Eternal Sunrise over the Rooftops of the World

Eternal Sunrise over the Rooftops of the World

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Sunday April 20, 2014 @ 3:48 PM

Mornings awaken to the ubiquity of a rooster's call

For a new life borne of hope renewed, and upon his

Cry o' I sing to your graces, mon amour, and I'll love

Thee evermore. -

As I sigh amid my tear drop's rippling of an ambiance 

As I lie in state, and she beseeches me tarry hastily on

Home, and I shall traverse that golden bienvenue ever

Awaiting me, and she invites me to her opposite side

Of the pillow. -

Quixotic dreams fly as God's doves of peace shall to

Me bequeath another moment's exaltation of my old

Labor to see an eternal sunrise over the rooftops of

The world... o' tout le monde, merci, mon amour, s'il

Vous plait! O' how my perfect aphrodisiac guides my

Sweet chariot home across Helios' massive lantern,

Though it was cast unto him by mon amour as she's

Lifted me of a spirit mired so dark within a tempest

Of despair... and she called me home, as she is that

Source of the triad of necessity, and all the earthly

Sustenance I'll need till my Lord shall call us to his

Triclinium as we sip of the Eucharist, to break of a

Bread my fair Jesus shall forever nourish our souls

As we partake of the lone fuel to cast our souls to a

Land of a pax infinitum, His grace issued our morn

Never to see a twilight into the deathly hallows of

A final night.

Springtime in the Southland

Springtime in the Southland

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Thursday March 20, 2014 @ 9:33 AM

Springtime breezes exalt me higher upon

The green grasses blue reach to tickle my

Ankles en route to my soul, and how the

Cold winter deprived me whole, and I'll

Sing the song the hummingbirds in love

Heralding the end of a blizzard only long

In brevity, never to deny my love for you. 

Shall we see sing of the rise of springtime 

In my Southland, and how the seasons sing 

To a fiddle amid mountain terrains? Shall

I serenade my sweet baby upon the rise of

The first warm sun with the kiss of a rose

As such a lovely incantation amid my old

Scots-Irish clansman charm and the wiles?

May I sing to you, s'il vous plait? J'taime,

Ma chere, to thyself and me be true...

Well the eagles fly around my beloved Smoky

Mountains high, the lone Olympus to my cold

Heart of mine bitten with Jack Frost's chilled

Nip at the toes, and how it aroused thy spirit

To subvert the icicle chandeliers' descent far

Beneath the abyss winter dug below the old

Marianas well, and the sun sold to her my old

Tales of brave Odysseus assailing a ten year's

Fortnight, but the nightingale will croon upon

The lark of a new tomorrow germinated from

My amorous incantation to a sweet sunrise of

Me with you at my side.

Empty Chamber

Empty Chamber

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Monday April 14, 2014 @ 9:08 PM

Ich bin ein liebhaber, but as the gentle heart throbbing within,

How it cries for a mercy so tender and yet effervescently free

Of the sight of you, and for me? A gentle dribble of a tear rains

Down my right cheek for a second more consistent of many a

Week, a fortnight of eternal despair! I'd like to see if you really

Do read of a presence the flesh shall never appear as if prose

Within a novel or the lyrics of fair Ms. Dickinson, if I ever saw

What the fork in the road of which that laureate spake, or the

Majesty of fate which The Father said is an advice never to be

Necessary to achieve of man's flawed and vain reconciliation? 

My heart explodes within my throat, paralysis abounds, a pain 

I, well-acquainted, shall reap which I sow, and her majestical 

Eyes have it - o' how they sear of my soul's caged parakeet-type

Of despair, how I may bear against you, my love, a wisp of your 

Hair's gentle musings down my back, your lips my body's lone

Masseuse, and how I am stricken of a passion unrequited, and

I nigh see her script before me - o' what a dream my nightmares

Always conceive when that image of your invisible silhouette's

To appear, and all I am to see shall be the fear of my dry barren

Empty chamber! And as with Russian roulette, one day I'll see

That one filled of the six may fire and either kill or seal a fate

Of a heartstring, hollow, flooding it either of her my tears till 

Dry, or ending my winter of discontent till spring everlasting

Remains above the equator - never again shall a season to be

Demarcated till the day scheduled to die, for love is sprung as

Eternal, and so is God, for to we his children, it is His greatest

Heirloom bequeathed of us all.

