|
|
|
|
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 6/1/2007 4:57:47 PM | Damn Roses
No matter which window I stand before,
the view's the same-withered roses.
To be sure, I cared for each:
Never planting more than one,
and at the proper depth,
using a rich loam,
but not too rich,
water, kind words: hours
lavished on individual plants.
Over the years, I've spawned
a glorious harvest...Of course,
friends encourage me to persist,
in what seems, an insane pursuit--
the lawn's a crowded graveyard!
I should unearth a new undertaking--
golf, for instance, or perhaps, solitaire. | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 6/6/2007 10:38:43 AM | Tristram and Isolde
I
In perfumed garden
grows a tree of true love
and upon its boughs
a couple play, smiling
and sighing, hearts captive
to each others' gaze,
drunk with desire,
swinging limb to limb,
drinking each flower's bouquet,
until reeling from drink
too heady and best sipped
not quaffed, they topple
end over end, cracking
though branches,
thudding to earth
Where blossom’s bloom
create a blanket,
to cushion their fall,
and they dance
in a waking dream,
or dream of waking
in a dance where romance
lasts beyond where,
beyond when, in a place
where the wind
plays a song
upon garden's leaves--
they don't know where;
they don't know when,
but the song sings true
love heals broken hearts,
no matter what the ache,
no matter what the sorrow,
its tune echoes tomorrow
will find you with hope
and will place a rope
knotted and ready to climb
one end tied to true love's limb.
II
In this question of true love,
he quested so long and hard,
having thought it but a myth
and now he wakes,
as if from a dream
to find himself
almost young again.
From where and when did
this armor come again?
He was but sure
it was all rusty,
battered and tattered
dented dinged--with holes
and gouges, ragged,
as ragged could be—
a sword once bright
chipped and jagged,
pommel worn smooth
and hilt all hacked,
and now, he who had no liege,
has found a queen so kind
she would clothe him anew!
A queen with a heart
who beneath a blue moon
did dance where the wine
they drank amidst the heady
nectar from the perfumed garden
of earthly delight caused
this fantasy's flight
of dreams and dance--
oh so sweet to find romance!
III
Does he wake?
Does he dream?
Is it real--this
haloed moon, blood
red and dim?
Casting eyes
to east and west,
north and south
no vision of his
queen does he find.
Lifting voice
he cries her name:
upon distant shore
it echoes in cadence
with waves thundering,
on a far away beach;
his heart sighs,
drumming in time
to crashing waves.
Within he seeks
true loves direction--
his heart's compass
points south by southwest.
Upon sun baked plain
his feet trod--step
by step, he passes
false love's mirage,
cursing the foul
sprite' evil spell
that transported him
to this place, his hell--
where armies collided,
rolled, and disappeared
in distant memory.
Past his own ghosts
he crosses enchantments
and listens for her voice
to rise about the rest,
a serenade of true love
he would hear, one most
dear: Hope against hope
he will find her,
with or without horse,
Sing my love, sing,
For it is by your song
I will know where
true love resides,
to your castle, your arms
I long to be: sing me away
from this distant sea.
IV
After many a weary mile
he comes to castle true
to find the walls deserted,
the hall still, the soldiers'
lips blue from noxious liquor—
a sign of Evil King Mark,
a cowardly poisoned prefers
stealth to manly arms upright.
This king, this king shall
soon know the sword's song
ringing upon his fearful brows.
Rage, rage, deep and dark,
fierce beats his heart
against this king, this thief
who stole into true loves
castle. There shall neither
be peace, nor joy, nor rest
until true love's gaze
gazes into his eyes again.
With grim purpose, grim knight
stalks from these halls
to stable--across the glens
hooves ring--a foreshadow
of steel against steel
till he reels with his true
love once more, arm in arm.
V
No lark this, but if a song
is sung be it dark and raging,
like me stalking enemy halls,
blade bare, blood stained,
steel ringing against steel
until not one who dared
touch my true love
draws breath! Enchanted
though she is, spells
die with enchanting mage:
And though the battle
rage in dark halls
where grim foe
drowns in his own
life's blood will larks
sing another tune!
Not silent, not still:
No sphinx he,
his emotions play
upon his face. Oh, yes,
this tower will he
wreck, and scour
until each and everyone
pays the blood price due,
and his true love be free
of shackle and fetter,
of link and chain--
till in his arms
she cling again. Her
hearts beat singing
in harmony with his
Hooves flash and sword swings,
shield lifts and arrow thuds
into it. And into their midst
he rides while archer gazes
down from tower, and growls
in frustration--horse and
rider collide with guards,
bowling them end over end.
