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Hex May 26
Slipping free from yester's time,
A Feather trapses yond the way,
On wind it floats, a step, sublime,
Dipping and ducking flakes of grey,
Those forged by winter, the sun's decay,
Plates of ivory, why must they hack?
Torn soil, a relic of why you turn away,
Soar away, O Feather, and don't float back.

O Sea, so fair, shimmering as a chime,
As the wind you switch, and you sway,
And your blues shine like a dime,
But if he drifts beyond the bay,
Will waters claim him, as they say?
Or shall he wash back, with the wrack?
To you, O Sea, he mustn't stray,
Soar away, O Feather, and don't float back.

O Mount, your peak, the rigorous climb,
At your summit, scores kneel and pray,
Your caps glow white, with a grass bed of lime,
If you were where the feather must stay,
Shall your perils bring him fray?
Must he lie in caves of black?
Nay, a feather must fly, and outward he must splay,
Soar away, O Feather, and don't float back.

O Feather, O Feather, where will you spend your days?
Here I must halt on the trail of your track,
Seize the wind, O Feather, the world is your prey,
Soar away, O Feather, and don't float back.
A tale of independence.
Bobby Dodds Apr 15
All things ancient are once born young.
All things secret are shared by tongue.
All things hatred are worn with love.
All things whispered are sung by doves.
All things stone always come undone.
the inspiration for this poem primarily came from the thought i had, that all things like ancient or old or archaic were once young, smart words out of the mouths of the loud. brand new and original, and here we are, writing about them, like they're old news or yesterdays column.
I remember when we first met,
t’was a chill’d Autumn day.
Oh, how ever could I forget!
it was a Friday, many a May.

On that day, stood thee:
fair skin’d and rosey cheek’d,
dark plumes in morning gust.
your gaze my eye had seek’d,
your touch my heart did lust.

on that day, stood I:
heart heavy with fluster,
stood I still as time did flow;
if only courage could I muster,
my love for you would I show.

Wo! my heart did cry,
Wo! had I sadly weep’d,
until my name you did call
and my heart to heavens leap’d.
oh the joy! I still recall.

~ Inori
A poem for a girl with fair skin and rosey cheeks
Norman Crane Feb 4
Five red haired maidens / resting symmetry
Draped in bluest sky / arranged peacefully
Interwined pink flowers / chaining togetherly
One composition / from Antiquity
Arms wilt with leisure / classically painted
Their wild thoughts blooming / a pale recreation
Seated in judgment / of time untainted
By modernity / By degradation
in eternal youth / in a single row
They sit and they watch / seasons come and go
To be human
Something I could never understand.

I watch them walk by
Wandering free
Giving me but a glance.

My silent cry for help
To feel pain, love, and sorrow.
I envy those who walk by
What a gift they’ve been given

Rooted into the ground am I
Lifeless, Rustic, made of Stone.
Oh, how I wish to be given but a day

To be human
Something I could never understand.
For I am but an observer.
Norman Crane Sep 2020
Despite all my rage
I am still just four minutes
of silence
                          —John Cage
Norman Crane Aug 2020
a melody in
        to another flows
a third
            divine counterpoint
Alex Scaife Jul 2020
Fascism sings with sweet lies as
The chorus wails. We sit weeping,
Our history bastardised and
The body of our nation growing cold

Console us not you priests!
We need more than your words
Alex Scaife Jul 2020
Mozart lay cold in that square box.
Salieri observed tearful.
"With this vexing star dimmed, who shall
Brighten the sky at night?" He sighed,

"In my hatred I forgot
The fire you stoked in me,


Alas."
Liz Rossi Mar 2020
You wanted a love story, sweetheart—
    well, I’m an unwritten tragedy;
  hand me a skull and I’ll monologue
while Rome burns.
      We’re two acts in and falling fast,
         we’re half a city down and soon
            there’ll be nothing but ashes.

          You wanted a love song, baby—
        I’ll sing to you in a minor key,
harmonies in the rain under neon stars,
            screaming in tune with flowers in your lungs
      and blood in your hair
and city lights and city lights and
                                               city lights.

You wanted a love letter, honey—
“Dear Heartbreak,
   I’ve got purple bruises on my chest
     where my prose hits me. I’ve got
       a mess of clichés and a dark and stormy night
         and a pinch of melodrama,
           no talent but I’m trying, honest.
             I don’t suppose you could maybe
              unravel me a little?
               Cut me open like a knife through butter?
                Maybe then I’ll bleed words;
                 maybe then the poems will spill out of me,
                  entrails unravelling.”

You wanted a love poem, darling—
                meet me in your aspect and your eyes
               at ten o’clock tonight. Rome’s burning, baby,
              and all our lions are loose. No time for
    sonnets; we’ll climb the Colosseum with
    our flowers and our songs and
                             we’ll deny the gaudiness
                                                     of the day.

You wanted love, sweetheart—
I’ll give you everything I am:
           a burnt-out city,
           a soliloquy in G minor.
               I’ll play til my fingers bleed,
                     sing til my voice gives out and
                                                             ­            maybe—
maybe
it’ll do.
byron’s “she walks in beauty“ is the one i’m wittering on about in the fourth stanza.
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