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.
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.
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.
I’ve seen the gyre and pivot
around the grain uncurled,
still- reversal and stagnation-
(and as the water swirls)
The contemplation makes its way,
all coy and taciturn,
into a rolling, restless gob
that smolders as it burns.
As leafed through- which is page on page-
then little more is left to do,
than humor – pander – orchestrate
these words that I’ve warmed to.
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.
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.
*************************
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.
just because
a spark burst
in sun-ly ways-
an excimer flare-
a dazzle- beware
the aftermath
of this exclaimated
instant-
when the airs
are gone – vaporizing
and in the moment,
extemporizing-
a crumbly proclivity
appears and departs
in a fluted nigh,
and we are left with
a notion-
nary embers or sighs.
*************
I do enjoy the sounds of words. Also, I enjoy the freedom, as a poet, to create a “word” where none exists -if it suits my purpose for conveying a mood or contributing to a sound collage. This poem, I think, does both. Thanks for reading.
To write of writing seems so trite
and through this morning all alight,
composing and constructing rime
I seemed to focus all my time
on something sonorous and sleek
and this I cared to form and tweak.
Yet, I could not stay the sounds,
the ones that crack, the ones that round,
the ones that exhale in the wind,
the ones that rest and feed and sin.
I could not break them -though so eager-
then left for you, my reckless reader-
Something in the writing here
with devotion to the ear,
in the hopes that when you read
the music, timbre’d whole will cede
and capture from its hiding place
a flush – a sweltering embrace.
Could you pass upon a poem
with this, the textured symmetry
of drooping tulips in the mist
or waves crashed in, that fan -set free?
A yellow bird, that comes to rest
inside a cage of brass and wire,
to let it come and go seems fit
a spark, a stir, a thought inspired.
A red bench in a sea of gold.
A row of rocks, precise and small.
Traipsing steps, a reflection seen
leaving tracks in waterfalls.
A living, breathing cache that blooms
with meadowsweet and lace and phlox –
the heather in the garden
where the blue gate never locks.
An angled grain in wood or wings
of butterflies, with flecks that scroll,
could you catch and hold this poem
inside, and bind it to your soul?
when the door is closed
she cries silent tears
and mines her thoughts-composed
her distress disappears
into a verse she knows by heart
and sings her soul to stir
a theme, a song the poet starts
to sketch- conveys the world to her.
such things should be in books to share
and on the page inspired
with predecessor’s ink and air
once weighted and admired.
Though now, poetic thoughts disperse
on ether, winds unbound
and beauty finds a home inversed
not on pages, written down.
and when she’s in her room, confined-
her echos and her action sings
minding thoughts-composed and rhymed
for that day and these modest things.
**********************
I read news every day about poetry being on the wane, about publications being discontinued, about fewer opportunities for poetry to be in the mainstream…it is sad, but poetry is a language that can’t be killed. It breaths life into itself. It’s subversive. It is ethereal. It constantly changes. It renews itself and us in the process. If it ever reaches the point where poetry is not printed (and I hope it never does!), it will exist on the scrap papers, napkins, brick walls and memories/minds of its practitioners.
Taps and Ratamacues 