Tag Archives: beauty

unwound

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Rolling on the floor, a speckled ball of yarn,
chased by cats, and batted back and forth;
’round the chair and wedged so not to budge.

Provocateur, unravel as you will-
the line of thread that travels here and yon-
a serpentine attests your elegance.

A moment’s play- your coil and path supply
diverting pleasure – here and there – unwound
around and ’round the floor you dart.

Between the wall and shelves, in spaces thin
since come to rest – and sameness- yet again
Await to wind and wrap – your future holds

another track, unfurl and ring and flaunt.

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I set out to write a sestina this morning – quite a challenge for a Saturday morning- but the word scheme never quite worked out for me. I ended up with this, which has no formality to it, other than 3 line verses and some nice lines, alliteration, and hopefully some back and forth in the poem. I don’t own a cat, but I suspect watching one play with a ball of yarn might be enjoyable. I was thinking that the yarn might get bored easily if all it had to do was be batted around and unwound until it found a resting place – waiting to be rewound and put into play again.

intertwined

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the mystery that drives and weaves
and captures all she feels and grieves-
inward lies her heart perfecting
both her days and nights, dissecting
with a tiny mirrored hand-
her sphere, it grows -afflicts the strand
which twines and knots and preys alone
and none will notice, deftly sewn
just like auroras, bold and lithe
she wanders – spreads – abates in sight.

nostalgia

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As for me,
when Cecilia sings –
the brightened notes
awaken the spring.

Leaves are new
among the trees,
when flow’rets bud
and winter flees.

Her eyes shine,
she gestures grace
and draws me in
to her dulcet embrace.

In this prime,
her melodies swarm
and hypnotize -captivate
poesy form.

Then compelled
by aires of allure,
I write simple verses-
the memory secure.

Autumnal

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I pinpoint the moment the leaves turn to rust
and withhold the diadem – stay if I must –
the pliable eminence that tells of the why
does the moon hang its head in the opposite sky.

The walk of her beauty, in stride upon stride,
she disappears quickly, then looms and arrives.
I cannot yield over- abandon too soon-
and there in the opposite sky hangs the moon.

Breathe out and breathe in, both at tide and at crest
in the wisps of a manner that I can attest.
Her hand upon mine and our place in midair
the moon in the opposite sky, hanging there.

And after our silence, the heart might belie
save for memories, the moon, and the opposite sky.

emerald, as I exit

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emerald,
which is
all I see in a memory
passing a hallway and a staircase.
to a glass door.
yet in the moments after
the vision of her dress-
her hair, streaming in cinnamon
and obeying the pace,
the sounds of her walk
her lips moving to an unassisted conversation
these details attend and amass
a likeness,
but always with emerald first
as I exit.

Stills

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Knowing the value of such blooms,
she recorded the moment of their heyday.

Just when the cannas overflowed
and the pear trees erupted-

the flushed colors dotted her mind

so that she could memorize each cast and tone
and whisk them onto winter’s canvas

smears of rust and scarlet
over rifts,
wan and chill.

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Autumn is passing its apex now. It always brings with it a sense of nostalgia, a sense of loss, an appreciation of beauty…These are some quick thoughts about the season brought on by viewing some recent photographs taken by a blogging friend. Thanks for visiting.

written while considering a photograph of a poet

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in that she kneels
by the hawthorne in spring, leaning in
to absorb the blossoms
-their balm and velvet-
in silent acquiescence.

her own shoots and sprays
grow inward
and she seeks a dovetail,
tallied to share her joy and rage,

and calm the gathering in her soul.

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I happened upon a photograph of Sylvia Plath as a teenager, sitting by a flowering bush, and began to consider a poem. I rather like this, it is very uncomplicated – but foreboding in a way. She was a brilliant poet. Thanks for visiting.

Cups

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I seek a magnum for my words
to hold and season, spoon and stir
a cup to ferment, provocate
to frenzy – undeterred.

Then sometimes I just need a plot
to plant and tend, to give a shot
No rubs and snags, organic-like
a garden – not a lot.

Yet, in this morning comes a zone
where dreams are sparse and I’m alone.
My words seem languished – decomposed
to less than I condone.

I place them in a tumbler, red
with pangs and fancy, joy and dread
then agitate to swirl and sway
these aches- the ones unread.

I seek a chalice clear, a sprite
to hold my poetry in sight
to mesmerize and -yes- atone
for tarnished silver blight.

Lucent

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The underbrush, dingy and hewn
beneath a stack
of loose forest-

what we gathered in late afternoon
while the sun hung orange under red smears of
a deepening blue.

Sparks drifted and cackled
into something conjured-
wafted from burning sticks,

and we watched them woo
with embers, now
in a conflagration
alive and luring the night air.

It was a synonymous path.

.

Sonnet for Longing

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Silence telegraphs with empty leaves-
lines that flowed in likeness, ink and clue
what once was filled with calligraphic ease
and endeavored to connect, just as you drew.

Of arcs entwined and crossing interplait
a scratch adorned the page as I cannot.
Written from this shine and crimson faith,
this rose in thorns will finish my last thought.

Urged to move in pacing and in slant,
on fertile ground sent forth from secret souls
in purposed guise impressing and entranced-
and held in hands imploring rhythmic tolls.

Your cursive memory lingers and demands
confession, written -scored- in my own hand.

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Thinking a bit about writing -actually physical writing- this morning. The art of penmanship is fading. I never excelled at it, mind you, but I appreciate the beauty and craft of well-done handwriting. And the personality of handwriting…it is so intimate.

Anyway, this poem started as a few random couplets, and then blossomed into a sonnet. Let me know what you think.