Posted on 11/24/2003 9:52:48 AM PST by January24th
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Hey, nice to see you writing again. Re: "You bet your life," So don't we all? ditty time. LOL.
seasonalpromotions
autumn has dropped his leaves
along the path he took to sleep
with the coldest month of the year.
and they are whirled and gathered in
by winter’s triumphant winds
the folios and follies
of summer's fevered promises,
the ante raised upon their pages
and laid with springs bright hope
the pot grew with abandon
and kept him in the game,
but now his chits have to be cashed
and whistled home to winter's claim,
rustled into her cold fold
for she has called his hand.
First he lost his scarlet coat
and then he lost his shirt
then he bet and lost the branch
cause he played for all his worth
now he is wrapped in winters robes
(what still of him remains)
dreaming in her frozen arms embrace
of what he lost to her patient charms
and perfect poker face,
And those that sheltered
in his shade must other cover seek
for winter holds the winning cards
and she plays for keeps.
So it goes.
splash undoes more
than the logical
raindrops’ fate
but the place of begin
again rocks
every little world
to cataclysms
sending strange
pulses to universes
and rattles the jars
in cupboards
stocked with wait
but consumed with want.
indifferent to the change
gathering unnoticed,
The ladder in the bell tower
The brace of
simple slats,
rungs like truth
rings the hours
but always needs
repair, the ladder
leans too long
unheeded between
the last chime and climb,
its not clear whether
its safe to trust weight
to something that has waited
too long to be used
inside the temple of rough
stones raised to shelter
that keeps bells safe
for any exigency that sets
them sounding
while the rope
can only be pulled down.
having read an entire essay composed of boring aphorisms, i wondered if I could have my own grasp exceed the reach. LOL.
It goes without saying
that there aren’t
enough words
to mend a failed
aphorism .
In the ellipse ….. the heavy
thinking belongs to the reader
but the writer gets the credit.
Don’t put
hyperventilating
statements
in a brown paper bag,
and tell me to breathe.
Humour isn’t sexy
cause everyone knows
its good for a laugh or two
but you don’t want to bring
that kind of pain home.
Cutting the fat
sometimes leaves outtakes
that can be rendered into grease
for rusty mental gears.
Bi polar by proxy;
the calico’s highs and lows
release me from the necessity
of experiencing my own.
Caesar says
You throw light
stand in the dawn
naked as the sun
just for principle and
like Alexandria burning
what we have learned
is lost in the backfires
we lit to keep truth
from spreading.
taunting time
and making it drip
to his own need,
Archimedes
measured it more or less,
but that didn’t mean
he had it under control
tho he invented
the perpetual screw
which will do
for a start
so we’ll burn with desire
and what we don’t lose
to the torch
will leave a few
fragementary
measures
we'll save
for a song
climbing lighthouse stairs
ascending to the sunset
moonrise to the east
when the spell expires
dancing the night away
is enchanting but midnight
has a way of striking down dreams
the magician selling the illusion
of the moment as a renewable resource
only has so many tricks to perform
before the audience is bored
with the same dumb bunny
that he pulled a hundred times before
but Cinderella buying time strong arms
disappointment in her fairy cast finery
and tho she must still leave the ball early
pulls a fast one managing to ditch the pinch
of the glass, without giving
the prince the slip.
impatient moon
taunts
the sunset
sky
One small step for man
Clashing silver moon rings
against the dark, turns
her pale obverse towards the dawn
and sinks into night’s pocket;
a lucky coin flipped
to always land on the bright
side then slipped away
to be retrieved when hope
wants inspiration
her reflection proceeds apace
many phases across one face,
tho the clock melts tomorrow
the moon remains oblivious to the fortunes
she unmakes with her one-sided
arguments that cannot hear correction
her fragility is her shield
that shines in borrowed light
her robe the perfect protection
from the consequential evidence
manifested in the sunlight
of those she tramples in her flight.
for she doesn’t care to know
her defining shadow shape
that she keeps safe from sight
and she cannot be touched
by any sorrow but her own
I have always loved the suggestions of the moon, and slept beneath its cold cover, to awake to its cold eye, so beautiful yet so complicated. I think my intention wasn't to deal as harshly with her as I have, but there is always the other side.....
the soft side of
the waning moon,
revealed in a vague earth-shine
of reflected reputation--
like some courtesan
enjoying the king's favor
in darkened chambers, there,
somewhere behind the harsh
and heady light of duty--
not needing all the glory,
just the wrested stolen moment
of almost...
My Life had stood -- a Loaded Gun --
In Corners -- till a Day
The Owner passed -- identified --
And carried Me away --
And now We roam in Sovereign Woods --
And now We hunt the Doe --
And every time I speak for Him --
The Mountains straight reply --
And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow --
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through --
And when at Night -- Our good Day done --
I guard My Master's Head --
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow -- to have shared --
To foe of His -- I'm deadly foe --
None stir the second time --
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye --
Or an emphatic Thumb --
Though I than He -- may longer live
He longer must -- than I --
For I have but the power to kill,
Without -- the power to die --
Emily Dickinson
Sometimes i amuse myself by idle thoughts such as, what if Dickinson had met Van Gogh, could the two of them really understand each other.....i dunno.
Van Gogh turning his face
to the alter of the sun
stared long at the cyclops's
fearsom eye, following
the light trying
to see beyond glory
without losing his sight
hearing only half
the reply to his questions
he paid [for his] attention
to the words
with a carefully cocked ear,
tasted the salty days
and absinthe evenings that
squeezed [him] for answers,
kept faith with the silence
haloed starry nights
and painted the echoes
that followed the gun.
longing
for solitude
she sat
in a small salon
of saffron silks
and plum velvet
sunsets
reflected
light
breeds
imperfect love
golden dragon wings
prolong the breeze
like bamboo flower sighs
gay paper lanterns
flutter over a sunset path
protecting against the time
when lotus blossom clouds
fade through mauve
to midnight
By Camachee
This poem remains my favorite. From the old days in the B room.
That is indeed, a beautiful work. I have always liked that one too. Thank you for reposting it. Here is another one I have always liked
WHILE THE RAIN IS EASY
Winds are hard to recreate
Once cast
by Neuromancer
Still sometimes....
rain whispers
slippers on the mat
step inside
moonlit silent screen
nandina fingers sign
deft shadow music.
the kettle sings
tea in the mountain’s shadow
clouds descend.
warm leaves
fall blankets
cold footed trees
broken latch
gate swings
wanting closure
windows darken
crows call from the roof
feathers on snow.
I like that, too. The beauty of having a muse is that stuff just passes through and you are free to exercise judgment and perception after the fact.
A lot of people just feel that that's a good description of being drunk. :O)
she shuddered
a child's pleasurable
shiver
watching
a silent sentinel
appraise
her arrival
black leather
nights
framed in
frozen rain
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