To You, My Liege, I Pledge My Undying Affection

To You, My Liege, I Pledge My Undying Affection

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Tuesday April 15, 2014 @ 1:33 AM

To you, my liege, I pledge my undying affection 

Upon bequeathing thee my just flirtations, as it

Is the dawn of a new morn, merci, and my mind

Wanders upon the rooster's call to arms within

The warmth of your embraces so tight, you lay

Away my troublesome light-punished eyes upon

An otherwise ecliptic sunrise, a bloody moon to

Always persist past the day shy of her April ides,

For the taxman has cometh, as sure as we are to

Abide by the natural law to pass over the ancient

River Jordan - our penultimate voyage unto our

Destiny's destination as we cry for our unbridled

Song to sing by me to thee and to me of thee, the

Sweetest melody to end our days, the requiem to

Inform to all of God's children that in death still

Our story shall never reach a sad last page, as it is

A tale of a finite love unrequited only in how we

Are to never succeed to acquire a capacity simply

To adequately communicate our love from thy

Hearts to thee, the smile welcoming always thy

Broken half home from the remnants of hours so

Long past, they're too excruciating to again suffer

Further indignations of a time we are bereft of

Our souls' presence, for you are my heart's desire

Traversing down the Appian Way to our newly-

Acquired Pax Romani, 1,000 years of peace, only

To die another undetermined day as we're to be

Betrothed to one second shy of an Eternity blessed

With infinite others obscene only in our show of

An unbridled song Pachelbel's Canon - Handel sees 

Fit to resolve our Auria to cry we not ever again of

Tears rejecting our faith in His design for us, but

Rather sing of our song as we chime to our seeds

For future progeny to join our peace hand-in-hand.

The Solo Artist (Video Recitation)

The Solo Artist 

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Sunday April 6, 2014 @ 9:23 PM

God bequeathed to all a Sunday to visit His home

For a quick parable, a tale, and I rode home insane,

Fathoming all in abject vain, traveling South from

My blue Heaven to the raging infernos of a Hell so

Familiar to the senses that it is my sight within the

Fair mirror - and I, the narcissist, the rage always

To engulf my silence on the surface demure, soft, 

But altogether jagged, points so razor blade sharp

At the ends of the pits, I know not how nor where

I am to measure the depths within a facial contort

Or the Bowie knife purging the cowardice of thy

Humble spirit, far less that in only the skin's depth

Never to be quantified, only the story of I, the solo

Artist's pain having never seen nor believed in my

Own heart's desire prior its decline of an age never

To have been lived in sin with my party in crime.

La mort éternelle de mon coeur

La mort éternelle de mon coeur

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Written April 7, 2014 @ 3:29 PM

The proud beat within thy lion heart of the temple

Never felt so barren, a dearth of pleasure and of

Unbridled despair, the despondency to be known 

By the lonely hearts of the winter's turbulent ocean

And her tempest, ever raging, to a climax to never

Have existed, the denouement only borne in accord

With my mere conception, a tide to kill the coming

Day's sunshine, for though Solis has baked those

Lucky backs upon the rites of Spring, my awakening

Will never bear for me any fruit not consistent with

That of the rheumatic fingers grasping the airs of a

Lifeless sky which reminds all of the opportunities

To experience the Forbidden Fruit never afforded of

Myself, but only the ascetic life of a stoic monk, of

The eternal sentencing to my monastic death many

Scores past, present, and into a posterity where the

Demise of my life, always fated for all my time, never

Failed to take launch as this was to be the fate ever

To be for me, for I never was granted a conception

In concert with fairest harmony, but requiem's song.

