Trio
Photos of the Pets We’ve Had Over the Years
Green Leaves Are Autumn’s Child
Green leaves are Autumn’s child
All voices speak false in description
for fall is made not of a simple change of shade
but the stripping of the identity of spring
the thinning of their hollow veins
the draining of their defining blush;
Yet the praise falls upon the leftovers-
the remaining reds,
and oranges, and
yellows
And says they are finally beautiful.
Campus Rain
Absurdist
“Transparent am I as the glass,” said the snake to the mouse at her front. “Trust, a sip you may take.” And she collected a drop of wine glistening scarlet to where it hung above her friend.
Enraptured, the mouse climbed for it, claws extended. His friend’s jaw slighted, and another droplet appeared in the same place.
He did see, then, the flame that reared its head under the snake’s own– but quiet he remained.
As the fire caught to her scales, the snake cried, “Ah, traitor! Why have you not warned me?”
To which the mouse asked: but was I the one? And off he scampered, back to his burrow, safe in the dirt.
Drawing: “Absurdist” by myself. This one was actually selected by my AP Literature teacher to be used in posters representing a school theatre production!
Twisted is the Wood of the Willow
Twisted is the wood of the willow after wind
when her tresses are swept into rough caress
and her frame contorts to figure unknown
She knows not who to blame when she bows
The gale shaping her direction as she cowers
or she who bends obedient to his instruction.
Follow the Wisps
Follow the wisps of blue
to reach the disfigured veranda of stone
where phantom abstract slips from high
when the horned and the barred claim their distress
flames cast shadows cross skin of water
yet the light from the bright moonrise still dies.
Says the sun to the wind and the wind to the moon
“who is more powerful?”
No northern zephyr dares betray and forfeit.
Greet the night from beyond her gate
for ghostly protest hath no dictate.
You, Most Delightful Parasite
You, most delightful parasite, flaunt proudly your perfume
as the forged red thread woven absent consent
Thieve my creations self-molded through your roots
still my orchid latches to me and I to you; owe,
the pale lilac of your petals remain my only other tone
I’ll be warm adorned until you can survive on your own.
RGS Journal 