Heaven doth make gain from anxious sorrow, it seems;
Her richest wine mixed, laced almond, embittered
The blood within our veins is red, I’ve heard-- and so it is
but red was not the color I saw in embrace
nor was vermilion a blush of verisimilitude.
Wellaway!-- what trepidation there is in calm,
whilst its ending leaves no flaxen hair harrowed.
They say children are naive, that we know naught
yet we imps see the most clearly; in the face
of learning, of trusting, of loving, absent motive
Thus is our affection given most devoid restraint
but the most difficult to admit, because
the recipients are so capricious in heart
precise; just as they say children are.
No resistance have I felt quite similar to my own
Every instance, spent as though I, alone
were stood on the lines in wait of the train
with my dependence on the address of a single word
such that even silent denouement sat becoming.
Had you or I any affectation of courage starry
perhaps we needn’t have been witnesses of court
as the light of the hearth died to grey ash and red coals
companied by whisper of farewell before that of greeting.
Your eyes are naught but gold, white gold
and I know that you no longer see me with them;
Still may I ease, for no longer did the fault rest with me:
At length did I tell you I loved you; but alas,
the Clock had already struck three thirty
and you, you never said it back.
Music By Burnt Ears She Cried
Music by burnt ears she cried
Had I not the wherewithal to desist
thus I followed; oh, I followed
her song into the hallway, and the
silhouettes on the walls, they danced
to the echo of my footsteps against the stone
and sang the whispers of the torches’ flames.
Adieu—said I to my departing companions
as I sank into the steps, foot by foot
The notes, delicate as they, twisted in the air
so generously and allowed me to lean upon them
for support as I climbed
and climbed
and climbed. Such enchantment!—
Into a grand hall was I led, with diamonds hanging
and candles flickering, in circles, in circles
but the other beauties in the room were dead
their heads wasted away from thirst and age
with their petals mourning below the tombs
I saw her at the piano, its polished sheen alight
and received quite a fright when her countenance
became and arrived before my eyes
for she was young and she was old at the same
whilst the weariness in her breath never changed.
Her hands were pale and frail
yet her fingers retained their gay diligence
and jumped and jumped from key to key
I was delirious; and implored to her
Please—I’ve been caught—mightn’t you stop
the music now?
A laugh!—from myself or from her, or from whoever
then; Forgive me—said she,
her face turned away—I wish I could
and continued thereon her eternal song.
So I sat, in the arms of her serenade
when a three count rest provided me the chance
to ask why could not she pause—
She proclaimed her certainty in stance
that if she stopped, as would everything else
Her life was the song she played
the song she played was her life
so how could she allow herself the cessation?
The diamonds hung and the candles flickered
Spoke I, and wondered why she found it to be sure—
“A feeling?
An omen? Sense?”
Oh, she simply knew, from
the tumbling she felt within her stomach
and the lump in her throat
It made it hard to breathe, she said
My pity clouded my sensibility as I felt—
but when I asked her name, and she remembered not
the fog dispersed from thought.
“Then why continue?” I cried,
“If you have not even an identity, a life!”
And I leapt from my seat in the audience
And I pried her fingers away, away from her canvas.
The diamonds hung
the candles flickered
and a subtle silence cloaked the realization
until replaced by her lamentations of an existence forgone.
Lullaby For My Dove
Of all surrounding thicket thy choice o’ lonesome dwelling
amongst chimney’s red bricks once felled and left; a tall Room, dark—
where light has lost potency to scatter, and you now Wild,
beating with fractured wing, claws curled, firm against heaving breast
Be pardoned now, in somnolence blest
as I fashion this vacant cage for nest.
A dove’s lily-white down is Its signature, voiceless song
feathers alight yet beyond metal bars makes but debris
The drapes are drawn, senses drown, and silence holds that there be
naught save the creaks from your sullen throat; O Hush, so kindly—
I’ll compose a lullaby most sweet
So stifle noisy grievance for my amity.
