"croft" poems
( Sonnet )
Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of quietude
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
2.4k
You’ve seen, I’m sure, my blog. Perhaps. Maybe..
(Am I being blasé?) I like, such things
Not found in mainstream minds; I guarantee
I’d rather be in ancient halls of kings,
Or fighting beasts in far’way lands than here.
Occasion’lly I’m Belle, at times I’m Croft;
I will admit at Ten dying I shed a tear
(Alright many), and a sweet man; but soft
What light through tumblr breaks? It is nerd boys.
Oh! They understand, and yet always are
In America, or some place far. Toys
I have never thrown away, but kept. Hours
I spend whiling away the days, online.
Nerd Girl I am, an awkward thing (divine).
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC
Cabana, cheese and mustard sauce
Do grace the tablecloth,
White puffy clouds and warm south breeze
And joy in chilled beer's froth.
Hot sun doth bake these stony walls
Sweet mandolins do play,
And the pigeons peck at breadcrumbs caste.
And all fares well today.
Young darting men on Vespa's
Ply their arrogant good looks,
And those stunning senoritas
Strut their stuff while momma cooks.
Monsignors in scarlet robes
Do scurry through the town
Dispensing Catholic action
To any soul who is around.
Madonna's guard the roadside shrines
Where hot seal winds aloft
Toward the craggy mountain pass
And pastured alpine croft.
The peasant woman bends her spine
Trudging forth with strain,
Wood ******* piled upon her back,
Up hillward bound with pain.
Old men sit and ruminate
And watch the young girls pass,
Whilst nursing dark retsina
In an opaque thimble glass.
The olive trees look stately
In their crooked ancient way,
And cast a darkened shadow
Where the roosting chicken's lay.
And out across the mounded hills
The patchwork quilt of farm
And out beyond that deep azure
Of Italian coastal charm.
Seaward to horizon
The aqua blue intense
Extends as far as eye can see
Mediterranean immense.
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
23 January 2010
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:30 AM UTC
Evening in her slippered feet
Approaches from the heat of day
Shadows in the molten light
Lengthen as they have their way
Silence in the hovered moment
Stillness in the mote of time,
The glow within a sunbeam's ray
Ensnares the warmth of joy as mine.
Drifting insects float on bye
Suspended in the evening light
Against the lace of silver birch
With gnarled trunk of speckled white.
In the dark blue, far azure
A gosshawk glides on high, aloft
A predator surveying late
For living things in farmer's croft.
A waterfall of children's laughter
Cascades through a field of green,
Overtones of golden shadow
Fills the air with love unseen.
Earthworms in their darkened tombs
Are wriggling for the coming night,
Rabbits stretch and move to grazing
Anxious for the closing light.
The chill night air descends as dew
The picnickers depart the scene,
Starlings flock to perch and roost
Whilst velvet silence hangs serene
Vaulting high above the foothills
Crowned with purple alpenglow
Taranaki's snowclad grandeur
Last to see the day light go.
Contemplation be my friend
For deep within contentment's breast
The joy of living sings it's song
And sooths my happy soul to rest.
Marshalg
Taranaki Evensong
23 October 2010
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 1:10 AM UTC
I
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
II
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
III
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
1.9k
Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of stillness
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of stillness
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
6 sides
Latent enabler
Counterpoint to truth, amorphic
Dada to life
Callous Birth
Islands dripped in collagen
Mystic, effortless life
Tempests laden iota in tune
Riven
Licked flat, obtuse
Crescent stench
Pagan cells
Hazard the thought
Pick the Atlantic cherry
Reach further than comfort
Pushed & consumed
Spirited paste
Jesuit told in spheres
Lament interest, matted quill
Totem, Saxon tribe
Inflections of hearsay
And Swastikas on parade
Guilt of the blacksmith, undecided
The arms of tablets
Ashtrays & tropospheric light
Another page turned
Capsules filled with perfume
Loose skin lost in relics
Temporal lobe
Cautioned indignant
Pardon the prose
Sonnets dissolved in ethanol
Caricatures of the fleeting
Of our cities last broadcast
Absorbed by times gone
Glittered pestilence
Canceling subordinates, powdered Semtex
Soup of the sewer
Lift the butcher above your head
Nazca lines
Suborbital
Silk screen with *****
Horizontal qualm toward revulsion
Incursion
Calm, cued and cubed
Lab coats coated in pharmaceuticals
Base compound, ionic bond
Covalent CNS
Sympathetic vibration
Default to nature
To theorise movement
Agitate intolerance, turbulence
Beautiful thought
Calculate causality
Passenger of licked lips
Token to latex
Croft in ear, to taste
Unlaced tips, rings of halothane
Bliss
Intrigued with obscurity
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
In clear dawn’s prescient light I saw
Integrity of man withdraw,
Withdraw from that integral grace
Illuminated in that place.
