¶ Purgatorio, Commedia II ⎟ PEA

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There was a time, dear, when
I was led by poets of yore
Through mountainous terrains,
penitent mourners, and the
sins they had cast.
I ascended the Spanish Steps
Heaving sonnets and verse,
trying to find my way to
Love.

On candlelit nights, sweet
with the scent of burning pipes,
You filled my belly with stories,
Rich fruit plucked from fearsome trees;
I seized hold of your words,
Clutching at them, catching at them,
like swirling smoke in my hands.

Seeds grew in my belly,
Ripe apples, plums, pomegranates, and
Intoxicating lyrics that inebriate
reason.
I swooned to your hymn,
And danced in the shadows cast
by the crackling, luminescent fire.

Captive and captivated by your presence,
I lapsed, malnourished,
on a diet of life and knowledge,
Our Hellenic silhouettes dancing upon the wall:
the only truth to comprehend
the only truth of love
the only truth
the only truth
that I may see.

The poets led me past my sins,
and I saw the pain and suffering
that we endure for the pleasure
of proving our devotion,
hoping our wickednesses
will be understood
and forgiven on the alter of
passion,
by one who loves us
completely.

Here I stand, alone,
atop the Spanish Steps,
chilled with
the fire of earthly desires,
I hold handfuls of water
and sand,
fathoming the
steadfast nature of
your fickle love.
–fin

giphy3

Wordplay Xx

 

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Clasp at the moon and drink in the stars

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Recall the words you’ve read, well and true,
For, one day, they’ll be asked of you,
Chime them back with zeal and truth,
Memory is a frivolous quality of youth,

She enchanted lines and sang with grace,
In her, words sweetly dance and deeply embrace,
To memorize the words of those before,
Was something she had little, anymore,

She hid in fear of being found out,
Imagining they’d wonder just what she was about,
But, to her, phrases were not so easily memorised, 
For, they oft took on many a subtle disguise,

And phrases are not just words stacked together,
There are letters that are joined and tethered,
Sounds and magic combine to depict,
Those rascally words that you’ve picked.

Beneath those letters matter is revealed,
Elemental truths, spiraled and congealed,
Sup at the table of earthly delights,
There you’ll find words oft lost in the night,

Like stars appear bland in the sky full of clouds,
Words seem silent until they are shouted out loud,
Swirling in murky desires and forgotten wars,
Droned and confused by many a chauvinistic bore,

Beguiled by journey and distant arrivals,
Penning words to challenge and surreptitiously rival, 
Climbing over letters only to stumble in brambles,
Choosing slow contrition over which we amble,

Blow away the fog before your eyes,
Reach and look towards the night skies,
Clasp at the moon and drink in the stars,
For these particular words are ours.

Fear; A Love Story

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Our feet moved slowly through the centre of the road,
Our eyes stared star-ward, we watched as they glowed,
The moon hung, suspended in our deepest belief,
As the signs of autumn wore away with the last falling leaf,

Darkness engendered the fear that tugged us to stop and glance.
Wondering, if, in the face of danger, we stood a fair chance,
Apart, but together, our minds crawled doggedly on,
Inwardly guessing how long those stars actually shone,

A stalemate of stillness awaits the mallet to sound,
Withal, reticence persisted as, in silence, we drowned,
Onwards and inwards we search for nourishment, 
Sought after dreams of smiles and encouragement,

I cite history as the source of my displeasure,
Awaiting the sign, which, of course, is your leisure,
Recall, that time flees the scene of the crime, 
Just as the poet chimes perfectly posed rhymes,

Intellectualize and sexualize the words on the page,
More often than not, this is our calamitous plague,
Equilibrium vets the provocateur and jets the esoteric, 
Monotonous ages of desire, thus, eclipsed by a titillating philosophic,

The brightest body we see is a reflecting body, mostly cast in shadow,
Reminding us of fairy stories told oft once, long, long ago,
Truth is obscure, abstracted, and loftily denied,
Morals are clear and craftily contrived.

Once upon a time, they reached their happily ever after,
The crowd cheered, resonating their lust to the rafters,
Fairy stories make-believe the love we wish to be,
For, only young artists sing songs of such courage and bravery.

Scenes laid before the humble philosopher-queen,
The jouissance of questioning what it is to have been,
To be, to we, we are, I am–the syntax, the grammar, the allegory,
Couplet and Capulet, troubled and toiled, tell this duel-householder story,

The visions collapse as sisters disperse to quaff coveted goblets of brine,
Whilst, above, the suspended apparition of the sandman shines,
Reminded of the laboured movements that idle our hearts,
Wondering, still, if it is us, who Eros eternally thwarts,

The noise in the shadows leaps forth from our throats,
Equal in horror to no other sound this author had wrote,
Fretted in terror by things of the hoary night,
Reminded, in banality, that this fear, I did write.

A Hand at Love

And when I kissed your lips gently still,
Tilting my head back, drinking my fill,
Ruffling my hands through your downy hair,
Not breaking for a moment, our deep-passioned stare.

Cold air pressed over our shy skin; chattering bones,
Punctuated moments coloured with sky’s changing tones,
Hand in hand, my fingers still rigidly cold,
Can we stay like this until we’re older than old?

Wretched bodies entwined and entangled sinew by sinew,
Etched outlines of life lines as lady history continues,
To stretch and breathe anew the ache of love’s first kiss,
Halted by fear; curious by design; lastingly engendered bliss.

Warmth that begins from deep down inside; burgeoning with joy,
Reposed but electrified by this creative power that destroys,
Gentle moments that impact a lifetime of meaning,
Taking the air from my soul, you keep me breathing.