And I sing and I sing and you quiet, with the rhythmic drumming
o' the generous rain who feeds so endlessly the white lilies upon the sill
Diamond chandeliers drape o'er musty air and the scent o' chamomile makes easy way
whilst sun rays remain at bay— Our home is shadowed; the dust sleeps unseen.
Now three weeks shared, I see you’ve healed, Delightful, we ought celebrate your
security sealed; Our window is open, and your head bobs, eager, at it
Look, today’s blossoms have blushing faces, limp, wet, but they've not tears
Lay in my lap — perch against my neck — accompany me one last sit
Ah, a draft— warm zephyr that kisses bitter, chills the lips
and ruffles that ivory cape as were a sigh. Do you still long for Out?
then you haven't been In long enough.
—O, ‘tis a shame, love, I’ve plucked out a blood feather, how
Colorful the crimson is against thy white! You’ve stained my hands.
Do forgive these nervous fingers — ‘twas an accident,
this anxiety; but Foresight, I praise thee, I’ve bandages a-handy
and our Lullaby, three past weeks and forevermore, leave not me lonely
Worry not my dearest, you needn’t fly away in such state
I’ll make you beautiful again, so stay a week longer, my dove, won’t you?
Now Greyscale
Now greyscale is the shade of clouds o’er light obscuring the colors of horizon in sight the rays once spread focused on solely a spot from whence no wrong can be differed from right. Whilst sodden down minds and beaten hearts lay they sway in the light wind of day no psalms, no thoughts, no exchanges to pay Yet a sorrowful cry that whittles so slow that flakes of gold and white bud have no-say and leave body and heart with nary a way to bring back their laurels and chorus for the grey tied in-side hath naught more-- And dreams are filled with memories so few Paintings of gold that have lost their hue Feathers ruffle and wave, ride low under leaf Black wings and dry nest bring arms take siege but scattered reflections do not shelter make. The wind blows; but there is naught left to take cry they who mimic hath all still to do. Nary are the words, passionate in meaning A heightened gale, an open sail; free?-- no, but knotted and thus the white and the black are cloaked from seeing. They that have become nothing but wisps of dull smoke slip silent through our yearning fingers and memories of cold and dark are all the mind doth bespoke. The details fade away one by one left an empty frame for life itself is grey until the right comes along and gives it a brand-new hue, never the past same; But that day is rare, whilst the usual: It is only an illusion, a self-constructed delusion Created by hope; they deny, but Hope is forever greyscale and her companion, Regret, is just-- there-- wavering steam until the day passes and her eyes gleam from behind offering a deep sigh with a gaze lost yet focused a lonely figure among the wildflowers; she cries a Visit to a place with genesis long before the heavens’ seam burned cold and blue hands brush away the mist to kiss the early dew Ears turned to the twittering of the cloak’d paroquets They muse of a tired existence in a language no longer decipherable to the mind as twisted as the vines of penance wrapped around your hands The water sings--oh!-- everything is singing but his voice is hoarse and the melody a little-- just the slightest- bitter The faintest fragrance, so light that it ought not have been smelled remains.
Attempting Chinese Calligraphy with one of my own poems!
Underwing
Even on the whitest of creatures
the shadows underwing are tinted
with the vibrancy of the sky above
and the colors below their flight.
Even within the defined geometry of pillars and panes
the wings of that creature are curved
along the limitless lines of the sky above
and the webbing of all that below.
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.
A little brown chicken
A little brown chicken picks up some feathers
in her beak, left behind by peacock grand
and arranges them, so carefully, among her own
So now may she glisten with the greens,
and blues, and violets
of the bird known for his beauty and regality and ambition
She struts and totes her new coat a-round
Have you walked the imprints of a peacock? For there is
something about the height of your beak, and the
volume of your song, and the pace of your steps--
and she does know the footsteps.
Yet when alone, in dark and unseen, she undoes her -do
and is still a chicken.
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.
RGS Journal 