A clear blue light in silhouette
Of moon and mountain pirouette,
A truthfulness of stark relief
Quite unencumbered by deceit.
Unencumbered by the paws
Of those who bare discordant claws,
They who twist God’s clear blue light
To manifest their grip on might,
Those who would, quite by perchance,
Enlist oblivion’s nuclear dance.
This hanging crescent moon aloft
Above our mountain’s darkened croft,
Delicately etched in vivid glow
Of promised new dawn’s velvet show…..
Dependant now on exchanged themes
Of thermonuclear warfare’s screams.
But then…..
Old soldiers call from War afar
To we who listen, jaw ajar,
To wisdom earnt by good blood spilt
Be of Field Grey or Scottish Kilt…..
“Fight no more this curse of War”
They, from beyond the grave, implore,
“We sacrificed our youth for thee
So thou might dwell in harmony”
In clear dawn’s prescient light they saw
A slit of sunshine’s open door,
Where sanity, just, could pave the way
For laughter’s peal to save this day.
M.
“Lest We Forget “
ANZAC Day
25 April 2017
HAMILTON, NEW ZEALAND
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
My summer sweats bloom from a grass rag,
Scratch another hardly blasting out a calibrate,
Can I break, strap out hacker doozy bluemoors,
Caught from an out sound, an out frowned
Blackening the coffin sweet cough lubricate,
Shackle high tops on pipe dream loft shakers,
Clover feelers, four hitter on lucky seven collar,
Depth sin protector, **** I ain't wrath looter,
Nor do poppa sizes on some puke lips locker,
Key switch for gates hellish donor, back loner,
Course you see, I seek seep suckled *****
Not some subtle soul (gap in skirt) poker,
Forever reaching lines, bust knuckle lifters,
Cracked rage like Nile is flooding wealths curlers,
Jewel duplicate for ruby cuts on roofless lust,
Symbolise another and I'll grabble force an honour,
Sober up soppy crotch rummage coper,
Scan cell prison ament Scholar's "repent!"
Mace battle X axel swop blunt round passel,
Cost more on pepper rubber rock relation,
Patient prep operation, cramp dilation,
Dial engage **** sudden blocked injection.
Cast nocturnals ominous above monuments,
Men fall like weak's race for joy's division,
Attend pro's vision, pure as skies probations,
Pack pampers protection tracks premonition,
Flat lines before lap times, clenching half rhymes,
Hop hotter than blues croft in dusks knots,
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
in an afternoon
of golden sunshine
she splays love
onto fertile fields
casting seeds,
anointing the soil
with a blessing of
flowering blooms
her plantings
invite the beloved
to walk with gratitude
beholding
an endless beauty
while breathing
ambrosial scents
as children welcomed
back into the garden
of an unconditional
abundant love
for MbR
Thank You
Beloved
Seals and Croft
East of the Ginger Trees
Oakland
9/20/13
jbm
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
I got a job at the Carnival,
All the fun of the fair,
With its Carousels and its Wishing Wells
And The Ferris wheel up there,
With a Gyro Tower and a Gravitron
You could hear the squeals of glee,
As they whirled about, and one fell out,
Nothing to do with me!
My only job was to strap them in
And I went from ride to ride,
They told me to familiarise
Myself with every side,
I loved the whirling Octopus
And the Swinging Pirate Ship,
But of them all, the Matterhorn
Was the one I found most hip.
I ended up on the Enterprise
At the closing of the night,
‘Just two more rides,’ the man announced,
‘For a journey into fright!’
I strapped them into each Gondola
As the twenty patrons paid,
And heard their screams as they soared aloft,
I could tell they were dismayed.
The ride came down with a grinding halt
And I went to let them out,
But no-one sat in the Gondola’s
Then I heard the Barker shout,
‘Last ride, last ride in the Enterprise,’
And the twenty folk got in,
I said, ‘What happened to all the rest?’
But he cried, ‘Don’t fuss now, Tim.’
The Enterprise had begun to spin
And carry them all aloft,
Then disengaged from its base and floated
Over a farmer’s croft,
The sky was an inky black that night
And dotted with glittering stars,
And I swear today, I heard him say:
‘They’re heading on up to Mars!’