Blossoms have yet to be kissed so gently by the morning sun,
Young lovers have not learned to conceal the love they’ve begun,
Drinking in passion’s ambrosia, the sweet nectar of youth’s fires,
Tranquility in stolen moments whilst cupid and venus conspire,

Lovers lost in the deepest maze of tender enrapture,
Safe in the lands of love’s perplexing and phantasmic allure,
Hand in hand, our love makes us courageously bold,
Let’s stay! Stay like this until we’re older than old!

~fin

Whereupon I was Abruptly Awake…

It was safe and warm; languished and determined.
The darkness was omnipresent, and it was welcomed,
Lo!              A start from the heavens cracked through the air,
Throwing souls into Styx without the slightest care.

Towards the skies fearful voices shrilled,
Awaiting irresolute dark prophecies to be fulfilled,
Moaning mothers with lost children cried,
No tears; no wet faces; cries with eyes dried.

Fear enveloped slumbers that were comfort thus,
Crackling ice; relentlessly giving away Nature’s trust,
Warmth ebbs at the door of tears and wretchedness,
As though we were waiting for God nonetheless,

Bellows of water crash through the scene,
Ice crystals like diamonds shimmer and gleam,
Sublime; maleness; sweat and desire; 
Piercing my heart with a soft-whispered fire.

S t i l l n e s s …

with warmth

Notes spring forth; birds of a feather,
Freeing our minds from fear’s heavy fetters,
Grasping to hope and clinging deftly to bravery,
Submerged in the now gentle waves of imagin’ry.

Sweetness to taste the Dionysian  phantasm,
Angst and serenity divided by frightful chasm,
Hold my trembling hand up to your reflection,
Telling with touch and tender distraction.

Sleep sweet angel, who fears the starless night,
Whose wings won’t melt as you fly without fright,
Into the heavens, towards Apollo’s first light,
Mirth filling your soul with cared-for delight.

~~ fin

An experiment in Romantic Poetry; or Autobiographical Phantasm

An experiment in Romantic Poetry; 

or Autobiographical Phantasm

The darkness marches on swiftly falling droplets,

Echoing days of old, whispering sadly epithets,

Indiscrete harmony accompanies chilling melody,

Drinking casks of wine that have aged splendidly,

Consumptively desirous of the lighted days of old

When the sun shone and fairies danced, all was but cold,

Follow the light, dear lady, sweetly drinking nectar,

Catch your reflection, my beautiful muse⎯you are

One hundred times young, four thousand times lovely,

Five acres of freshly tall wheat, and you, alone, belong with me,

Ne’er leave my side for kingdoms will come, and go,

Oh they will go, but just say you’ll stay here, say it is so!

The rays upon your chameleon body alight your mood,

Instantaneous glimpses of your ever-changing to elude,

The men who have sought to capture your present in their past,

Those charlatans did not know that you were not theirs to cast

In nets for fish, my mermaid of the seas and oceans forthwith,

My angel of sunshine, you wander the world inspiring wondrous myth,

The darkest of the waters contrast with your mind’s light,

The moodiness of your years, oh! they bring such delight,

The gods bow to their knees upon whispers that echo your name,

Curling and dancing with the nymphs, ne’er to be tamed,

Oh loveliest of lovelies, duckling of nebulous desires,

You order the realms with grace, soaring mine ecstasy higher

than even the tallest church spires.

~fin

Pebbled Dreams

In a tower far away, pebbles accelerate as they burst in short babbles out of the highest window.  Legend affirms they are the earthy-frozen representations of the joyful tears of the maiden who lives amongst the fairies that guard her eternally.  These fairies, who are often confused for snowflakes and icicles, make the tower a spectacle worth watching.  As people watch an icy haze swallow the tallest tower consumptively they fail to observe that the pebbles land in the small well below.  To the captive above it is a wishing-well, to the captivated below she is a goddess who will sweep among the people curing diseases, inspiring virility, commanding purity.  Both parties understand each other in mystical terms that seem fantastically true.  The pebbles still cascade, in a not-so cascading way.  The intimacy of the pebble falling into the water provides reality to the captive’s desires; as the water embraces the stone it immediately consumes it with great hunger simultaneously quenching the pebble’s thirst.

One fairy glistens brightest of all.  Her beauty is said to be a minute reflection of the great beauty held within.  What the many fail to realize is that they understand the beauty within to be the maiden’s beauty-of-out.  This dream is attractive, as is, they affirm, the maiden.  Her form appears to them in sleep; she is intangible.  She whispers and sings to willow trees, who weep to know her.  They bow eternally in reverence to the sunshine she bestows upon them.  She dances upon river-tops, providing zealous and racing life to the waters around, keeping them fresh and voluminous.  They never imagine her to be sad.  That is something they do not recognize in relation to the maiden; for, she provides such joy to her blissful audience that they always smile at her everlasting presence.

As the captive stares out from wide windows that hide all but an outline to the people, she reaches out desirously towards the trees.  She sees one pair upon a lazy hill, where lovers meet, entangled from their roots into delicious knots.  Bees harmoniously buzz providing a gentle nestling ground for lovers to feast in one another’s presence.  The captivated watch deliriously as she blesses lovers and brings them heavenliness lifelong.  But darkness.  She has closed her eyes.  Arm stretched forth.  Dreaming.  Never saddened, no.  The crisp air that reaches her opens her lungs as she deeply consumes its freshness.  The beauty she see below always makes her smile with joy.  Perhaps, her role is necessary, she ponders as she eats iced, mallowed-honeyed-dew.  Numa prescribed her role many suns ago; the moon has remained infinitely.  Alone, yet united in a mirrored prescription that, in its nature, provides a substantial and satiating description of hope realized and desire imbibed.

~fin