H.L. Dowless

Poetry

 

 

A Lone Cry From The Bleak Forest

 

Where oh where lies the garden of the gods,

that golden land where I long to be,

where all passions may be fulfilled with a single nod,

when humanity is finally restored into his lost glowing splendor you see,

and he possesses the ability to comprehend the absolute glory found in

the beauty of an insignificant small pod?

 

Inside this realm of complete corruption,

dominated by self indulgence and greed,

I feel the magnetism of Liberty’s seduction,

a space where I can frolic is what I need.

 

Inside this realm of mortal man’s creation

the law of God remains separated therefrom,

the prohibitive rules of man facilitate a legal regulation,

yet in the end the law of nature has won.

 

When, oh when, shall the magnificent goddess Astraea return,

seeking to restore her magnificent ante-mutated family;

then the mutated, so vile and wicked, shall at long last burn,

and all of earth shall dwell so joyfully?

 

Where oh where lies the isle of Thule?

How may I find Hyperborea?

Help me discover that place where only those sweet masters of heaven rule,

where I may escape this present secular land of freedom’s repression and wild hysteria!

 

Hark now, on yon horizon I see,

that misty veil of perception is lifting,

an image of a dark isle on a liquid horizon I believe,

is making a powerful beckoning appeal to me.

 

I behold her endearing form during midnight hours,

I walk her golden shores throughout the night,

I delight in a land of flowing honey and a menagerie of intoxicating flowers,

I battle a return to the land of the mortal with all of my might.

 

 Facilitate my great escape, oh ye veil of impenetrable bleakness,

conceal now my tracks, oh ye furious wind of midnight spirits!

Allow me, please, to vanish into that realm of eternal jubilant greetings,

and dwell for all infinity where beings of righteousness stand nearest.

 

 

 

A Wasted Girl’s Dream, A Poor Father’s Horror

 

What does she want?

In her imagination she desires an ancient sage.

What does she get?

Only to read the same old page.

 

In the faint dawn of early morning,

on a misty mountain side,

she embraces the horned being,

she savors the awesome surge of the tide.

 

In a bed of clover cushioned rose petals

they both fall,

like the slam of a hammer to metal,

he keeps his tense balls to the wall.

 

In her heart she knows that she should not be there,

but he comprehends well what she most longs for;

that merciless massive organ that this beast loves to share,

this sweet euphoria of a climax her heart so adores.

 

She never thought that she would do such things,

On blankets of lush green clover so deep in the hard wood

the echoes through the air rings,

those timeless sounds of amour she makes are so well understood.

 

Until she met him

she ne’er knew her back door could be so deep,

that her front guard could absorb shock so well,

until sweet juice flows and from the edges it generously seeps;

then she arises with a secret story that she’ll never tell.

 

She wipes her soiled body clean then replaces her new robe,

slowly ambling through the wood stand as though nothing happened,

returning home to a suspicious mother and father who shall never know,

though the itching truth looming in her fragile mind shan’t ne’er be forgotten.

 

She slumbers on quietly and easily,

sleeping the whole night through,

awaking only to realize that she had been dreaming;

the motivation for her corrupted dream she hasn’t a clue.

 

As she lays quietly in her bed at midnight,

the soft moonbeams reach far into her window,

she often thinks she perceives the beast’s sable arms in the hazy crescent light,

how desperately she wishes this vision would somehow evolve.

 

 

 

The Pauper And The Burgher

 

There once was 

A pauper with a grand talent

to do what others of fame could not,

for he could make a flaming mountain grow cold,

and glacier ice grow hot.

 

He could make a quiet bird suddenly sing

gifted talent to do magic he never lacked,

he could talk the dear queen

into handing him her golden ring,

and a nun out of her pants when her guard grew slack.

 

A burgher in a palace high on the hill

desired a place in the kings castle.

He had heard about the pauper splendid talents,

so he schemed to make a sly steal.

 

“Can ya get me into that castle, oh buddy?

 Can ya get me in so deep?

 I just want to dip my hand into all that money,

 and play for show and keep.”

 

“Oh, I can wave my magic wand,”

the good pauper said

“and all your hearts desire shall be in your hand.

