Poetry is not often a
Circle. More a snare.
Noose in my hands.
Chiasmus is thorough:
I am locked in.
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 6:23 PM UTC
I first tasted under Apollo's lips,
love and love sweetness,
I, Evadne;
my hair is made of crisp violets
or hyacinth which the wind combs back
across some rock shelf;
I, Evadne,
was made of the god of light.
His hair was crisp to my mouth,
as the flower of the crocus,
across my cheek,
cool as the silver-cress
on Erotos bank;
between my chin and throat,
his mouth slipped over and over.
Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair,
and my hands keep the gold they took,
as they wandered over and over,
that great arm-full of yellow flowers.
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 11:12 PM UTC
Where the slow river
meets the tide,
a red swan lifts red wings
and darker beak,
and underneath the purple down
of his soft breast
uncurls his coral feet.
Through the deep purple
of the dying heat
of sun and mist,
the level ray of sun-beam
has caressed
the lily with dark breast,
and flecked with richer gold
its golden crest.
Where the slow lifting
of the tide,
floats into the river
and slowly drifts
among the reeds,
and lifts the yellow flags,
he floats
where tide and river meet.
Ah kingly kiss --
no more regret
nor old deep memories
to mar the bliss;
where the low sedge is thick,
the gold day-lily
outspreads and rests
beneath soft fluttering
of red swan wings
and the warm quivering
of the red swan's breast.
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 11:10 PM UTC
It is unlatched
so two shades of blue shine
unseen, darkening.
There is no pale impression from
the ceiling light, just indigo,
just midnight,
ink on a page unread.
You can’t make out the dust
spiraling
anymore. You can’t remember
the last notes played here,
anymore.
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 12:28 AM UTC
Don't speak harshly,
Your words will form swords in me
Touch my cheek; speak gently,
And they will form worlds in me
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 11:55 PM UTC