Original Writings in E Minor
Poetry by Magnus Lekay (All material on this page is copyrighted and may not be copied or reproduced in any manner without the consent of its creator)
Rent A Day
Rent a day, my indolent spirit, Fill the soul with pointed referencing. For skill is luck with wholesome prance, And likely whispers of tone parade --confident.
If contrast woven, blame distended On mounted, earthly sun soaked coffin, Within an opened effigy, in part and wits, My surging clings with porous conduct.
Sales are made with confrontation, And I thirst for a hope unvaried. But sales are useless on daily foundation, For why I seek a painless rental.
Tuesday, Without Answers
Soft hair I touched did faintly protest, My lightly worded promise of caress. Too short but satisfied her gold lay well, And finely draped, sweetly smelled.
White skin set tears and happy flow, Her question, Love, rocked ever slow, In mind of careful, pressured steps, Words counted with a daggers rest.
Would pride, unaided see coming sense, Or thump in wholeness fling incensed? Should she, the spoken leave forgotten, And turn her back on him, besotted?
A Reckoning of Love and the Impossible
Did you miss me? When sad my face took look for days.
Did you cry for me? When mouth set frowned and despair it gave.
Has time forged longing? At brief and now at side of memories laugh.
The answers I know without reply, Yours still in tried my love forgot. And try and try without success, I too have dreamt of slight with breast, To kind in line of forest stretch As far as love may dream its end.
But end to end should time discern; My forest love will never lend Or dye that promised bend, In those, my woods where I still weep, And promised hearts still sing in sleep.
Friday
What strange?
When nested chirping of lives in a tree Hold color in brightened ideology, And prick the mind with stirring, Of a cat whose mind is luring The end of the new, Whose first day means death.
Do not give the day satisfaction, By crying out in fear and terror. For the smallest of them cry loudly, Calling to mother whose hunger is stronger Than the will of the hunter to eat, And that is all we need to know of unrest.
Monday
Greetings to power and lusting at prayer, Beckon to bedding and wedding to dare. Greetings to black and colors to take, Bending to lifting or dead leafs to rake. Greetings to honor so wittingly proud, Sorry for waking, my sobbing too loud. Greetings to no one since no one to greet, Living for lonely 'til others we meet.
Ashamed
Misgivings, and a need for hiding, Disguised, or Just in the way of men. Too late, a rocking stream is lurching, Forth elegance, and the new days are feared.
True Love (for Brandi Lyn)
In words of ownerships deep, Tell of my loves ubiquity. With a voice less harsh than truth, Lie to my tearful longing.
Believe in swearing by anger And drawing my melting near, Or following hurt to mine With a broken loveless spear.
I am Wanting, the hurting, the real, In despondency, forever a lender. I have persistence, of dragging weight, And proven shoveled dread of late.
And proven shoveled dread of late.
Loyal
Sending forth a postured layer, Injured by a dying prayer; A singing note, tuned to drift, A needed hope, poised to lift.
Lowered by the learned heart, Loyal proves his charming part, Promised on the end of sickness, Tearing off the ending selfness.
Loyal gives himself again, Killing of a wanted plan, Crying out the words at seeing, Promised writers blood of being.
Pain makes drip of red to floor, Inviting Loyal through the door, Expecting tender, Pain declares, "Loyal dies, and truth despairs."
But Loyal seeks another way, Death and Tears his friends today. Sewing dress, adorn the new, Making lies, save the few.
Uninspiring
Uninspired, by the feel of those, Who grabbed and lingered much too close.
Uninspired, by the crossing roads, To whom stopping is conformity.
Uninspired, by a newborn child, Soon to be erased by the world.
Uninspired, by the day, For having been too ordinary.
Words
I want for the strength that is mine to clutch, Forever bold and withholding of angers much. Of casting actors in story-telling new Or properly giving into a failing muse.
To Love
Climb old ridge and release thy grip And stay on the edge by decisiveness. Long we told of adorations breeze And secrets of pain that come related.
What left from told is painful still, And oft not mentioned, for our approach Is mapped and taken for the next, To discount our pain and profit our love.
Progressed by legend of lovers trail Or hope that one should have its path, And by the lie of pledging bliss One stays that by and bites thy tongue.
And if for but a days past time A desire once held, now satisfied, The hungers love a sea of need No longer sees how hearts do bleed.
But mine belief is more of hope, Of counted moments and goodness met. That none who are so sweet to heart Shall ever not to love be 'part.
Strength of Falling Without Knowing
Tumbling weeds of sexual strides Have infected to so many lives, But love is true and more so holding To my hope and oft to knowing, That I dream and live thy eyes To never give or swallow lies.
Had a kiss been passed between us, Or a touch so softly danced From my arms had held you close And my fingers touched your soul, I would likely have been brief And lost your name on thy lips.
It is better that I met you, without a touch A sudden movement reflected on too much. Or I might have taken with your beauties mark And watched too closely your backs arc, Had I not seen our path to new For I was already in love with you.
