The Rest House

On a lonely hill, where no one makes home, is a 

Rest house. On that hill, where crickets take ease 

And lay their tune, where brothers aim never to go, yet 

Their sisters try to rest their heads, is that rest house.

With foundations foreign and strong yet weak to the 

Muddy terrain, sturdy and yet, so frail to the seasons there;

This rest house was made to ease the weary and travelling in

pain, yet

Welcomes those who use it for a wicked aim, and then leave.

The caretaker has no complaints; it gets so lonesome on that hill;

When the rest house is his mind.
                      ||THE REST HOUSE||

                 ||LEBRECHT||-MAR/2017||

The Torment of Lebbie

Wouldn’t you love it if I gave myself, all five sense and soul

To your sense of selfish whim, till your tongue can dance

Much more? So it rouses my awe and leaves me as, the

One who will play your world from start where it should entice, 

And keep the suspense. But, when I break the wall and share

What I hide from your world, will you see fit to indulge my 

Voice, will you flirt with my memories and give a thumb up when

Necessary? Will you sympathize if I fall for a shoulder or quick

Night? Will you allow I speak my heart? Will you listen while I 

Grieve, and peeve at my own blistering plights and laughs and

Ego? I doubt, that you won’t wait for my line to end, you would 

Help me begin a stanza from where your words last ended, and 

Endure as you quest my soul to drink in your verse as covenant;

To hail it as the right form, as the best page of an epic on a scale,

 Too grand to emulate by a mortal as such as I.

You would enjoy it and I would hold a monologue In my head;

Calming my aching, soothing the broken, being my own

Mother and lover 

because I merely register as a listener.
                           LEBRECHT

                           FEELINGS

A Speech To The Living

​The spirits be damned 

While I scream what is on my mind.

May they grant me eloquence and ignore

My disobedience. Grant me the words

That scholars struggle to command. And in

My address you, who observe, will be servant to these lines 

That Will your duress; force you to demand

Intellect and attention, force your dear mind to be mine.
I speak of matters at hand, love that denies and knowing

That cries. History in tatters and fame that blinds. I speak of

Time in earthly limbo, no saviour comes to the jungle,

No jungle exists, merely metal and smoke that jumble

And confuse the able from their road to freedom. 

The rumble has passed, crumbled to leave only bare living. 

The struggle has denied and replaced the tethering mumbo as living

A dance in the dance lost because steps are a hand guide away.

Experience is a long way away and the truth is; 

Knowledge and truth are not the same.
Steady the beating hearts that rock the frames,

The one’s with hatred of pasts too old to blame. To them I say; aim your spears, 

Your immortal moral vengeance, at mortals long dead. Aboriginals,

Long gone bid you Allo, greeting and adieu from graves long since 

Scarred by dew. 

To those weighed by yesterday’s mistakes I kiss your cheeks,

I weep and then I leave. I grieve but then I leave, so

You long for my absent nature, and leave behind the day 

You hate, for days with me.

To those who live by scripture; by the testimonies

Of Jesus man and The Man of the Eid,

Or by men who reached the end and left dairies as aide,

To you I bid safe journey. For the man who lives by prescribed standard 

Has courage and valour, to chase the image of man who lived his own

Standard, to live by sold standard. 
I end my shouts with no standard, no moral from my stand up.

I see you, give hope, and now I leave you.

For structure,

For an ending,

I say: “Good luck to you.”

The Midnight Man

The man of the hour, he came to town, when the hand 

Sang his name in rhyme. And Slowly did he move, from door, to door.

For choices and a score too bleak, just to knock. And did he find the

Home he sought as he made his stride on the chimes of twelve? 

Yes, yes; He found the knob, he made his stop, where he steadied, then knocked. 

Then he banged and banged to Jesus man’s hearing, he roughed the hardwood,

He tilted the hinges, he kept his pounding till hounds were sobbing. 

When the door bolted a man was scurrying, light in hand to stop this man handling.

Then he saw the face, the face of this man, he saw, then made to say, he saw then went white in haste:

“The midnight man. The midnight man. 

You’ve come to your future, so we start the race.” 

The man said nothing, made to enter, he strode through and saw, his future is this, while faces and lights

Peeked through snooping curtains and hissed:

 “The man is back, the man of the night. 

He’s come to claim his future at last.”

The Midnight Man“, they call him. 

 And When the hands meet and night is up.

The midnight man make his choice, while the town sleeps, while they live the night.

 

                          || LEBRECHT ||

                || THE METAPHYSICAL ||

A moment on the road to the way

​Slow and steady, in dark fumes stuck

between hot wheels making mirrors on the ground.

There’s movement, then none at all, just 

A constant snail’s pace of heavy metal bodies, 

Trudging towards some place we all need to be.

Where are we heading? What are we doing?

Where is this road leading us in single file? 

Why are we in our dreary speed machines, 

Windows open, blasting out Jesus man tune’s and 

Audio “how to be’s…” offering concise, overstuffed

Grunts of assurance and guarantee’s of the destination?

 My own talking black box is stuck in a loop all music verse,

 “Sympathy for The Devil” drawing stares and there are eye rolls after,

While I help Queen scream his lines; “He’s lost his mind”, they say. 

Oh yes;“I want to break free from your lies. You’re self satisfied,

I don’t need you. I’ve got to break free!” I sing and I want this.

