Friday, January 10, 2014


By Mark Bishop

The salted breeze swept stranded cries from yonder ships just out of sight
into ears and over neck they disappeared behind the night
Then 5, 10 a hundred more they shook the hulls and mast
from those unknowingly into this maelstrom cast

Theirs was the ocean of chaos and ardur
Which calously devoured  both palm and harbor
These plights of the sojourners harried and cold
Clawed at the sails and fought my rudder to a fold

Oh to be done with this jagged horizon let me see it straight and sweet
Let the crashes and the roars find in the depths their sleep
if not for me than for those tears that deepen each briny cascade
For what sailor has by happenstance this fearsome voyage made?

On nights like tonight
as the compass needle spins
when the blue pitches and yawns mocking my desperation

I dream the world were not so fickle a place as this

But this is where I live
This water is my home
I will spend my days amidst the breakers and the foam
I like those who cry am wed with the waves and the currents
I must endure these hurricanes and fight the crashing serpents
I would leave, yes I would go if it were up to me
But my story is on this ocean
and my world is the raging sea

Friday, January 3, 2014

Instead of Crying

By Mark Bishop

There's a sadness that doesn't come out to shed its tears anymore
Something so sad it's lost
There's a pain that doesn't write letters from war
Something so hurt from paying the cost
Of being human
Of being dust
Oh to hell with us
    or not

The waiting is the worst
bearable at first
but now I wonder if there will be anything at all left for you to resurrect on the last day
You've promised me sorrows in the stay
but every heartache borrows what little I have left to give
left to live
just left

Tomorrow's joys don't seem to mend a broken heart
grant at least that I may grieve
at least that is a start

Thursday, January 2, 2014

Uncommon Worth

By Mark Bishop

Coincidental meetings and happy greetings
spur horses of friendship and long manes of correspondence
brushed and splotched as stars on night's canvas
to find in the bramble such flowers as these

it is a rare thing

Syrupy black words worth their weight in gold
pumped in full authenticity from the broken red craigs
treasured, refined, distilled and drank down
to find in such a flower nectar so sweet

it is rarer still

Diamonds, lacking purses big enough to swallow them
languor near a caverns silent stream chamered by the stone 
longing to be seen
daring soft hands and fickle feet to delve and there uncover from blackest coal that which is precious

these are everywhere