Chess

A powerful and poignant work, written by a 14 year old.

Poems and Petals


‘Neither will win’, the audience says

Now that the contest starts

For black men move without their heads

And white without their hearts.

‘And if one shall advance’, they said,

‘So much as one short pace,

His fellowmen shall shun him then

A traitor to the race’.

‘You wooden men give up the game,

For what are all these squares

But black and white and black again,

The pattern of your cares?’.

The chessmen quickened into life,

For love has conquered pride,

Those that were angry face to face

Are quiet side by side.

View original post

The Empty Poet

He searched the floor of his life for more words,

but there were none.

In his day, he waxed quite elegant, his inimitable style admired

by all who attended the readings full of smells of coffee, sweat,

and too much perfume in close quarters.

The applause, while not thunderous, was engaged.

The conversations, while not stimulating, were polite.

“I liked that poem.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just did.”

“Thank you.” Sips coffee to indicate

the conversation’s over.

The microphone was no longer a beacon, but a flickering ghost light

in a dark theater.

The notebook paper and computer screens were all test patterns; nothing to see.

Nothing in them. Nothing on them.

My life isn’t over, but it seems to have run dry.

Was there really nothing left to say? Nothing that moved him? Touched his heart? Enraged him? Set him laughing hysterically?

Desperately, he mined for it, memories in black, oily sludge best left buried slipping in stringy fragments through his finger.

Feelings unrequited. Longings unfulfilled.

And now, the words have flown as well.

No feathers to fly, unfettered, they flee.

The skin dries as the words evaporate,

and the poet is now a husk of man.

Desiccated and empty, seeming all of a man, but containing nothing of him.

The pen slips from his fingers; the battery in the digital thing no longer holds a charge.

Change is forthcoming, but he will stand and remain, no regrets.

The memories are old, unrelenting, full of sharp rebuke.

He rises from kneeling in the sludge of his art,

As his husk dries slowly in the morning sun,

as the poet’s soul slips free.

#FridayFantasy – Denizen

An intricate and clever use of imagery and rhyme by Morgan on her BookNVolume blog.

Booknvolume

Denizen

Denizen of the Sullied Night,

Gazing Perpetually

With Diabolic Light,

Sing of Enticements

Wanton and Fair,

Intoxications Beyond Compare;

Denizen of Intrinsic Reign,

Watching spectrally

While Shadows Feign,

Incubus of Beauty,

Tempting concessionaire,

Proffering Intemperance as We Dare!

.
~Morgan~
.
.
.
Artwork found at: mmogames.com

View original post

I Dream an Autumn Love

Sepia,

the last of the colors,

a dull revelry,

a thrumming, just beneath the surface,

heralds the dormant outdoors.

 

I see you in the blue and lavender shadows,

your hips swaying like dark wheat in a gentle breeze.

Your smile is shy and happy,

your lips, all the shades of honey.

I bend to sip them from your mouth,

and find the bittersweet taste of summer’s end

on the tip of your tongue,

and lose myself in sweet dreams

and bitter time.

And there is time to savor.

 

As the last leaves

break free to fall like spent stars

from their heavenly sockets,

I dream an autumn love.

 

 

Of Summers Passed

Ah, I see. You must leave again, my love

to pave the way for your older sister,

the one who colors before the whitening kill.

I shall miss you.

Will you miss me?

We dance this dance

year by year,

and the music,

while ever as sweet,

slows down to the rhythm

of our ending.

I do love the touch of

your sun

upon my skin,

and the way your breath of song

makes the branches dance.

The brightness of your eyes

makes me don that which

tames their radiance,

and the weight of your stare

warms me.

The touch of your hot kiss

on my face

makes me close my eyes

and offer up my cheeks.

My heart takes sanctuary

in your

ethereal greenery,

as even now

you start to fade.

Summer,

I will miss you,

resting in the surety

of your

perennial return.

Sleep well, my love,

and know

my heart

is ever

yours.

A Father’s Day Memory

It was a sunny afternoon, and I was helping my Dad with a project; he did woodwork / carpentry as a hobby sometimes, and I was sanding something for him. I don’t remember specifically what it was, but I remember at the end, when the piece was finished, something was off.

We had some difficulty, but he knew how to fix it.

“But it’s going to take longer,” he said.

I looked at him.

“I’m going to do it the faster way,” he said.

I realized then that he was slowing down; he never considered doing anything less than a quality job, in spite of the problems.

I admit I was surprised, and as much as I hated these projects (because I’m better at writing than woodworking) and wanted to finish this, I said to him:

“That’s not your style.”

He looked at me; it was his turn to be surprised.

“Do it the right way,” I said. “If you take the shortcut, all you’re going to do is take it apart later and do it the right way anyway. I’m here to help you, so just do it now.”

He smiled, and we fixed the problem the right way, and he was happy with the work.

He recounted that story to other people for years afterward, pleased that I was there to admonish him to stick to the very principles he taught me about working, whatever the job, and to do it with a sense of pride and excellence.

I was glad we had that time, because I discovered too that sometimes, as much as we need our parents, they need us too.

I love you, Dad.

It’s been twelve years now since you took your final journey.

“I’ll see you when I get there.”

 

 

Hymn of the Exiled

The rusty, russet soil of the shoreline

shrinks more quickly than I’d like.

The sandbar and the harbor release their hold

all too eagerly.

The current snatches at the hull

like an orphan seizing the last scrap.

And I find my heart adrift.

 

My thoughts try to swim back with all their strength.

My memories fade, weeping as they stand on the banks.

The luteous sun strikes me with a smalt melancholy,

so much deeper than the waves that skip us like a hollow stone

across the meandering ocean’s surface.

 

My love unties the knots of the bonding kerchiefs

of our Handfast Day, and I no longer care how high

the restless waves fling themselves at us to pluck us

from the deck and wash our bones to brine.

 

The kingdom crown, once so desired, so soon set aside,

besieges my brow with a phantom weight,

and the royal scepter

is now but a common oar.

 

There are no words to balm this sadness,

to bind this slow and leaking death.

And so I drown it in tears and rage,

never to be home again.

 

Never to be,

at all.