A Quatern
His song sailed through the garden's drawn
of Shakespeare dawn and painter's eye,
oared with well formed arms to follow
fated rivers of the hallow.
On echo of a steady wind
his song sailed through the garden's drawn
of pastel hues to journey just
into the light that played his name...
and in the deepest forest green
where reservoir of trumpet crow,
his song sailed through the garden's drawn
and tales forever fixed in stone.
Across the planes of cosmic sea,
and fruited vines of mystery,
where peace and war amalgamate,
his song sailed through the garden's drawn.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Old Dreams
Old Dreams
He returned in daylight hours
after the dream -
a reminder of the night
searching red clay caves
safe from hostile skies.
He came back,
and I returned awake
to where he stood watching,
propped against a wall
of foreign architecture.
He spoke with an accent,
but never in a dream.
I looked back for him,
as though reality could enter.
His image could only remind me
of something familiar.
He became a Picasso
An Old Guitarist,
now sitting to play
where his voice left off.
where red changed to blue
where life and death split
during the night.
I will paint again
when I can claim confidence,
and we will serenade together
the red clay songs
with a blue guitar.
He returned in daylight hours
after the dream -
a reminder of the night
searching red clay caves
safe from hostile skies.
He came back,
and I returned awake
to where he stood watching,
propped against a wall
of foreign architecture.
He spoke with an accent,
but never in a dream.
I looked back for him,
as though reality could enter.
His image could only remind me
of something familiar.
He became a Picasso
An Old Guitarist,
now sitting to play
where his voice left off.
where red changed to blue
where life and death split
during the night.
I will paint again
when I can claim confidence,
and we will serenade together
the red clay songs
with a blue guitar.
I Wake
I Wake
I wake to the cell phone alarm.
I know it's morning by the grey mist that fills the window square.
I think about where I work today,
think about growing older, roll over,
and if I'll ever replace this old mattress.
I remember unfinished details of a Saturday appointment,
and an x-husband I wish I'd never met,
in the time when life could have moved past
this void that calls such necessity of fifty.
I wonder what it is that leaves me in a state of mystery?
what it is that returns throughout the days
in clients voices, in unexpected expressions
that light the soul of everyday occurrence.
I feel sickened by uncertainty, mad by madness,
but happy at the same time, that I am
Inflicted by the deadened ends of hope
that sent me searching out angels,
rolling in the paint of miracles.
When I don't want to scream, I love this.
I love this euphoric dream, the rotted phantom
that promised to be my prince, and never came
just left me staring in the eyes of other victims
that cringe with symptoms of psychopathic fear.
I never got to understand, and now -
I don't want to leave this pain
because it's blooming, and I'm a child in the garden
picking flowers for my mother to draw.
I'm standing in front of the mirror
looking at my eyes. I wonder how fifty I look,
what I'll look like in another ten years.
I run a brush through my hair,
line my eyes, so at least - I look awake.
The smell of coffee warms the kitchen
sends it's last perk and spit before the alarm.
I open the cupboard and choose a cup.
I wake to the cell phone alarm.
I know it's morning by the grey mist that fills the window square.
I think about where I work today,
think about growing older, roll over,
and if I'll ever replace this old mattress.
I remember unfinished details of a Saturday appointment,
and an x-husband I wish I'd never met,
in the time when life could have moved past
this void that calls such necessity of fifty.
I wonder what it is that leaves me in a state of mystery?
what it is that returns throughout the days
in clients voices, in unexpected expressions
that light the soul of everyday occurrence.
I feel sickened by uncertainty, mad by madness,
but happy at the same time, that I am
Inflicted by the deadened ends of hope
that sent me searching out angels,
rolling in the paint of miracles.
When I don't want to scream, I love this.
I love this euphoric dream, the rotted phantom
that promised to be my prince, and never came
just left me staring in the eyes of other victims
that cringe with symptoms of psychopathic fear.
I never got to understand, and now -
I don't want to leave this pain
because it's blooming, and I'm a child in the garden
picking flowers for my mother to draw.
I'm standing in front of the mirror
looking at my eyes. I wonder how fifty I look,
what I'll look like in another ten years.
I run a brush through my hair,
line my eyes, so at least - I look awake.
The smell of coffee warms the kitchen
sends it's last perk and spit before the alarm.
I open the cupboard and choose a cup.
The Guest
The Guest
A steaming kettle
screams about the race
to answer the call
and seep a Tetley
fingered tightly by a tag.
The fire burns
behind glass doors
like roses in a vase
of a chilled window.
Water falls from kettle raised
to fill a golden flight
of butterflies on bone china
set with care before an empty chair
and ironed linen.
The guest arrives,
returning from caves,
grazed by a bullet, and
mended with wood pulp paste.
