Category: Blogging 101

Kissed of the Sun

She,

kissed of the sun,

birthed of the earth’s red clay,

stands a goddess in the green lush alcove

of branches that arch to protect her.

A sorceress that magic

willingly surrenders

its secrets to,

she only has to turn to me

to enchant me

with silent spells

of regal beauty.

She binds my mortal

heart to hand,

and bids me

love to worship her.

Surrender is all the sweeter then,

and for a time, I too, am kissed of the sun,

yet banished at moonrise

to dream once more

that a goddess

once loved

me.

 

*art by Charlie Bowater on pinterest.com

Springsong

The rain strikes,

the clod shifts, opens,

gives access to the seed,

and baptizes it

with water.

The sun,

rising, warm,

tosses javelin rays

to strike through the

blades of grass.

The seed shell warms,

and gives birth.

The sprout breaks free

in jubilant celebration

of its youthful freedom,

and sways in the wind,

as it reaches for the sky.

And winter smiles,

and vanishes

over the sea.

When Music Smiles

Your guitar

echoed over the ocean,

the melody you played

slow and beautiful,

timeless and flowing

like the small waves,

working slow magic,

only to vanish

with an essence of shore,

of time,

of us,

drawn to your music

for a brief and lively

dance,

waving farewell

in whitecap

whispers.

You opened

your eyes

to find mine,

crossing the bridge to your heart’s chorus,

singing the harmony to your life,

and composing our love,

the song

that only stops,

but never ends.

Skipping

She stops

as all the other kids

run by.

She sees him in the doorway, a smile on his face,

watching them run.

She smiles at him and waves.

She runs and skips,

and he hears the scratch

of her heels on the sidewalk.

He chuckles,  remembers when

he too,

possessed that superpower.

He waves good-bye

to far more

than her fading image.

Though she doesn’t see,

he has no regrets,

and goes inside to the

ponderous ticking

of his dusty

grandfather clock.

 

*picture by Ethereal Mind at deviantart.com

Thoughts of You

Shadows on hills,

day’s end.

A persimmon sun sets

in the bosom of a verdant valley,

and the evening star stares

like a curious child at the

lone man walking the road

to darkness.

Your absence is cold space

beside me on

this solitary

twilight stroll.

I miss the glimmer

of your starry eyes.

I miss the skipped beat of your

excited heart.

I miss the anchoring tenderness

of your embrace.

I miss melting into

your kisses.

Your memory fades like a painting,

a haunting last note of a lilting melody,

a classic fallen from grace.

And once more, I’m reminded:

Love will not reciprocate what

she requires to live.

 

 

The Sandman’s Bride

Sleep, my daughter, for I am but a myth,

A Muse, they say.

A thing to make a man’s heart tender,

A creature that veils a woman’s eyes with love.

 

I know not what I am,

only that I was born to harvest

the very stars I made,

eons before you were born.

 

Sleep, my son, for I am but a mother,

a deliverer of dreams, they tell me, that bring smiles to infants,

and nightmares to those who see the world

through filters of neglect.

 

I know not what I am,

only that this light is made to sift

through my fingers and dapple

the clouds with twilight colors.

 

Sleep, my children, for I am

but a shadowed, masked, and transient being,

I’m told.

A fantasy of space and time,

contained in the imagination,

freed and manifest in the mind.

 

I know not what I am,

only that this mask

hides me from my own soul,

and the warmth of these clouds

console me in the dark, but are not

a lover’s embrace.

 

Sleep, my darlings, and know that

you are limitless as stars,

boundless as eternity,

and eternal as love.

 

I know not what I am,

only that I share my heart

with you, and we are twinned

in mind and purpose.

 

Take my hand, come with me,

and sleep.

Land of Dreams, Sea of Reality

It is here where The Land of Dreams blends in with the Sea of Reality.

I scoop the earth-blackened waters of its banks, only to see it slip through my fingers.

In the distance of my fantasy worlds,

Castles crumble.

Palaces burn.

and things that aren’t pretentious about

their brutality

break the spine of humanity

over their knees.

 

The crack of shattered, severed bone sounds like an

exclamation mark on the period of life.

 

No escape.

See? The gift abandons you, as a

faithless priest

his calling.

The candles in the temple are extinguished,

And canticles and prayers rise in supplication,

Only to get trapped in the webs and rooks of

defiled, unholy rubble, and desecrating doubt.

 

The hand trembles with pain,

wrinkles with age.

 

The fight is all-encompassing now,

and strength is leeching, leaking, leaving…

 

The Sea of Reality has the remnants of

wasted time, missed chances, lost loves

in your wake,

even as mines of potential and buoys of pleasure

come into view.

 

The sun perpetually sets on the horizon.

Fog will coat the water’s surface,

and the stars change position and darken

as you navigate.

 

The rudder of the pen skips,

The oar of the pencil splinters and cracks

even as it shrinks.

The laptop lighthouse can no longer illuminate

the safe harbor of your hopes.

 

Mortality and eternity mix and war,

the storm clouds full of nightmares realized,

the cirrus clouds of curried wisps of daydreams

fading to mist in the mind’s ever-changing weather.

 

A dark and silent bay awaits,

with no guiding stars,

no turning of the hourglass,

no sailing with the tide.

 

So then, captain, it comes to this:

Do you run aground, leaping safely to shore?

Do you founder and break on the coral and stone,

clinging to what remains?

Do you let go of the wheel of your life,

drifting into nothingness?

 

Or do you smooth out one last piece of parchment

like a billowing sail,

and once more

take up the stout and stubby oar

for the last voyage?

 

Victory

I killed him on a summer night.

The moon shines on him fully.

The wolves now come to crack his bones.

Tonight I killed my bully.

No tears I shed, although I sigh.

His corpse swings on the pulley.

The crows will pluck his filmy eyes.

Tonight I killed my bully.

I dreamed about it for some time.

My mind would get all woolly,

And it felt good to shear his throat.

Tonight I killed my bully.

My cats and I pretend that we are

hiding in the gully.

But really we are in my room.

Tonight I killed my bully.

 

Laying Stones

One night I woke, and watched you.

Saw the past in your mind, through your eyes.

So still you were, but there were tears in the moonlight.

I don’t know if you built the wall

or someone took you behind it,

but it was a place I could not go.

I tried.

I fought.

My hands were rough and bleeding,

and I had no rope, no grappling hook.

When I was almost there, I reached up for you to help me.

And you walked away.

I tried again, until I could no more.

When I passed through the gate

for the last time

I turned,

and you were there

in the window,

laying more stones.

Still crying.

 

(*art by jonasjensenart.deviantart.com)

Poetess in the Park

I stopped because she was absolutely riveting.

She actually wore a beret, had fully bought in to the whole scene.

Everything came together as I watched her perform,

as I watched her play the crowd.

I wanted her to hesitate when she looked at me, to stumble over her words, and come to a stop.

But she didn’t.

I understood: The poem was all to her, everything to her.

But to me,

she was the poem,

the art of something so out of the ordinary

it could never fit in.

I wanted to be that vibrant to someone,

for someone to know me so well they’d anticipate

what I’d improvise.

I wished she was my all and everything.

But I never asked her name.