Sadness
Who was I? When did I stop being him? What do I want? Where is the place that once defined me? Honestly, forgiving to whim in a place where God made mine, Unable to give into that nothing where I have become true and alone, Is a friction of hate and love that lays itself uncomfortably in my heart.
Truly, forgiving is easier than fighting for truths sake, And I for one cannot bear the burden any longer of my own fate. But those questions that I put to those whom trust was a dying fad, Who lied to me, in a face distorted and torn by that which I deemed sad, Have left me not knowing whether I cried for my own loss, or their indifference.
Fair Weathered
Shallow clouds of birthing day Slow, come down where wet grass lay. Slanting forward touching ground Sun she rises, smiling proud.
Rivers blue in sky reflected Boats sway forth and row dejected. Graying rumbles, thunders roar Lightning strikes in groups of four.
Storming burns of outward sent In terror grunting fear to lent, Signing fortunes into the air And paying tension weathered fair.
Tearing through the darkened day The wind it forms, the trees they lay. Longing, broken, bathing, frozen, Calming down, a lying token.
Minding
Silence is movement, while Chaos sits still, In an over-emotional statement of grounding will. Placed here in a childlike vision pretended unseen, In a cloud of red rose dust, Pulled from the leaf of a crying tree.
Within the exchange of life's depressive ignorance and necessity To some crumbling dependency of understanding, Leaving with insignificant levels of satisfaction, Coming to the contained dispersion of thought, That Control is the attempt to become infallible in the eyes of those who do not see, A subjective development of arbitrary thoughts combined to resound "reality."
Former, Truth
Whence I came, and hence I moved 'Tranced I fall, and lanced I go Canst I see, would thou prove My despair, of mannered death.
Mistaken swings, forgiven flume Riled waters, sodden beach Motion strangely, forced too much Am I valued, I Am… mislaid.
In too sweet, so impetuous On to 'board, ever flouting Reaching forward, disregarding Oft despondent, callous impudence.
Softness ignored, reason sighed -friend, Listless cowers, capricious resonance All too settling, mine to compromise Am I valued, I Am… wretchedness.
(The Sailor Waits)
Songs to birds may free the sway Of oceans past to forth in May, And while the fourth to come and pass Those oceans, they to surely last.
Some Time's have they to try and pier Move waves o'er and hers to dear, Though two they break to sounds belief What wonder 'til of loves relief?
But I, the one who stands it by Do question not the words at why, A person so enchanting and new Would care for those lamenting few.
Her future is, as it should not Unsure and free and yet to plot, For distance may to send its bend Her love is pure and sees no end.
Flowers
I sat, disturbed, picking flowers And to my dismay, all were sour Complete and withered, set of age To less than comforting position of rage.
"Forgive in me," I broke to words Torn by solace and flight of birds "The Truth is humble, feet to dry And I the one, trusted to fly."
And if one flower's root come deep For what have I done worth its weep? Would I not be, the lesser pick For giving to a moments trick?
Digging deeper, toward its soul I feel come nearer feed its toll, Then times of mind given to love Of whiteness soaring mine to dove.
Black Roses
She, so eloquently new and perfect A wondering wind of possibility Dragging, lifting and depositing my soul, In a delightfully scented field of black roses.
Hers, the interminable route to probability, A mostly unperceived language of movement, That would overcome my need to discourage faith Of a time when trees lose their identity.
And for one who abhors the immediacy of trust I have overwhelmingly failed my assertion to love, For hers is a sobering clarity of colors and melody Of which I have faithfully handed mine to inspiration.
To that which remains is a question posed: What is the answer to one so alive and tender? One so lovely and perfectly unassuming? That truth is uniqueness deserving of the world.
An Ode to Kristin
She, the one whose motion's so swift, Whose eyes burn contrails in the air, For whom beauty cries a soulful lift Settling, down at doves soft flight, Hath hair, of golden infamy And I do breath her tenderness.
Whence short doth come for hers do 'lone Of catching broke within a Trap, A gusting seaward homage of truth Sets down our 'ever "Something New."
"Kristin," a name to love-struck song, What pleasant Sun to humbled Moon, Hath sang a dying breed to God And given to a fiery heart.
An Icelandic Winter Night (At Christmas)
Sitting, pondering by waters night at the old house Still listening for the wake of Borealis. Multi-colored pulses of dexterity and Ionic dances Offering the splendid air a quiver of atmosphere. And though each pulsed breath of Gods will entranced, I sat still, remembering a moment's death.
Winter winds brought sulfurs hand to close Of my minds caveat to a rime storm; A single prying gust to clattered drain At moments hurry I to wills do pry. And whilst a song tingled of ice and tree, So mattered much of this time to infinity That I burned passion by the side of Orion, Into the blessed turning waters of ice and fire.
Snowfall cometh to a quiet breeze Of flakes and hurry and purpose ease, Four take to twenty and one to pass Our peoples hurry a toast to glass. Now, said faith in truths our Lord Will pass again and be for more, Another year will take its place And more for ours to love His face.
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