
The grafter Fate, is muted, and all alone

The whispered words are wafting in the wind
Of muddled up, misshapen history.
Absurdities of thoughts are dressed up balladry.
Nowhere we see, a dance so full of ease
That Man may think his hour has not passed
(The seeds he's sown are swaying in the grass)
(The stead he's owned is burning in the breeze)
To tread upon the Earth with Poise and Grace
That marks us men as the superior Race
The age-old fervor of such Gallantries
And bears this love with wileless pleasantries
The Druid's songs entwined with roots of trees.

The dead leaves of this Woodland are rustling
To beckon our return to the Forgotten Waters
Of Holiness and its attendant Martyrs
Where likeness of Beauty peers from hidden ether
Where guardian owls stand vigilant at the Moon-lit Altar
Safeguarding scriptures against their willful mesmers.
How Life was breathed to all without an inkling
That only God The Most Exalted, Omniscient
Will manifest the miracle, exulting providence

How men have made a heaven of Despair
And routed their flimsy Brain to be a thing of air
How through a fancy they have scorched entire
Boulevards and tenements razed in the shrouding Fire.

For all to see that have the faculty
Of Mind and Heart, the soul‘s nobility.
For all to see that knows such frailty
In the loam of earth and all Humanity

Till a whisper of words becomes a clamor of Poetry
And a thunderous voice turns to hushed Poesy.
Till a promise of rain becomes an endless Sea
As motes of dust turns to a Monstrosity.

A whispering wind is blowing through the Woods
And the splendors of Words
To know this Life was but a fertile Dream
In our journeys faraway we had often heard
That what we see is never what it seems
As many a frenzied Mind can only gleam
The wondrous spectacle, the fevered Whim

And that is all there is - dreams within dreams
What our eyes can see are but imaginings
Could we in opiate-dreams be mere playthings?
So far removed from the heart's Delirium
Absolved now in God's Sanitarium.


(Vir De Somnio: 5th July 2022)