David Lewis Paget
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
Benedict knew
Miss Croft
was out of his league;
she was everything
he wasn’t: upper
middle class,
well spoken,
well dressed;
had a nice face,
nice *** The mere
thought she’d have
anything to do with him
was a joke. But he
wouldn’t have minded
a poke; his pecker
would have obliged,
he thought. Nonetheless,
he knew reality when
it came, knew he was out
of the game, so became
content just to talk
and joke and laugh
and forgot all about
the poke, least for real,
in dreams a guy can
do whatever wants
or desires: create or
destroy worlds with fires,
make the perfect art,
sleep with whosoever,
become a saint;
dreams allow such things.
But reality holds in check;
but one does what one can,
he thought, and keeps what
reality brings. She was the
out of your league type;
he could have sworn she
had it tattooed on her ***
highlighted on her passport.
He would have been just
a nice guy to her; have given
her what he could have afforded;
read better books, listened
to highbrow music, spoken
with a plum in his mouth
if it did the job, but he couldn’t
make the grade, didn’t have
the right tone in speaking.
He knew one couldn’t always
get what one wanted
or was ever seeking.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 3:04 AM UTC
Something real in my vision
This lifes a head on collision
Subtext and sybolism
Society, and religion
Begging me to beg forgiveness
I never listen
To anything but my heart
And the art on my wall
Hung a bit odd
If one's standing out in the hall
Not ready to evolve
And enter the fog
Gods get lost in this dark
This amusement park with chairs that spark
Where the lights always die
In your eyes
And you stay locked under your skin
Paying for every sin
By being broken
And bent
From head on collisions
Colliding head on with the song in my soul though my flow I let you know I'm an honest man but don't **** me off I'll still **** you up like you're wet and soft like Lara croft but it's not for naught I'm lost but always found mainstream yet underground I'm a heavyweight lyrical boxer I contend pound for pound each round
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
Two white French girls
smoke a Turkish hookah
and listen to three black
African Americans sing rap
the hookah bubbles
the mobile smacks out
the emasculated music
their mouths relinquish
their language to the jam
the pencil makes no sound
The clouds scoot
orange and pink bruises
across the skyline
like the weather can’t wait
can’t change quick enough
it’s October already
and we’re still not done
with summer;
cling to every humid evening
hang around every last beam
of the too punctual sunset
In the club the beats begin
but it’s too early; no one’s inside
One of the French girls coughs back a dud ****
the bar door creaks
the traffic whispers
with bored engines
the beats want to sail
off with the clouds
but are kept echoing
between four walls
Time overcomes space then
the beats are cut
a siren wails, a seagull screams
the traffic streams
the awnings rock little trees
my concrete idyll
……
Two Spanish men arrive
and have a three-way
food talk
with a mobile
A piano begins
to sound out
Aquarium by Saint-Saëns
the beats return
then stop
a door opens
a door closes
the hubbub returns
The Spanish settle on
an Argentinean
the French girls switch to
a chantress
I digress
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of stillness
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
The raging ram roaming realms
A bittersweet tale if I say so myself
That ***** got a demon's tail
it ain't good for your health
That dude uses it as a flail
prevail is what is exhaled
That young ram spits heat
Aint talking about rapping
I speak literally
That young ram eyes red
But he ain't high
Stony past burning hooves
He smoky,
but it ain't the cannabis smell or shroud
It's the smell of hell
The young ram got a plan yeah to hustle
The young ram got a plan realm rustle
The young ram glides from land
to land to land
to empower some sort of man
or men or man
and I don't understand about this young lamb
he got a demon in his face
and he goes against the grain of sand
maiming himself just for the wealth
owning everything
coming out from stealth
the burning ram says retreat
or don't...
I eat I am elite
the burning ram says hold still
ill ****
a mill
the burning ram finds your mam
put it in her ****
hotter than the slavery of sam
the burning ram was foreseen by am.
the plan?
the men have ran, words spoken in a tablet somewhere.
Desolation, we are bare,
the ram looks at us in disgust
we are the crust on the earth
core exploding opening doors
the ram will be adored
pity because it represents disorder,
chaos, chaos,
killing says it once and the days are hazing
the ram bending the realm of man
mentally what a riot.
In the end, the ram is lost in the density of infinity.
An exploding croft farmed for human thought.
