D Conors: Favorites

Oct 2010 D Conors

beth winters

you had birds in your mouth and sunlight dripping from your eyelashes.
i promised i wouldn't speak if you wouldn't change faces twice an hour.
we made conversation under a tree and sleep-walked through your kitchen.
i couldn't stare for your poetry disguised as fingers, always moved your hands.

i opened your window and slid to the street, took a walk with the recycling.
my hands looked tired the next morning, and you wouldn't take no.
when the lights fell asleep, we ran for the boats and slipped into the water.
the moon smiled and pulled us apart, i never matched your shoes again.

Oct 2010 D Conors

what time remains....

Oct 2010 D Conors

Ann Church

what time remains....

in whatever time remains for me
for
paths unknown, winding
to
the eternal sea
more yeses, less no's
more music consoling winds
to fully trust
all the love i live in.

in whatever time remains for me
for
kindness passing energies
sweetened gentle, calm and free,
there rolls around
a soft, warm cuddlly
Memory.

thinking of how it all goes
in a blink, I
wanted those whose loving
ways have kept me fed,
to know they are missed.

instead,
as I turn to bed...
alone, unkissed --
through trails of sadness
the ache of emptied bliss
confuse and leave
what definition of friend
may yet comfort me.

what was or tried to be
lives on in some distant thread
woven in the imagery ,
of such are our dreams fed.

For what was not
may yet be
trailing a long beautiful legacy
of youth and love and connections spawned
through a wealth of impassioned song
we do live on.

our path showing a flurry,
of energy and footpaths over and again;
we wondered: " what's all the hurry about...?"
there was plenty of time --- no sin or crime --
party on to welcome the noisy Dawn --
way back then...You remember when...
ALL was HOPE and a friend.

~ayearning~

Oct 2010 D Conors

Call It a Good Marriage

Oct 2010 D Conors

Robert Graves

Call It a Good Marriage

Call it a good marriage -
For no one ever questioned
Her warmth, his masculinity,
Their interlocking views;
Except one stray graphologist
Who frowned in speculation
At her h's and her s's,
His p's and w's.

Though few would still subscribe
To the monogamic axiom
That strife below the hip-bones
Need not estrange the heart,
Call it a good marriage:
More drew those two together,
Despite a lack of children,
Than pulled them apart.

Call it a good marriage:
They never fought in public,
They acted circumspectly
And faced the world with pride;
Thus the hazards of their love-bed
Were none of our ****** business -
Till as jurymen we sat on
Two deaths by suicide.

Oct 2010 D Conors

Babylon

Oct 2010 D Conors

Robert Graves

Babylon

The child alone a poet is:
Spring and Fairyland are his.
Truth and Reason show but dim,
And all’s poetry with him.
Rhyme and music flow in plenty
For the lad of one-and-twenty,
But Spring for him is no more now
Than daisies to a munching cow;
Just a cheery pleasant season,
Daisy buds to live at ease on.
He’s forgotten how he smiled
And shrieked at snowdrops when a child,
Or wept one evening secretly
For April’s glorious misery.
Wisdom made him old and wary
Banishing the Lords of Faery.
Wisdom made a breach and battered
Babylon to bits: she scattered
To the hedges and ditches
All our nursery gnomes and witches.
Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves,
Drag their treasures from the shelves.
Jack the Giant-killer’s gone,
Mother Goose and Oberon,
Bluebeard and King Solomon.
Robin, and Red Riding Hood
Take together to the wood,
And Sir Galahad lies hid
In a cave with Captain Kidd.
None of all the magic hosts,
None remain but a few ghosts
Of timorous heart, to linger on
Weeping for lost Babylon.

Oct 2010 D Conors

An English Wood

Oct 2010 D Conors

Robert Graves

An English Wood

This valley wood is pledged
To the set shape of things,
And reasonably hedged:
Here are no harpies fledged,
No rocs may clap their wings,
Nor gryphons wave their stings.
Here, poised in quietude,
Calm elementals brood
On the set shape of things:
They fend away alarms
From this green wood.
Here nothing is that harms -
No bulls with lungs of brass,
No toothed or spiny grass,
No tree whose clutching arms
Drink blood when travellers pass,
No mount of glass;
No bardic tongues unfold
Satires or charms.
Only, the lawns are soft,
The tree-stems, grave and old;
Slow branches sway aloft,
The evening air comes cold,
The sunset scatters gold.
Small grasses toss and bend,
Small pathways idly tend
Towards no fearful end.