Cyril Blythe: Poems

Aug 2012 · 1.8k

Cyril Blythe Aug 2012

Mother Nature is swaying in the breeze, her branches strong.

Her life full and alive she sings with flowers and dances with the bees,
But her mind is boorish to the oncoming threat of November.

The startling entrance of Fall is like fire to her leaves,
New electricity attacks her arm’s protectors; prepared with strong green shields.
Yellow, orange, then deep red bleed into a burnt, crackled brown and black ash.

As her melodic hum of green vanishes, a starling yellow spark leaps,
Ablazed chaos now runs on her twisted, knotted, and wise branch-arms.
Eruptions of heat and confusion Mother Nature is seen screaming,
Raptured coldly, her green peace is painfully and hollowly attacked.

Her first shiver yesterday revealed her weakness,
Her shade flees, no longer able to stand the icy-sharp stabbings of winter.
Her annual sigh of defeat inevitably followed, thus beginning her hibernation,
Her tired arms creak and break, letting down their burnt sheaths,
Slowly spiraling down, down, down to the hungry ground.

Closing down to mourn Mother Nature is unclothed and shamed.
Her once green body now dried, bare, and cracked.
Withering winter brings blue death and ice to her brown skin.
Naked she shivers and freezes for three months to come.
But Spring will bring her a new strength and humility.
Mother Nature’s momentary fall will only chill, not ****.

Aug 2012 · 1.5k

Benjamin Blue Jazz

Cyril Blythe Aug 2012

Benjamin Blue Jazz

My fingers ache, pulsate, and I clench with visible nerves.
Again, I push the rusty harmonica to my lips and the pack is hushed.
My pinky fingers are twitching as I play my starting notes
The melody is hollow but I mean for it to be.
They’re all glaring with their innocent eyes. Now I sigh and sing:

He’s a-comin’ sinners,
The trumps’ will sound,
A-riding the silver cloud,
Ain’t no one can hide.

The final notes shake, employed hurriedly for my purpose.
My dry fingers nervously sliding and pinching together,
I know these college kids have money, I know they do, I know they do.

Ammm Lord I’m-a sing,
Blue dawns a-breakin’
Ammm Lord I’m-a weep
Broken soul you’s takin’

They judge me because I’m homeless,
Because I lay crack, my skin, the white-powder, my sin.
My shedding nails and red eyes are thirsty for more,
They don’t know me, no, no, no I’ll prove they are wrong:

My sistah’s brother a-broken,
******* hunger claimin’ this; his soul.
To the devil or against it He, I stand
Lord help me mend our broken soul.

Aug 2012 · 906

Poem For My Wife

Cyril Blythe Aug 2012

Poem For My Wife

Desire, depth of which plucks into my utmost guarded string,
Wholly definition of self I hear in the reverbial melody it booms.
Louder than my name, this cantor I find that I find in all that I sing,
Yet so guarded I hold it, woven deepest into my darkest solitary room.

Knowledge of its name eludes even myself, its captor and creator,
A fear of its power cripples my hands from playing this chord.
Yet, I hear it’s echo afloat in music and mountains, this power greater,
I feel the harmony in union with these and those who too remain unexplored.

Held onto so surely, so rigid and taunt, I slip,
With her, the melody rings loud yet without any sting.
It sings in my laughter, it tastes on her lips,
This defining secret note weaves us together and we sing.

This harmony is not pure, or true, nor real
This chord is alone and searching out her who too sings this tune.
One day when I find you and my chord’s song you steal,
I will join you in concordance, our song at last not concealed.

Aug 2012 · 1.3k

Transcription's Power

Cyril Blythe Aug 2012

Transcription's Power

Boiling fury, unattainable power, white eruptions,
Pushing then it pulls, striking then it steals.
The silence of the oceans anger, power with no corruption,
A strength and passion causing all within to kneel.

I stand at the crash point at night and feel its aching,
Whispers the sand silently speak, shifting it's patterns on my feet.
The silence on the surface tiptoes across the breaking,
God's metaphor for power, silence and where they meet.

I leave the water, my feet again meeting harsh road,
The warmth of the day almost gone.
the last heat remains yet its release is slowed,
the moons heart is heard and will be felt again at dawn.

The power of the sun found in the power of the moon,
the power of the waves, oh Lord, speak enough to me.
How one thing's power seems gone but returns so soon,
you transpose yourself, and through the ocean I see.