Oh God knows too, he knows I want to leave this endless stretch

Of deep black going miles, for days in unendingly blinding sun.

I want off this road that never twists or turns while the sun plants burns my

Face as kisses. But we’re going, and stopping, metal going and stopping.

We go then stop like waves caught between other wave motions, 

Mechanical kick backs with no going back; Feeling boxed in, repeating scenery, 

Living in slow motion. Moving then not moving until someone is pushed of the road 

By the devious Devil’ antics, sometimes to pick up next stage prizes to stuff already boxed

Metal spaces with, or to blow tired coughs from exhausts that mainly confuse those behind,

Leading them to a madness that they need to break free from, just so they park 

Now that they don’t need this; maybe they will become Jesus man’s guide to his way after. Maybe he’ll end his drive to the way.

But what is the way? What is this way we should know? Someone please tell

Me now ‘cause I need it. I just need to know.
                          || LEBRECHT ||  

               || THE METAPHYSICAL||

Ne Me Quitte Pas

Someone please sell me a soul that’s full

With so called love and care.

Give me attention that will never dull

And never leave me bare.

And I promise, I give my word, that I will settle.

I will force my heart to be better;

I’ll make it love and know Love,

And I’ll pretend that you don’t make me shiver.

I’ll confess that your voice brings me some joy.

As long as you don’t go, 

As long as you’re here forever.

So please don’t leave me;

Ne me quite pas.
Someone pleasecomfort my aching heart and I will try

To ignore the emptiness inside. I will nurse 

Myself with the sick nature of your tenderness, 

And accept you as the cure

To the sad thing called loneliness.

If only you will stay and be mine.

If only you will never leave my side;

Ne me quite pas.
To that sweet one somewhere, whom I will lay with till I die,

I have so few things I desire;

That you hold and thrill me till I see fire.

That you kiss me so I can retire. And

I will give my damaged self over, and 

Lean on you even when your hair is silver.

I will die first; 

So that you suffer.

So that your love will yearn our forever.

Ne me quitte pas and be my lover

Ne me quitte pas; and stay my lover.
Ne me quitte pas.

                           || LEBRECHT ||

                 || THE METAPHYSICAL ||

                           

The fear of a predecessor


As a writer I’ve tried my best to ignore the adage “there is nothing new under the sun.”  I’ve hated the idea that I could never create my own original thought or put down my very own expressions and emotions. The very idea that I needed a mentor, a guru to guide me could put me over the edge. Why? Its was like being told I was incompetent at my own passion and the way forward would be to understudy and redo the work of a predecessor in “my own style”. I might be the only one but it got to me in a way not even my worst enemy, of which I have none yet, would manage to. It ate me up. I was stubborn and I wouldn’t budge.

Poetry has been my niche for a couple of years now and I’ve always had those moments when I felt “this is my next masterpiece”, days I felt that this thing I was writing was nouveau and I honestly believed that until I was done and I moved on to another piece with the same feeling and enthusiasm. I tried hard not to base my work on anything I had seen from other writers because being told; ” you write like him” never pleased me. I can be fickle and I always move on from my previous poems but I would never understudy anyone, the very notion Displeased me, it really did. Then came the moment I dreaded, i had to read other poets and study what they wrote and guess what, I am very displeased.

 First off, the adage was not what i thought it wasand I should explain what I think of it now. Its philosophical, its basically saying that everything that looks new to you is not, simply because it existed in the realm outside the physical. What it means is that my using it here, in our world, is just a representation of how it was in that other realm. That other realm, what realm is it? Call it heaven or your imagination. The latter is usually a better description. My first assumption of that adage meant that till recently I’d never liked any poet I had read in school, their archaic languages were turn offs and at the time I could not understand their context; Wordsworth was the worst because I was not fond of nature, why should I copy this?  So I went on, writing my broken thoughts, calling them poetry and feeling good about myself. The half praises were good for a while, the fact that I could construct thought was a feat on its own and that really blinded me. Then I read Byron, I chanced on Keats and goodness, I have to read John Donne. Am I displeased? YES!

With Donne especially I saw, not his words, not his structures, not even his metaphors, I saw his mind. I looked into his mind. I was reading thoughts that weren’t broken. I had in my hands the text of a mind stuffed with so much knowledge and trivia I had the notion that this would be the coolest encyclopedia to carry around. And best of all, I was looking at the greatest blend of ideas, an assonance of thought that  I could never manage. It was beautiful, it was perfect, and sadly I was not there. I can’t even describe Akira perfectly to annoying and I’ve seen it So Many Times. So my fear of my predecessor is alive in my chest and its swelling.

The flip side of it is has to be that I’ve seen better and I know my new is hidden in my imagination until I bring it up. I know it wont be nouveau when I bring it out only because its a patent is from an imagination everyone shares and helps them to relate(philosophy does this to you) to what I repeat here. And Trust me, I don’t have a mentor and I’m not gonna be the next dude drilling self help mantras into your soul. I’ve only recognized that I have so many thoughts I’ve not held down, so much that my words are in dissonance with. And I know sooner or later I will here those annoying words “you write…..”  I’ve not understudied Donne. I’ve seen him, I love his work and I’ve related to it and that’s about what we have to do if we want to create. We see then we step up.