Leaves float zig zags
through the glass,
flakes of ash that fold
to gently blot the lips,
that puff beneath an inquisitive stare.
6/14/2010
A steaming kettle
screams about the race
to answer the call
and seep a Tetley
fingered tightly by a tag.
The fire burns
behind glass doors
like roses in a vase
of a chilled window.
Water falls from kettle raised
to fill a golden flight
of butterflies on bone china
set with care before an empty chair
and ironed linen.
The guest arrives,
returning from caves,
grazed by a bullet, and
mended with wood pulp paste.
Leaves float zig zags
through the glass,
flakes of ash that fold
to gently blot the lips,
that puff beneath an inquisitive stare.
6/14/2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
The way she moves me
Another A & M - 5 minute poem.
this one from Peter's topic:
The way she moves me
She moves me into tomorrow
never asking if I mind.
I don’t question escape,
or even dream there’s anything better
than her presence, than her choice
to change the weather.
She moves me into yesterday
where I can see wisdom
blowing like fresh laundry on the line.
I don’t question value
of each dressing that I fold
and store in a drawer or in the closet.
...for whether the weather
be that that I choose,
I know she’s prepared me
for the way that she moves.
this one from Peter's topic:
The way she moves me
She moves me into tomorrow
never asking if I mind.
I don’t question escape,
or even dream there’s anything better
than her presence, than her choice
to change the weather.
She moves me into yesterday
where I can see wisdom
blowing like fresh laundry on the line.
I don’t question value
of each dressing that I fold
and store in a drawer or in the closet.
...for whether the weather
be that that I choose,
I know she’s prepared me
for the way that she moves.
The color of the ocean where it is the deepest
This poem is from a little game we play at, Alabaster & Mercury, a private myspace writing group. They are 5 minute poems, then we leave a topic for whoever decides to take a stab at it.
This topic was left by my friend Larry Kuechlin:
The color of the ocean where it is the deepest
I drove home early
before traffic made the drive taxing.
Part of me remained with last glimpses of freedom,
and last song the sea played in my dreams,
where darkness swirled
only revealing to my imagination
some sort of truth that lit my wonder.
My hair smelled of smoke,
that drifted through the morning
deep beneath the pressure
of a day's demand.
I painted my toe nails
my favorite shade of pink,
smelled of Hermes Paris,
before uncorking the joy
that stole away the hours.
The darkest shades of sky
lend only to this moment
the splash of white foam
tempting me to follow,
to draw me in and surprise me
with its depth and chill.
Yet I stand here
dripping with need to submerge
to feel the weight of her power,
give to her strength to carry me
where life is fragile, and I must swim to shore.
This topic was left by my friend Larry Kuechlin:
The color of the ocean where it is the deepest
I drove home early
before traffic made the drive taxing.
Part of me remained with last glimpses of freedom,
and last song the sea played in my dreams,
where darkness swirled
only revealing to my imagination
some sort of truth that lit my wonder.
My hair smelled of smoke,
that drifted through the morning
deep beneath the pressure
of a day's demand.
I painted my toe nails
my favorite shade of pink,
smelled of Hermes Paris,
before uncorking the joy
that stole away the hours.
The darkest shades of sky
lend only to this moment
the splash of white foam
tempting me to follow,
to draw me in and surprise me
with its depth and chill.
Yet I stand here
dripping with need to submerge
to feel the weight of her power,
give to her strength to carry me
where life is fragile, and I must swim to shore.
His Smile
His Smile
His eye was an oak leaf
dried, fallen and blown into place.
His smile the shadow of a blade of grass
that chuckled when the wind blew.
He halved himself with the edge of nature
camouflaged by time of day.
His face found its shape by shadows
an afternoon sun left
as it journeyed beyond trees and mountains.
His hair was a tuft of rye grass,
grown over the edge to finger draw
a shadow image against the walk.
A tiny ant ran aimlessly, back and forth
climbing twigs without stopping for balance
It crossed his eye then disappeared
in a grass jungle.
All he could do is smile,
happy to be noticed,
happy to be drawn by an afternoon sun
and remembered by a poem.
His eye was an oak leaf
dried, fallen and blown into place.
His smile the shadow of a blade of grass
that chuckled when the wind blew.
He halved himself with the edge of nature
camouflaged by time of day.
His face found its shape by shadows
an afternoon sun left
as it journeyed beyond trees and mountains.
His hair was a tuft of rye grass,
grown over the edge to finger draw
a shadow image against the walk.
A tiny ant ran aimlessly, back and forth
climbing twigs without stopping for balance
It crossed his eye then disappeared
in a grass jungle.
All he could do is smile,
happy to be noticed,
happy to be drawn by an afternoon sun
and remembered by a poem.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
