Poemetry: She Lies

She laughs and sings and dances in rings.

She writes poems about life and meeting her knight.

She lies.

She smiles and prays for promises made.

She says she’s fine and that she’s alright.

She lies.

She doesn’t feel alone, that she’s on her own.

She doesn’t cut or consider suicide.

She lies.

Poemetry: Unspoken

Beauty or Death or Hate or Love,

which purchases my silence for you?

Not one, nor two, nor four, but three.

A glance and all would count Beauty.

A word of mine and Love is true.

Forswear, though, Hate by God above.

What but Death is left to comprise

the hushes of my wordless voice?

Yes, dead, and silent in demise

for the tongue no more stills by choice.

Dead, soundless by stiffness of heart;

living, mute to adore your grace;

In both, buried by empty space

where past phrases limned oral art.

Three have seized the name two once spoke,

but despots die, the lifeless live,

and all that sleeps may be rewoke

if the unspoken we forgive.

Poemetry: Black Dress

She strode in wrapped by the star-sequined night,

of roiling black and flashing fireflies,

and starlit wonder raised me from the earth

into the glitter of a thousand skies.

The shine of a thousand thousands of stars,

that wink and blink in the synchronized dark,

dazed me, amazed me, but, familiar, found

the sidereal black shrunken and stark.

A dab, a dot, a thought, and a tittle,

by turn, waking, passing past the middle

to a newer, truer, adoration,

seducing my soul to spark and bristle.

From the dawn, night diverted my eyes

with perjuring promise of greater sight,

for it was a star, not stars, that I sought,

a slant of sun above the starlight.

A  million astral flickers, flecks, no more,

bright by contrast to dark but to day short

of her brilliance, of her luster, of her,

resign their reign to sit in her court.

So crowned by peers, she rises far above

the common radiance, the world draped dun

by her glowing gait — and soon no others

can be seen —, and bids all the world to come.

The rayless heavens are lit by her beams,

and by them all the earth begins to teem,

and, though once shrouded in sable, so is

my rayless heart illumined and agleam.

Poemetry: Mountainside

Amongst the crags, where nary a grass grows,

what I sought scarce I shall ever know,

my eyes beheld many a restful place

basking in the trail and mountain face.

A mountain goat dancing rock to rock was first

and entertained my eyes for a time,

but wearied saw the beast not best but worst

for each falsen step and guileful climb.

Flowers blue and white, five by five spangled

in ordered beauty, beset my mind with light,

but the blossoms were choked and tangled,

strangled by weeds and thistles twisting tight.

 At last, I saw the mount, and my search, cease.

The peak rose mighty in still, silent peace.

 I worshiped there with the clouds crowding it,

one with the zeph’rous host, turning to sit

for a time. Every morn since, every morn

yet to come, finds it by my mind reborn.

And on that day when I can count no more,

I shall see again that peak I adore.

Poemetry: Hope

How Thou art craven, worse than Thy twin Despair,

Hope; those Thou takest as ally and friend

take Thee as coward, though not by tongues’ penned

but by badged hearts do they Thy shame wear.

Yet, still splits Thy stupid smile unaware

and empty gleeful that the good Thou intends

be tainted toxic: Thy poison potions end

Thy namesake virtue and Thy patron’s prayer.

But then they disarm Thee that march Thee

to battle and host Thee but feed Thee naught,

boot Thee bootless and in their stead be shot

that they of torches and sunlight may live free,

and even in triumph betray Thee by coup,

but as Thou dies, so they with Thee die too.

Poemetry: A Song for my Daughter

Beneath the maple trees and snow-flecked leaves,

buried by spade and shovel, my fledgling girl,

with down and tremors wreathed,

was ready dressed in onyx and pearl.

So I will sing a song for my daughter,

a song for the daughter I could not save,

a lyric and melody that I taught her,

 and sing her into her grave.

Too soon branched, she fled the nest,

from father’s arms and mother’s breast,

shaking sick then suddenly still,

once to air by wing, now to rest,

resting within Winter’s quill.

So I will sing a song for my daughter,

a song for the daughter I could not save,

a lyric and melody that I taught her,

 and sing her into her grave.

Poemetry: If Today Were All

If today were all you had of life,

how many things would you change?

Would you chuckle a resigned sigh

and forget all life’s suffering strain?

Or would you fight with sword unsheathed

the remnants of your enemies,

slashing and stabbing their teethed

grins, bearing them the same destiny?

Would you weep at the sunset short,

knowing you saw it last descend?

Would you dance by moonlight once more,

leap and swing at the stars again?

 Would every hug from those you love

be enough to frame your heart in peace?

Would you hold on to only one

as a dream lingers upon sleep?

Would every blink be counted blessed

or blessed be numbered one blink pressed?