The Solo Artist

The Solo Artist 
Written by Jonathan Henderson
Sunday April 6, 2014 @ 9:23 PM

God bequeathed to all a Sunday to visit His home
For a quick parable, a tale, and I rode home insane,
Fathoming all in abject vain, traveling South from
My blue Heaven to the raging infernos of a Hell so
Familiar to the senses that it is my sight within the
Fair mirror - and I, the narcissist, the rage always
To engulf my silence on the surface demure, soft,
But altogether jagged, points so razor blade sharp
At the ends of the pits, I know not how nor where
I am to measure the depths within a facial contort
Or the Bowie knife purging the cowardice of thy
Humble spirit, far less that in only the skin's depth
Never to be quantified, only the story of I, the solo
Artist's pain having never seen nor believed in my
Own heart's desire prior its decline of an age never
To have been lived in sin with my party in crime.

Peachtree's Inferno

Peachtree's Inferno

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Tuesday April 8, 2014 @ 6:06 AM

Singing Southbound into Georgia, a brisk breeze nips

The early warm air of April's skies, and she shall ensue

Her rainy trickles of baptism's rites issued, its diffusion

Always till she begets o' my soul while sowing the seeds

Of May flora, and how my fauna sings to me of her blue

Bells across expanses of peanut galleries to Vidalia land.

Crossing the terrain over the highlands of Mt. Lookout

Till I see the delights of Chickamauga, and my! I recall

The annuls telling stories more than seven score and of

Seven pence of the man Gen. William Tecumseh, ye old

Butcher of a life once a sip of mint juleps upon lighting

Brightest his darkest state of despair, and to allow fiery

Embers percolate through Peachtree Boulevard's town

In the skies till Tara cries mercy, yet Willie T. died 'fore

The anathema's legacy scorched my earth of my blest

God's covenant of this, a life well spent.

She's a Rainbow

She's a Rainbow
Written by Jonathan Henderson
Thursday April 3, 2014 @ 11:45 AM

Spring sprung, and the bell has rung, the bees
Buzz around the birds, the butterflies have me,
She hums a sweet tune so divine, and I'm now
No longer mine, but her heart to heat or shred.
She's a rainbow, and I will never find a shinier
Pot of gold from any other emerald isle's glow.

I struck it rich with my fair maiden, an honor
To accompany with her in arm, just to tow my
Load as the hideous half to a gem, no greater
Luster could be found in a De Beers bloodied
Mines, no Austrian sweet chocolate of sublime
Could taste so rich and sweet! A flight of this
Old navigator to the skies of powdered azure's
Cascading to a dance alongside Roy G. Biv, and
I'll stand by my rainbow's treasure amid riches
Unmeasured, unquantifiable, non-qualitative.

Friday Night Behind Her Bars

Friday Night Behind Her Bars

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Friday April 4, 2014 @ 8:58 PM

Friday night in the arms of Hope's despair,

And how that angel too distant seems to lie

Afar beneath my lair of content, and how it

Should be the night the darkness consumed 

Of our window to tame the beasts to always

Lie beneath the heart, if only my maiden's to

Live nearby alongside by night into each day

As Spring stirs ours, but warmth apart frosts

Into states of utter, sheer, frigid despondency. 

I shed a tear commiserating all the times I'm

To ponder whether she feels a blanket of my

Clouded languid life never free unless I lived

Behind her bars, she owning the lock and key

To my heart, and now she is not nearby upon

A Friday night when freedom is reborn once

Every sixth gun's decry, and my source to die

Is the discontent of a dogwood winter ever to

Follow retractions to rheumatic hands' grasp

Till I am to die, if not by breath, then upon my

Last trip as the poet set sails 'cross the stars.