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 Jan 2018 privatescool
e goforth
she wears her jewelry proudly
purple, sometimes green,
maybe yellow
but it is always
beautiful.

she will tip back her head
and show you her
long neck and you
are overcome by the sight
of such
beauty
in one person.

sometimes she wears bracelets,
delicate
purple bands encircling
her dainty
wrists
and the colors are so beautiful.

she hardly ever wears rings
but for the purple one,
maybe an amethyst
that sits upon one of her fingers
and she will flinch
even wince if you try
to touch it.

but sometimes, maybe just once or twice,
you might even manage to
forget
that her necklace,
and those lovely bracelets
and that beautiful amethyst
which she wears so very proudly
is made up of

**fingerprints.
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon,
From drops of peridot scattered at sea,
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.

His father not caring where or with whom,
Or from what rare ocean his being might be-
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon.

He learnt his letters from a dark winged loon
Who flew where the mountains caress the trees,
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.

His speech was a garble of false and truth,
Whistling like a hollow piped reed,
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon.

His eyes a contagion of waters blue
And brackish trunks of underwater trees
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.

His normal voice wove a threadless tune,
Brought close the mermaids, hungry to feed;
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon,
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.
(Villanelle form)
.  
                                  //////    
                                    /////////      
                                   feathers///
                              are as/////
                                     cloud canyons
                                 they are as///
                              angel hair///
                            or they are///
                          as black as//
                        doom // the///
                            color of despair  
                        they are bright  
                  as parrots//////
                    emerald rainbow
              hues // rubies //
               topaz // peridot //
              deepest sapphire
          blue // but the ///
            best thing about      
        feathers // or /////    
           plumes if you poets    
      will /// if they are      
      slipped // if they are    
clipped /// they /////    
make a clever //////      
Q                                  
U                                        
I                     ­                       
L                                        ­      
L                                                
========­====================


SoulSurvivor
(C) 11/14/2016
I hope this comes out!
“cold winter sky—
where will this wandering beggar
grow old?”
— Issa


I. Stories

A ranch north of Spain,
his woman, their child... a dream
painted over, gone.
His... (unrequited)
...own tragedy for himself—
young death in Paris.
Quiet night at nine,
inside a café... gunshots—
being... nothingness...


II. Histories

A cold monochrome,
the winter hue of darkness:
umbra of despair.
Portraits of torment:
beggars, drunkards, prostitutes,
1901—
Lapis lazuli
thinned, turpentined—bleu de France—
ennui of sorrow.


III. Images

Melancholia
—the impotence of the will—
in Barcelona.
Barefoot on the street
corner, sitting on the ground,
he leaned on nothing.
A half-stringed guitar......
Germaine’s ******* distracted him..
he laid his revenge.


IV. Meanings

No can a beggar...
no steel strings a guitarist...
—a friend’s eulogy.
The cadaverous
curves of the bones torqued the flesh—
tedium of old age.
An allegory:
artists, poets, mendicants...
****** or broke oglers?


V. The Painting

His evocation:
the grave of Casagemas—
a guilt exorcised.
A mute’s discontent,
a blind man’s desolation,
an oil masterpiece!
An old guitarist,
blind, begging for an audience—
a blue Picasso.
Written
21 August 2013

Copyright
© Cassandra Cepe. All rights received.
Rose quartz, diamonds an' sapphires:
-I'd give you them all, just, to light a fire
- and cause your spirits ta' lift up higher
- cause' you are the one which I admire.

Rubies, sparkling citrine or pearls;
I'd gift you any mineral in the world
- cause' it makes my mind, endlessly, twirl:
- imagining you - as, my queen, my girl.

Amber, ammolite, an' lapis lazuli;
- Aye - I'd buy you all o' this, truly,
- to ensure your mind's never gloomy.
Is it a far-fetched dream? Absolutely.

An' am I a fool to believe it ta' be possible?
Unfortunately - it's an outcome very plausible.
April Third, Two-Thousand an' Seventeen.
'Diamond' Poem Prompt, #NPMDiamond
Stolen words
Silenced by emotion
Unsure of its own momentum
or direction

And Sunday’s birds
Lead old aged couples
On leafy walks
to park benches strewn in sunlight
in memory to someone they hadn’t met.

Porous arms of light outstretched
Rebuffed by the lapis lazuli hue of night
Frantic star-bursts
On every street corner
Facing south-east

I head North.
Utterly enchanted 'neath
  mesmerizing constellations,
as an entranced blue moon
    swoons over sparkling
           celestial diamonds,
cello's were eloquently playing
  serenading starry stratospheres  
     within an endearing melody
           and milky ways of poetry,
simultaneously syncopating
   strumming pizzicato heartstrings,
tuning our harmonious passages
      of rhythm and rhyme 'pon
apricot mist sunset horizons &
   seraphic skies rendered of
          lapis lazuli sunrise grandeur
 Jan 2018 privatescool
c quirino
when a house on the fault line begins to shift, it isn’t really something that can be seen with the naked eye. It only becomes noticeable once the door itself is off its hinge, forced indefinitely into its frame, never to open save for your daily tackles. it becomes playful, and thinks this is how doors must behave.

your house’s bones, the wood frame of your body leans just slightly to the left, throwing off all balance. windows look down instead of forward, eaves appear concerned, a house’s ears hear you mumble softly into night, concerned about trivial things, and how you will honor it.

climb seven deftly and feel as if you were at sea.
 Jan 2018 privatescool
Syaff S
Today my mother gave me yellow pillow sheets
and I freeze at the thought of falling asleep to your favourite colour.
I wonder if she knows my pillows are the only company I keep.
They are the ears for all the things I could never tell her.

They recognise the weight of your head,
the touch of your skin and subtle kisses.
They know when you’re not around and when I’m wide awake
and play the lullaby of your heartbeat and giggles.

I wonder if she knows that I still think of you till the Sun rises.
And if she’s saying “It’s okay if you find it hard to let go,
but here’s a list of all the different colours
you can paint over the ***** yellow.”

My walls are now of an endless storm.
They are the clouded memories that will keep me warm.
So no-
I don’t want to fall asleep to your favourite colour,
I don’t have to.
All the grey still makes me think of you.
I never liked yellow until you came along. After four years I still look for yellow.
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