"songsmith" poems
sappho greets her as she
would a reflection:
hand against hand, staring into
her eyes. silence dancing
around them as a long-lost love-
r.
enheduanna sighs at the contact
and the quiet shifts as
her fingers close:
as there is no need for language
when her
inanna will grant them
a holy diadem.
-----
eternity reeks
of nights out on the lawn
daisies growing with the weeds
pillowing beneath the two
dwindling women -
hands clasped tightly,
their eyes closed.
...lapis blooming
within the petals
of the undergrowth...
gods slumber amongst
worthy poets occluding,
heart-soothing each
other without words
or sonnets
or divination.
sappho dared to
look out from
heavy-lidded
lethargy,
for she was
yearning:
at dawn
...her honeyvoiced,
mythweaving
enheduanna:
a sweet-shelter
of temptation
and goddesses
who wage
tender war and
drink from pools
of sun...
at dawn
the ancient
divine
poet
gazes
again
and sappho
forgets she
too is nearly
as old
for her lover wears
an invisible golden-
crowned circlet
of springtime
and illuminated
lands.
but she can hardly think
anymore, when
the songsmith of
glory and prayer
is kissing her.
laying in the basin
of heaven and skies
she pours restless
eternity down
her throat.
----
lapis melts
to pink clovers
of fowlerite
no mortals notice
two bodies blending
between poems
rustling tunics
maidens casting
away their
fruitful
sobriety.
----
poet
dreams
a woman
of verse.
hardly expecting
shallow-breathed
kisses of burning
solstice and
unrequited
love.
Feb 16, 2022
Feb 16, 2022 at 12:18 AM UTC
Last night I told the moon to send my hello to someone
The moon didn't say anything back
I told the moon to keep an eye on somebody
The moon didn't blink even
I told the moon to brighten that path
The moon seemed a little irked
I told the moon my desires
My words seemed to irk the moon even more
I told the moon
Perhaps I am no poet
I'm a songsmith
Then I huddled, abruptly
This is the account that I earned from talking to the moon
My palaver is now going nowhere
Perhaps I am no poet
I'm a songsmith
At that instant I got up
I picked up my stringed machinery
Instrument, tool, gear, whatever
I sang glancing to the moon
I told the moon many things
Only to find out the moon has no ears
Perhaps I am no poet
I'm a songsmith
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
I wrote the song when I had no voice.
Made the decision when I had no choice.
Played the music when I had no hands.
Danced along when I could not stand.
Wrote the words when I was confused.
And wasn't looking when I heard my muse.
The lyrics now are the final thing.
So we will wait to hear Marsha sing.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
Rarely a winner, the sad lonely long-distance sinner,
A heart of broken rubble, repair not worth the trouble,
In conflict with life’s rabble, their ill-informed babble,
Lacking civilised patina, that saps my spiritual stamina.
I face a blank wall of ignorance, solace is a constant séance,
Lifeless I drift in hyperspace, a freefall from grace,
A bat-squeak whispers what a waste! wake up and chase!
Those youthful hopes and romance, you so readily denounce.
Soar away wordsmith! banish all doubts as myth,
Word by word and line by line, rise up and shine!
Love and valour will align, poetry will become your new divine,
Forge beauty as any talented goldsmith, oh sweet songsmith!
Some will mock and wonder, let courage be your rudder,
Through cruel shoals of torment, that masquerade as comment,
Rip away the tattered cloak of lament, hail poetry’s debutante!
Let soul and passion cast asunder, the years of sorrowed shudder.
Arise Sir Poet! your old world is there to conquer and outwit!
© Robert Porteus
Nov 28, 2021
Nov 28, 2021 at 6:51 AM UTC