With flat of sword, he
whacks them to and fro
until they fall back,
some fleeing, others crying;
He leaps from horse--
with sword's pommel
and shield he beats
them back and shoulders
tower door open, spinning
into the dark room
and with foot and knee,
sword and shield, he
begins to beat them
into submission, amidst
their groans and cries,
he laughs and sings out
to the archer--come down
or burn--your choice.
And now my boys,
who will tell me
where King Mark has
taken my true love?
In the swirling chaos
of smoke and fire,
of steel and blood,
a lone raven cries
a queens' tale
of true love lost,
of true love hoped
for, of true love
to be found; this
siren's song he hears
and mounts his mount
to follow its voice
to find his true love.
VI
In a night so dark
not even the stars
distant flicker may
be seen, he follows
raven’s cry to tower
high where men skulk
behind battlements
and doors of oak.
With blade blackened
and sans armor, he
scales wall with rope
and padded feet.
Slowly he moves
from door to door,
listening for the raven’s
cry and when he hears
that telling caw, he slips
into the room. His love
tied to bed struggles
and cries though gag
as he pads into room
where men lurk
behind tapestries.
Uncaring, he rushes
to her when sound
of steel swishes
through air—he rolls
across bed, blade
dancing to blade.
Steel rings upon steel,
and men’s breath rasp
and gasp, in this labor
of love and death;
parry and thrust,
counter and strike,
pommel and fist
knee and edge
crunch into flesh,
but in this dance
Tristram leads,
and his blade
first to caress this
unwanted partner.
One by one they
fall, until only he
and his true love
remain. Losing her
they leave tower
and flee into night,
flee to a new life
flee from a world
old and dark to one
clean and bright,
where love’s
beacon calls to all
travelers come hither! | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 6/6/2007 11:31:56 AM | Lucky for me a careful reader caught one of my more heinous errors:(and a thank you!!!! to Jer. This only goes to prove writing is the work of many,many hands....)
The last part of 6 should read:
remain. Loosing her
they leave tower
and flee into night,
flee to a new life
flee from a world
old and dark to one
clean and bright,
where love’s
beacon calls to all
travelers come hither! | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 6/6/2007 9:59:41 PM | Prayer
No Peace comes with spring,
its rain flowering memories
best left dormant.
I pray for drought. No use.
For solace I straddle motorcycle
and hurl through the night,
lightning's tattered edge
lighting my way...
Upon heaven's screen,
visions of battlements
and skycars flicker
like barroom love.
And amidst this hell,
prayer's answer
nods with the needle
of raindrops.
Wrenching throttle,
I up dosage,
motor thundering
toward another barroom
rose planted... | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 6/7/2007 4:02:23 AM | What gets to me is the sense of plain speech with the heft of a man's heart behind it.
| |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 6/10/2007 4:52:56 PM | :)
Thank you, Jer.
I try to make it accessible. Someday I hope to write a poem that rewards the reader with a fresh insight upon each reading--someday. | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 6/16/2007 11:04:21 AM | Burned to Memory
Burned to memory
like acid etched
portraits, images
of the vultures
feasting off
emotional turmoil
while disguised
as comforting
angels: oh, let's
talk they will say
but there is no
comfort in talk--
not for a man,
at least. I see
their faces masked
with false concern;
but beneath the desire
lurks their need to spread
a banquet of gossip
which rages like fire
over dry timber.
Burned to memory,
I still see her--
the one who
understood.
She didn't sit
or talk or listen;
her comfort came
in deed, again
and again in waves
of physical release.
How sweet the sound
of her song’s pleasure
assuaging my pain.
How sweet her arms
wrapped round me
in the night's
shadow where memory
lurks for those
who only talk,
those whose honesty
is dishonesty. | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 6/17/2007 2:21:34 AM | Hi, Ding.... Something in your poem above inspired this. No idea why. It's an entirely different thing. :) Only "memories" to connect the two. Hope you don't mind me leaving it here....
Memories of Berlin
.
sitting in a darkened room
watching and listening
the names of the victims
emerge from history
and become part of the present
it will take more than
six and a half years
to read all the names
how can i leave
before it's finished?
. | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 6/17/2007 7:40:49 AM | Please do!
Thank you for sharing memories.
:) | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 6/18/2007 8:47:52 AM | Hiya Ding,
Just found your thread, thought I would leave a little diddy!!
Hope all is well!!!!!
Finally this week
My house is quiet
Back to normal
No rival riot
All the extra kids
Have gone back home
Now there’s more space
To freely roam………
Sam | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 6/18/2007 5:38:02 PM | Thank you, Mari.
You rock!
I appreciate both the poem and the help.
:) | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 6/24/2007 6:27:34 PM | Po
Let's rewind this movie
to a lost yesterday,
where farewells held
no menacing permanence,
or pretend we're actors
whose script calls
for no airplane.
