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margo-roby-1Poems
Among the flowers of my Persian carpet vines sprout curl twine me into fields of silk and wool. Sliding through warp and weft, I hear the rustle of thread grasses, and my nostrils fill with the pungency of feral cats, I taste the dryness of dust, and the dampness of a blue silk river runs through my ears. A blend and blur of color mark the horizon spots of russet and black resolving into a hunt undisturbed by my addition to the scene. Arabian steeds damp dark with silken sweat, silent as Attic shapes, prance and wheel through date palms and trees of fiery-fruited pomegranate. Turbaned caliphs, bows slung across their backs, chase a leopard forever peering over his shoulder. An arrow loosed never hits its mark eternally suspended by woven threads. Trees stand in an expectancy of silence as I move within zig-zags of light and shadow. My arms slide round the leopard's golden ruff and I am bound by threads of color to be hunted forever through fields of silk and wool, chased by frozen horses, another player in the weaving fields of Bokkhara.
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Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 6:21 AM UTC
A Thousand and One Nights
Among the flowers of my Persian carpet vines sprout curl twine me into fields of silk and wool. Sliding through warp and weft, I hear the rustle of thread grasses, and my nostrils fill with the pungency of feral cats, I taste the dryness of dust, and the dampness of a blue silk river runs through my ears. A blend and blur of color mark the horizon spots of russet and black resolving into a hunt undisturbed by my addition to the scene. Arabian steeds damp dark with silken sweat, silent as Attic shapes, prance and wheel through date palms and trees of fiery-fruited pomegranate. Turbaned caliphs, bows slung across their backs, chase a leopard forever peering over his shoulder. An arrow loosed never hits its mark eternally suspended by woven threads. Trees stand in an expectancy of silence as I move within zig-zags of light and shadow. My arms slide round the leopard's golden ruff and I am bound by threads of color to be hunted forever through fields of silk and wool, chased by frozen horses, another player in the weaving fields of Bokkhara.
published in Lunarosity, 2004
Written by
margo-roby-1
American
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 6:21 AM UTC
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