As the snow twirls down
the flares rise
pirouetting dancers
roseate cast
falling, thousands
like parachutes
upon steeled heads
of plumed breath
to eyes drunk
of death
seen
dreamed
and often
wished nay prayed
and still they rise
these foreign lanterns
as still they fall
these whirling skirts
a cold tease
before blooming noses;
upon hell's lake
they will come
in the prepubescent dawn
a gray mass, quiet
as the heartbeat
in our ears
as the drumbeat
on chested metal
as courage found
in the shoulder beside
as a woman
whose lips
consumed me
whole
as I fell this night
into her eyes
just as then
those flakes
softly
came down
heaven's pillow
preparing ground
10 comments:
pirouetting dancers
roseate cast
I've had the privelege of spending much time on Sanibel Island in Florida. There resides a large flock of bachelor roseate spoonbills. To watch them feed when the tidewaters rise in the Ding Darling Preserve . . .
pirouetting dancers
roseate cast
Not at all where you were going - just the place where I was taken by your words taken out of context.
Lime, the beauty of poetry is that the ticket is open-ended. It pleases me you took should a pleasant destination. :-)
Your writing is just simply exquisite.
You condense the mark, yet remain so powerful. One is moved in whorls by the language, the structure takes you to plummet, then the ending breaks you, not once, but twice.
S., you are kind in the way a candle is kind, in the way wine eased the day, like firm hands on the shoulders. Thank you. :-)
The images: electronic parrots.
Lime, I love the way you see. :-)
My senses are drenched, am drowing in wow, once ashore, I will return once more.
Sweet dreams. I'll be patiently waiting for you to come ashore. :-D
I drown within each time that I read it, your words like waves cleasing of anything but an overwhelming appreciation, and I could swear there are sparks flying from my eyes as I intake word upon word, sparks flying from my mind as they skate along the channels of my understanding, of my ability to soak up the sway of sound and meaning, it feels like being shot through a tunnel, propelled with such force the alarming thought occurs, regardless of the implausibility of it, one might rupture. The only thing I can compare it to is that moment when merry becomes drunk, when one falls back into oneself, when one can no longer remain and there is a clawing for stability. Like stepping stones across a river, one leaps from one visual to the next, arresting, stunning. As my heart longs to see Cape Reinga and Brandywine Falls and a hundred thousand other places because I know already without having seen how they will fill and cover, how places and moments and people have already done so, Decadent Traquility is a ticket, a guaranteed ticket, no need of try before buy, soul-filling, consummate, awe-inspiring, breathtaking artistry. The kind of beauty that is only found in nature, of land, of heart. I fear I've made no sense whatsoever, but if you have heard nothing over the crash of waves I hope that you heard the appreciation of being able to behold.
This poem does have a certain hypnotic allure that I can't quite put my finger on, almost like gentle waves lapping a small boat in the warm summer sun. So glad you enjoyed this one. I'd like to hear more from his point of view, this being the first and only so far in the 1944 series.
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