Aug 2012 · 885

Nerves

Cyril Blythe Aug 2012

Nerves

Tension crunches across my skin as the moment becomes truth,

every corner a hostile new sharp ***** of apprehension.

Drawing closer the brittle tension smolders and melts into a liquid fear.

My body is fluid, lucid to the untrained eye, I leave no proof,

bubbles drift up and pop, twitches and nervous laughter for the oncoming collision.

Calming the surface again, with smiles and cool phrases, I feel it draw near.

Eruptions as the boiling point itself melts, the moment is now,

but, as the unknown becomes known the water dissipates.

Why the fear? Why the surprise? Why the rigidity every time?

To the unknown, to change we all unwillingly bow,

No training or smiles can mask the fear in which we participate.

Yet, that feeling of total discontrol is human emotion in its prime.

What you cling to in these moments reveals you as you,

your faith, your valued chosen, how you believe the world will turn,

the unknown moments are the testing pots in which we are truly identified.

Aug 2012 · 1.4k

Mountain Song

Cyril Blythe Aug 2012

Mountain Song

The first few steps into the shade and out of the sun,
sensation of escape from one reality into a more true, somehow more noble throne,
away from the traffic of the so called real world, let it all come undone.

My ears are kissed by song of summer cicadas and crickets happy jigs,
the noise of ripples on the pond and the arresting feeling of the unknown,
the perfect combination of adventure and control, the deeper the depth, here, my soul can dig.

The swirling leaves and blossoming buds hum a symphony,
these noises combined create a song older than time stronger than bone,
without careful silence and respectable awe all of this would be unknown to me.

Aug 2012 · 690

Dream

Cyril Blythe Aug 2012

Dream

When I was just a little boy,
eyes wide with wonder, love, and joy,
I sat up in my perch in Papa's tree.

I saw the world with no disdain,
knew none but bliss,
sheltered from pain,
I laughed and dreamt of whom I would be,

I had a dream.

I found my peace in mountain trails,
the wisdom of the world unveiled,
in the silence, stillness, calm.
I found me.

To and fro my world would turn,
I walked and as I did I learned,
More and more of who I would be.

I had a dream.

Once I had walked I wanted to run,
to God I turned and to his Son,
Running hard into their arms, into me.

I know not much more now, today,
of whom I will be,
yet I know my name,
I feel the call I want to fly, to be free.

I had a dream.

But as I ******* world of bliss,
poison threatens at my lips,
but I know now exactly how to lead.
the life I lead.

I've learned to fly I must first trust,
not on myself, but in God I dost,
My future is in your hands,
and Lord I know you know that

I had a dream.

So now my feelings juxtaposed,
pre-med or law, and other woes,
I fear and fear of whom I will be.

I want to be the man I saw,
those years ago,
without a flaw,
a man of the Lord, ultimately.

I had a dream.

I've lived it full and lived it well,
so many stories I tell their tale,
Of how and when I reached

my dream.

Aug 2012 · 1.4k

Oceanic Greed

Cyril Blythe Aug 2012

Oceanic Greed

The aged wood of the boardwalk echos hollowly, but has a damp undertone from the left behind wet footprints of the day.
We thud forward in silence, commenting trivially on the nights happenings when my attention is slowly stolen.
Silently, the night wind picks up the lost sand on the boards and sprinkles it across my feet, desperate to take my attention.
Uncaught by anyone but me, a waver in her voice in the prime of her retelling of her day,
Did she notice my distraction?
In a final attempt at shallow conversation we turn to talking about the weather.
But, the wind is greedy.
It whips the sea oats until they shiver and sigh, an eerie sound.
Silence.
Our final few steps on the board walk crunch. Crunch until. . .
Finally, our eager toes lick the sand, cooled by the wind and stars.
Naturally, unknowingly our toes dig and burrow in joy,
reminiscing to the innocent barefooted days in the sand-box.
The wind, eager again for my attention, breathes down my spine.
We quicken our pace.
As we drawn nearer to the ocean, the mist scares the cowardly wind away.
Sprinklings of salt, water, and sand speckle upon our sun kissed skin.
Laughter.
We lay down in the sand, each lost in our own worlds and look to the deep heavens above.
Reflections of depth and light, moon to sun, space to sea.
The peace found only in the bare nakedness of a bed of sand and friends.

Open.

Sheltered.

Free.

— The End —