“All the honey shall then be yours, oh boy,

your name shall be known throughout the land.”

 

So the pauper got him in,

he did,

got him fixed high up in clothes so swell,

then he feared and threw it all to the wind,

and let the poor pauper go to jail.

 

The Burgher lives in fear,

he does,

feigning madness, disease, and woe,

he of’en pines for the one he loves,

since he knows the pauper’s spectrum looms so near.

 

 

 

A World Of Folly

 

I am laboring day and night

trying to make it all just right,

but in the end does the effort create any true difference?

Why should I drudge for little to nothing,

into a coal bin a shoveling,

when I could be out drinking fine cheer

and dancing until the night ends?

 

What good is making money

when there is ne’er enough for any honey,

or to keep that whiskey river a flowing,

though I desperately struggle whether raining or snowing?

I only toil like an abused slave,

a livin’ out my mortal days

in a dark mine shaft shoveling coal into a wheeled bin.

 

E’er should I chance and go to school,

there exists no solid golden rule 

that doing so will ever offer any alternative opportunity.

I’ll only spend up all my hard won money,

still doing without bread and honey,

while the whiskey and the beer tries to wash away

my lack of good cheer;

and the employees only gather around a crackling fire in a fifty gallon can

scheming about some future unity.

 

That is why now I choose to dwell ‘neath a live oak tree,

laboring only to satisfy my most immediate needs

when they are not found in surrounding stones;

whilst the mine foreman attempts to bribe destitute peons

with pennies and bones!

 

So now they use camputers and robots,

yet for us humans they care not a damn twat;

and their cabins are cleaned by fair handmaidens,

whilst their hedges are still clipped the old way.

On an unknown distant horizon,

an elderly man stumbles from a clap board shack making an effort to try,

when the rooster crows at sunrise.

 

Yet had the chance existed,

true success he would have never resisted.

His talents few seekers shall find

Since he possessed a genius mind;

And a greed laden world of shortfall

rolls on into another day

as he wilts and gradually fades.

 

 

 

A Secular Authority Still Yet Unseen

 

     My heritage land is dying out from under me,

and there is nothing that I can do,

     the patrimonial blood is destined to flee

from this withering nation of red, white, and blue.

 

     We are under attack from all four sides,

in areas of economy, individual liberty, and our heritage lucidity.

      I can only hope that a willingness to prevail still yet abides

so that at least we can all avoid a manufactured destitution and perpetual poverty.

 

     My land is being invaded by barbarians from the south and the west,

their numberless legions continuously issue forth upon our golden shores,

    these masses are putting our blessed Constitution and patience to a great test,

my inner instincts constantly warn me of looming future bloody wars.

 

    Their leaders speak of destroying our sacred document,

imposing an alien conviction of economic and arranged social organization.

    Our system gradually bears a striking resemblance to that of ancient Egypt in government,

as our own twenty fifth dynasty labors incessantly to dismantle our blessed endowment.

 

    Can these leaders not behold the future in what has already passed?

The land of the Pharaoh was absorbed by a much effectively organized world entity!

    The wealth and people of Egypt into alien hands were then cast,

for twenty six hundred years into eternity!

 

    Citizens need to organize and form a powerful legitimate third party,

standing strong on the doctrine of individual Liberty’s sacred word,

    ever ready to battle any who have determined to direct our commanding yard,

as they design their destruction of our blessed herd!

 

    While the lower majority is commanded to randomly embrace,

the elitist in the gilded ten percent are allowed to segregate,

    granting themselves their own privileged space 

as their insidious designs for the mass majorities enslavement are being created.

 

   The National Socialists labored here to recreate their highly efficient system of bondage,

to be manifested into being through a series of phases.

    Four stages have already passed before that horrible day,

the dawning fifth step shall transfer all property and wages

    when these controlling elitists have their final say. 

 

 

 

 

H.L. Dowless is an international ESL Instructor. He has been a writer for over thirty years. His latest publications have been two books of nonfiction with Algora Publishing, and fictional publications with combo e-zines and print magazines; Leaves Of Ink, Short Story Lovers, The Fear Of Monkeys, and Frontier Tales.