"traceries" poems
Sara L Russell, 19/12/14 00:58am
White gulls fly against darkness of winter trees
swirling in a reeling easterly;
bare branches stand in earthbound traceries
behind the birds that dance weightless and free.
There is a rhythm in this circling flight.
a lazy, slightly tipsy minuet;
a majesty in gliding wings of white,
a sign that better times are coming yet.
The dew has barely faded on the green,
two fountains bend before the icy breeze,
as seagulls, with a grace I've rarely seen
swirl heavenward, like flights of fantasies.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
seeds sit in
this swollen
belly like snowflakes
individuating fire.
traceries of flame.
sprouting extended
families.
the pregnant glow
of our Mother carrying
us.
blue as boons conferred
to what defines her
dark outline.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 1:51 AM UTC
Dance, star-children, dance,
For you are born from the hot nova womb
Of the fetal goddess that is our universe.
I would string her necklaces of planets
And weave nebulae in her hair
Were I more to her than the crumbs of an atom.
I am lost in a love so great
That not even in the violent birth of time,
And never since,
Have two stars ever approached collision,
Excepting those locked in the suicidal embrace
Of Siamese twins.
A cold love, in the empty in-between.
Left to our own devices, we are
Planets in our own right;
Caught in cycles of gravity and love.
But no cometic will o’ the wisp,
Nor warm, homely Sun,
Will ever make her great,
Galactic traceries of spine
Less terrifying.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 8:00 PM UTC
The elucubrations of the lute, pulsing from the finger strums of starlight,
Plum-twilight of the Colosseum like an emperor’s bowl of plucked fruit,
As the night’s ghost-gods are tuned to Castel Sant’Angelo, Hadrian’s tomb,
Who drink the dwindling hours from the wine-stemmed glass of musical moon.
But come the times out of tune, the dwindling of stone is the going blind of Rome:
Rome is built upon millions of eyes closed with the underside of their lids tattooed,
By labyrinthine aqueducts, far-aging roads, and traceries of Nero’s Golden Home.
Then death its sight-sun blooms through; death the architect of Seven Hills renews.
Feb 13, 2020
Feb 13, 2020 at 9:36 AM UTC