Listen, I don't understand
this yin to leave--
it's almost light outside. | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 6/30/2007 8:10:56 PM | Secret
I would pretend
to be your secret
admirer but we
both know how
badly that would
fair--some wag
would expose
our love letters,
publish them
on the WWW
for all to read
and then our
secret would
be secret no
more! Oh, to
be sure, we
could continue
to kiss when
none are gazing
upon our closet
cuddling, but girl--
it is time we
allow our lips
to linger in public!
Am I so wretched
that your shame
would keep us apart?
No, let our secret
be secret no more! | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 7/5/2007 9:32:17 PM | Hi, dinged. I'm enjoying your latest entries, the stylings both casual yet artful. | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 7/5/2007 9:39:21 PM | Thank you, Rory!
:)
Matchless
Gathering dust
and cobwebs
on a table of mated
knick-knacks,
a lone salt shaker
hosts hostesses’
well-intended shuffle
of odd ornaments,
an endless array
of near misses:
some too tall,
others too thick,
all too something,
none sparking
that spontaneous
combustion
of perfect match. | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 7/6/2007 3:45:41 AM | .
regret
.
remnants of past achievements
commemorated with engraved offerings...
drab photos in dusty frames...
faces that no one remembers
a heart heavy with regret...
dredged-up sorrows
that he can't forget
and he worries over
choices not made
paths not taken
patterns disconnected
memories uncollected
. | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 7/6/2007 4:12:52 AM | it is time we
allow our lips
to linger in public!
I love the whole of this as I suspect I might even love your shopping list, but the above lines are especially dear to me. The power of unprettified, honest speech!
| |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 7/6/2007 7:50:33 PM | Cd, thank you for sharing--that was wonderful.
Jer, thank you! That means a lot to me. Glad you enjoyed the use of language.
:) | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 7/17/2007 2:24:04 PM | Abortion
A spontaneous abortion,
my brother's umbilical cord
knotted about his throat
and his twisting
and struggling,
strangled him
At birth, dead and blue,
we moved him to a womb
of dark earth to sleep
until a new life calls.
I, too, am an abortion--
birthed into God
and his church,
strangled by lies
and half truths told
to deceive me like
an oxen ever chasing
the grain bundle just
out of reach. Ah,
these ambassadors
of Christ promise
but never deliver.
Too long I struggled,
waiting for the promises,
hoping each and every
day that God would
prevail and grant
His promises, that
His word would be real.
And each day disappointed.
Like Elijah I prayed for the
rain of heaven, but where
he saw a cloud of promise,
I see only clear sky.
Now, I too, await a new
birth in the dark womb
of this life's sleepwalk--
dead, murdered,
walking corpse,
a tombstone
testifying to how
the bride aborted me. | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 7/18/2007 4:01:21 AM | | Raw, painful, powerful..... Awesome write.... Wow. | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 7/18/2007 5:23:28 PM | Thank you! I appreciate that, cd.
Ding | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 7/20/2007 5:02:55 PM | Dachau
--Worley Wicker
Christ! It was cold, and we hadn’t slept
or tasted hot food in days. Old Blood’n’Guts
was afire to win the war first, and wouldn’t
bother with the minor comforts. Maybe it
was just as well. Long before we spied barbed
wire, we smelled the camp. Sometimes, late
at night, I wake with the stench of burnt bodies
ghosting memory—it’s not something a body
forgets, try as a body might. Or the skin
clad skeletons stacked roof high or the bony
hands reaching through the wire. Not standing
on formality, we rounded up those black shirted
**stards and shot near a hundred of them
before arming prisoners with entrenching tools,
and bayonets—we figured it was a fair enough
fight, and would’ve killed all those lightning
warriors, but our gutless officers stopped us.
We made some of them pay, by God, we did. | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 8/1/2007 7:52:15 PM | Sound Barrier
Past window's portrait
of stubbled fields, we
ride in a silence
the radio's built
between us. I try
to free her eyes
but she stares ahead,
her lips fastened
down as her hand
locks sound up.
Through bars of music,
I peer, it keys mocking
my words poor saw
rasping uselessly
against this still prison. | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 8/4/2007 9:20:44 PM | Morning Light
I miss us when the morning light
first pours through bedroom
window, when the mockingbirds
play their evening symphony,
when spring's thaw draws
wildflowers from the ground,
when autumn leaves fire the sky,
when snow envelopes dying earth!
Your memory lingers like wood
smoke. I can almost feel your
hand in mine, and then, like
morning clock's startling
revelation, I wake from this
dream to life's nightmare,
and know that you are gone
forever to a place I'll never go. | |
|
| Prism Psalms
Posted: 8/5/2007 5:04:10 AM | Lovely, DA. I especially liked....
Your memory lingers like wood
smoke.
Thanks! | |
|
|
|
Home
login 
