far over a long stretch of dense wood
the earth casts downward to reveal a basin of still water
shaded slightly by the swaying leaves
and a crouched figure
into her reflection gaze, those near-crying eyes
wavering slightly as little mists catch evening light
odd shimmering shapes mists make:
like a lock of golden hair
and a tear, falling slowly downward
which just rests placidly on the water's surface
as to not disturb its holy silence
no matter how many tears she cried
no tear could ripple that still pool of glassy water
from which her reflection looked-- almost mockingly
if something can mock wholly unintentionally
some things have to stay unaffected
even if it's uncomfortable for a time.
There is a place, before the kings keep
Where those looks of solemn dignity
Go resignedly to weep
Between the gray trees and under gray canopy
To the place where wildflowers wilt and muses mutter
Little words, falling like white feathers in the muddy water
If one walks between the trees
There is a basin, and liquid of silvery green
Imbued with the mutterings of agony unseen
It is the words of those sorrows frail
Spoken with a breath and then a look of fright
And then a frantic run from faces clothed by night
Dissecting looks unrelenting judgments
upon the unredeemed
all who have felt the pain such as muses sing
And cried at night or betwixt the thorny leaves
have drunk of this basin green
And felt the hot swell of sorrow rising from the deep
crevices of our frail corporeal shells
And the voices of all those who filled it up
Violently swell in undulating liquid wail
From those who walk betwixt the trees
Is sounded the great collective scream.
Melodious moonlight thy clear liquid spreads
painting all in lavender hue
and moistening lips wait for the kiss of your words, muse
You sing through her parted lips your cryptic hymns and poetry,
words wound together in strange nightly meter
that twist together and shift like tree limbs tangled
and petals cast down the stream
To bathe in the rippling water
and wait for clarity to wash away the rough edges of the mind
let the stones become smooth
and mind like bowstrings, taughtened.
But the crowds protest in collective indignation
all members chained together by common trepidation
lest altars crack under the weight of strange words
and the diety's light grows dim
they sharpen what was dull and loose arrows in laughing mirth
into bodies' crooked minds uninhibited and feet unshackled
The ones in the crowd yell with groans and laughter
but they groan also with the pain of what is constant death and birth... they are resigned to their tradition's lies
and perish ten thousand times.
Nascent generations yell out in incredulity until voices become hoarse and skin turns gray, resign themselves to murmur their insolence in dreams as they whither slowly away.
But the one who, in nighttime, sings
and bestowed by muse's mind, from human lips part
words and strange poems spoken blaspheme
will live but once and one day rest
by the shifting branches and on grass by trickling stream
and not by chain's clanking arrest.
Sands and seashells as white as moonlit night
And water tugging slightly at the small boats
Trembling in the wake
“Far across the silvery sea”
Those little waves whisper to me
“From ocean dark and brooding blue, cross horizons bleeding red
is a land where the mists travel languidly through
and dangerous things betwixt the paths you tread.”
“There is a city that some say glows in the night
Whose towers ***** to glorious height
Domes and great structures stand below
Upon white stones, blue moonlight does glow.”
“If you swim out during the brooding storm
And torrential city make, with towers of black swirling wake
The sea will take and change your form
You will enter the depth and the depth will enter you
And sea imbued, you emerge anew.”
“On the second day, and the crest of red rising light
When Phoenix fly against the night
You will be ****** from water by the fiery wing
And to a new land take you as Phoenix songs it softly sings.”
“There you will encounter the dangers and things of strange delight
And the white walls of Elyse, whose light is cast upon the height.”
Something stirs as numbing ache
Clawing she falls na’er to wake
A vengeful hiss, it slithers out
Signifies the calf’s mistake
Fangs from which the poison drips
eyes black and cut like arrow’s tip
Regards the cow it’s hollowed place
Sees mind through mind’s eye
And from mind discerns its lie
For all things are cows with both within
Often poisons slowly seep, or teeth will quickly sink
With mistake the calf will die, what some call sin
the snake calls mistake, with venomous grin
What are we to say to this?
Half serpent half calf- am I to choose?
Snakes will leer the vengeful wrath
And calf to mother, looks for the stamping feet
What may be, it is then
If serpent strike first
Then venom is righteous and just
And if cow succeed
Then hoof has stamped in moral deed
Sometimes when it rains on a summer night
I lay out breathing, thinking lightly
It seems as though I’m wandering between the winding willows
Traipsing the seldom trodden paths of my mind
The tree trunk moves down into the ground, and I think I could follow it
I sink. . .
If never I had felt icy surf and the waves like hands
Grasping my clothes and tugging
Each raindrop might be like a flood
So large, it would sweep everything away and me with it
But here I sit unmoved- a stone
I am cursed to weather slowly and become smooth
Soon I will be small, and everything large
Then the rain will carry me away.
Eyes left wide, for
Now I've seen
The vanguard of my fevered dreams and
Jungle cats pace in my brain.
Paws alight, their
Seamless, green, their glowing eyes
Constellate where shadows heap.
Enough! My skull,
The marrow creaks...
What hells we weave
Through. Bitter dreams,
Awake, asleep or caught between.
One of my favourite forms is triplets, with a syllable count of 4/4/8 (or thereabouts). In this piece, I tried inverting every second stanza: 4/4/8, 8/4/4 et al. I think the inversion worked, it provides a nice visual and metric link between each stanza and lends the piece improved flow. It's a worthwhile device I'll definitely be exploring further in upcoming pieces.
I've caught this instant - firmly, by the
Tailfeathers. Plucked in darting flight and
Iridescent in the hollow of my hand, sheer
Primacy is utterly intoxicating me.
A study in iambic rhythm, I most enjoy the work and techniques of the old masters and usually try and pay close attention to meter and scansion. Postmodernism has freed up the poetic form but I do love the humbling talent required to work within meter.
My fingers close on nothing more
Or less than what was there before,
But what is now was meant to be.
This heart will starve in reverie.
So to the next, whichever path
This river takes, what's past is past,
What's next is next... but now is mine--
My gift to me, all bound in twine
And velvet drape. The water's still.
Shall I leap? I think I will.
You stare at a black box
You say you like it better this way
Where the disconnect
Troubled by this regurgitating behavior of
Reducing our senses to sight
Because we barely listen
The box doesn't stare back
A disease lies hidden underneath
Asking permission to speak
She pulls the wires from her wrists
Like octopus suction cups
come from her brain
Shocks like jellyfish
In her eyes
Her lips on mute
Like she is the device
— The End —