Far out
Fantasy
Mars droughts
Deseret land
Bars found
Feathered fans
of flames burnings lands
rays coming from the skies
Imploding,
Arising
Exploding
Mantle
Core
Arising
Like a
Titanic
Phoenix
Coming alive
Wicked eyes
Burning song
Live long
Live long
Another cycle
Ressurection
Recurring
Spirit in a dream
Molded by the first impression
Aroma tremendous
Weighs heavy on the pretentious
Live and learn and get burned
Breaking crust, core spewing lava as I arise
Hypnotised by my flow, I smirk when they say I am going to die
**** em now eat em later, chronic masturbater
Dilated eyes, 3 in which I don't mind, I own the mind I own the mind
Shove a trident down her spine and blow herb till the pine grime off here behind
Put the pedal to the extreme for miles on end gotta make my ends gotta make my ends till the end my friend oh friend oh
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of stillness
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 12:01 PM UTC
Two hawks aloft
crows anxious banding together
neighbor comes over to my croft, likes the warm weather,
November
a California Christmas and maybe species will migrate to reflect that,
paints watercolor ornaments, gentle Jewish lady
how far from her past is she now? or is she quite aware just
not talking about it now
I wonder what she thinks the solution to Israel-Palestine might be
ask her sitting around the pool next summer
almost always disappointed people haven't given the single
state solution more thought
we discuss Thanksgiving, the cleaning and cooking before
and the cleaning after, then the insane Christmas potlatch
deciduous trees have a special winter beauty, conifers among them.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
Saturday
shop busy
you with Dylan Thomas’s
Deaths & Entrances
poetry book
tucked in
your inside pocket
of your brown jacket
Miss Croft
Saturday girl
dark hair
ponytailed
swaying
her tight ***
in her short skirt
up and down
the shop aisle
Duff the manager
bespectacled
with curly mass
of dark hair
standing there
cigarette in mouth
conversing
with a customer and wife
about which paint
went best
with what wallpaper
giving the dame
the eye
giving the charm
you tanked up
(you worked better
that way)
with some old couple
wanting curtains
to match
the wallpaper choice
the blue flowers
the pattern
the old guy gazing
at the Croft girl
the way
she wiggled her ***
her la-de-da tones
her bright eyed
expression
then she talked
to friends from college
more friends
than Trotsky
had enemies
standing there
hands on hips
tight tee shirt
small ****
and can you order this
in a light blue
the old dame asked
the blue here’s
too dark
the old guy nodded
his head turned
eyes on his wife’s
profile
sure sure
you said
controlling the slur
the beer taking hold
the old dame
seemed pleased
her husband gave
the Croft girl
another secret gaze
her tight *** moving
side to side
as she walked
the aisle
her friends departed
you watched her
with her bourgeoisie
life and ways
her small tight body
wrapped
like a dream
and the sale complete
the old couple
went away
through the business
of wallpaper
and paint
all of a Saturday.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
So, love began as it had— always been,
Stars exploding beyond the rays of gold,
Younglings new, born of bode and wonder,
The dearest waves, lept on forgotten time,
Among the furrowed hope of fields we grew,
Days sprung from long vines, handy grapes
Croft with sparkle in the bloomy meadows,
Hands knotted with clear, open eyes and all
The afternoons of spring rejoining, pebbles,
Divining from the told tale of forks in the hills
And reaching to loamy shores of lost ponds
For now, to be on at last warmly and grassy,
Dials of sun and summer cleansing showers
Under the peaceful wake, the never sleeping
Pines, yes and then we were highly held aloft
In the loom and yarns of green steps, storied
By forest upon shires, sandy uncovered eyes,
Happily, lost in the woods of lamb white days.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
I love my woman very dearly.
Sincerely. Purely. Weirdly.
It was once an absurd notion
that such love was a nonexistent commotion.
Still, I find comfort and clarity,
shown through loyalty and trust fairly.
How grey life seems to feel when she not by my side.
Stride back and forth, fingers tapping on wood, the time abides.
When shall I permit this paranoia to subside?
I'll wait. Wait until that smile arrives.
She's loud, but very soft.
With a beautiful body like Lara Croft.
And her mind, oh her mind is such a surreal place,
That even the most detailed star charts couldn't attempt to trace.
I'll lay in bed, thinking of you nestled in my arms,
protecting you from all sources of harm,
kissing your forehead like there's no tomorrow,
shielding your thoughts from all possible sorrow.
I'm always going to want to be hand in hand,
and let all those lustful ones who try to sway, be ******
because I'll love you infinitely as much as sand.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
( Sonnet )
Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of stillness
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
( Sonnet )
Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of stillness
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC