(no subject)

[spoke]

partly because i feel like it, and partly because i feel like i've been bouncing between chicken and whiny lately.

when i'm not going "ooh, and this and this and this so many things to try -whee!"

some of my poems, ones that i like and some that are also examples of patterns i fall into, since i've only occasionally tried traditional forms.

curse upon gold

ornate

golden

in the palace rooms,
the ringing of a distant gong echoes

the song it plays
is in mourning
for she who lies upon the gold

perfume

golden cloth

upon the dagger's blade,
blood is the only break in the color

i don't know, it just showed up that way...

brocade

mist curls around the castle,
wreathing turrent,
tower and wall
quietly as whispering
so as not to wake the princess,
who is dreaming of dragons
with broken treasures at thier feet
melted crowns and scattered shields
and flaws in fractured gems.
entertwined the mated pair lies
where all in shattered pieces,
lies the broken blade
and in a quiet corner
flesh has long faded
from the bones and armor
of a brave and foolish knight.
mist curls softly 'round
the fragile fractures in her dreams
and blankets all the castle
to keep her safe in sleep

and this is where the paper arts and the poetry start to merge, because i want to be able to make a sort of frame for this, all dark blues and grays and blacks, with broken swords and gems and things in it. centered down the page...

born of stellar fires

first
a pinprick of matter.
a drop, a pearl of stone
in the great vast reaches,
in the empty places.

second,
a fall into fire.
the great stellar furnace
wraps its loving heat
about the sleeping soul within

third,
a drifting outward.
from the mother's fiery embrace
a slow solidifying of a form
that before moved in the splendor of liquid heat

fourth
the touch of stellar winds,
to buffet the growing stone
to drive the very memory of heat
from fragile new formed scales

fifth
a piercing of innocent atmosphere,
a brief exquisite touch of heat
until the shell cracks in splendor
and newborn eyes are greeted with disappointing mist

sixth,
the rage of a soul betrayed
by careless fleeting circumstance
brought to such inhospitable shores
where never is there proper warmth

and a cold sun mocks, ever distant
giving only touches of heat,
to her own frail children

because i was waiting in the car for my dad once, and started to wonder how dragons could breathe fire when they're so often depicted (at least in the Arthurian type legends where i first encountered them) as cold blooded lizards.

golden cicadas

weaving through the trees,
sing a simple song
weaving through the trees
from daylight into dawn

from moonlight into night
in the manner of magic things
fly thee now on golden wings,
weaving there a spell for me

a spell to lead me to your world
a spell to set me free
that i might join in your flight,
the flight of the golden wings

there, flashing in the moon or sunlight
in glory shall i ever be,
with a mate of magic by my side,
the two of us carried on golden wings

there's another poem that goes with this, apparently i haven't typed it up yet. legends about changelings, and fairy/demon lovers, and a little gold-colored cicada sweater-hugger pin i picked up once. this is also a pattern i used to fall into a lot; not so much now, but when i do they're much better. (not than this in particular, just that i've improved)

In The Glade Of Seven Trees

The silhouttes of seven trees
glow in the glade of hidden dreams

It fills the light with new wondering
and I cannot understanding what it means

I only feel I must reach the glade
where the silhouettes of seven waves

Where the silent circle of life
is creating some strange, powerful gate

Hidden in the night of seven trees,
destiny is pulling at me

i don't know what these are. they come and go, but it's a fairly persistent pattern.

tweleve willows

one willow by the water
one willow by the door
one willow in the attic,
creeping up through the floor
one willow by the tombstone
one willow by the road
one willow in my dreams
wherever i may go
one willow by the train tracks
one willow by the pines
one willow in every story
that i will leave behind
one willow on the plain
one willow in front of me
as i stand in the rain

brief obession with counting rhymes. (though i still try them from time to time.) (um, that just rhymed on its own. *raises eyebrow*)

seeker on the southern seas

seeker on the southern seas,
follow the dreams, come to me.
ignore the mountains to the west;
here in the north is your final test,
forged in scales and pale green fire.
come to me, hero, and end the desire
the constant pull upon your dreams,
oh seeker on the southern seas.


dark water

shadowed valleys beckon
in the lightless realm of dreams
as a fall of madness pours down
from some dark forgotten stream
where creatures born of its waters
wait for hopeless, helpless prey
and the scream of death is swallowed
laughter's sound quite drowned away

constant pattern, and what most often happens when i try to rewrite a really old poem. way too many of them were stretched out, i guess.