A Christmas tree without the cheer
of kin close by to hold you near,
is just a mass of dying spruce
that lost its life in winter’s noose.
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Category Archives: formal poetry
We May Sleep
Wilting where willows weep,
minute malachite mendicants measure
summer’s sultry season softly.
summer standing
Mad summer’s face shall quickly fall,
when autumn shows its cheek.
For now, I wear a sylvan shawl
and wait for leaves to speak.
Excerpt from PotPP
Outside our town there was a glade
where coats of comely mallow swayed.
Their beauty made the billows weep
and caused blithe bumblebees to leap
upon those vivid violet thrones
to gather dusty yellow stones.
The wooers chose that pretty place
to slyly bask in joy’s embrace.
Each morning at the stroke of nine
they hurried past the prickly pine
to wallow in warm waiting arms
and revel in each other’s charms.
______________________________
“Plight of the Peevish Peddler” is a 2,360 word narrative poem, written in iambic tetrameter that I wrote about a year and a half ago. This excerpt is from the poem’s second section.
untitled
Your life belongs to you alone;
beware of pointing blame.
To wretchedness that you have sown,
you must affix your name.
Wedding March
Over glowing glass,
broken feet beckon shyly,
fearful of impassioned paths.
Wisteria hair
stumbles against broad shoulders,
steeped in the heat of her flame.
untitled
Go tell it on the mountain, dear,
before the sun departs,
for fearful songs shall soon appear
within our quaking hearts.
Cinquain/LXXXIV
tanks creep
through silent street,
for we have gone to sleep,
and cannot wake up to defeat
the fleet
untitled
explore this planet if you can
to understand your fellow man,
for hearts are stitched from common thread
and mix their dust when they are dead
Striking Out
Please claim the words that will fix this home.
Please-do it now-before I walk away.
The wolves of December slice silence from my skin
and carry it towards a vast, foreboding sky.
Guttural whimpers herald a welcome separation.
Still, my heart hungers for our flame.
Do you remember lighting that flame?
We were so young and so very far from home.
That day, now stained in memory, was a critical separation.
We loped further and further away
from wisdom until we stopped under a counterfeit sky.
Unlike now, I could not recognize your skin.
Pale as pearl was my once youthful skin.
Yet, beneath your body, I was a garnet flame.
Nothing could stop us…not even the sky.
Here, beside my beloved fig trees, we fashioned a home
and tucked it neatly away
inside a perfect storm of separation.
But within our peaceful tempest sprouted a sinister separation.
Night after night, it gnawed at my amaranthine skin.
Wounds will melt away
with spring’s advent; an all-consuming flame
shall continue to warm your home.
Or, so I was instructed by a cunning sky.
Tonight, I plead with a most impotent sky,
asking for a final stroke of separation
to raze the awful duplicity of our home.
Bleak answers from heaven soak my skin.
They extinguish my wavering flame.
From my side, you step away.
I too, slink silently away,
forsaking the walls and suffocating sky
which fomented our separation.
A few miles down the road a flame
from a streetlamp shines upon my skin.
I seek out a more loving home.
A buoyant flame emerges from separation.
It burns brilliantly, far away from that dilapidated sky.
Only within this skin, am I home.
