[x]

Disturbing the PeaceWomen in corsets
disturb the peace.

Mocking SkyThe Texas winter mocks
with dust instead of snow
and bare mesquite to testify with thorns
against a shred of weakness.

The Texas winter gusts
fiercely from the south -
grit on lips, in eyes, on tongues that wonder
where the deer drink.

The Texas winter sinks
in rust and blood and peaches
beneath the horizon. Sweetly, sweetly,
she sips the clouds.

The Texas winter clothes herself in cicada song,
and all the stars applaud.

InceptionBy the light of an oil-barrel fire, an idea takes form.
In the back of a mind, psychic and gamine, trains of
thought meet at a dirt-road intersection, four-way
stop, rays charge to intercept, travelling at exactly
three-quarters of the speed of light. The wide-eyed
ingenue with the lemon-puckered mouth cannot but
stare in wonder (wander) from behind a blast screen.

Orange and red, the autumn-coloured realisation
lacks a mushroom cloud or any higher pennant to
announce its nativity. The bright flash sucks back
with the noise of a deflating bladder – splat – to
hold itself secure in the knowledge of its own
singularity

MemoryI remember you, quiet man,
plaidly relieved against a backdrop
spangled with motes of starry dust.
I remember you, blue eyes,
all black socks and white sweater,
and the way you used to eat mayonnaise.
I made fun of you for that.
I remember you smiling,
no tubes, no pumps.

And in the blue room, I played a game,
pretending I could keep you here
as long as I stayed awake, imagining
my breath sustaining you-
in and out
in and out
in and out
and once more.
But my heart cramps,
and my eyes are sore,
and this is not so much a poem
as a thinly veiled prayer
that you still guard me as I sleep,
though open

Fortunato's Prayer

Lure me in with silk and gold,
beaded velvet, satin threads
drawn across lips still red with wine.

Draw me down beneath the world
into some secret, wanton lair
while Carnival still beats within our veins.

Wall me up behind the dark
and leave me with my silver chains
to think on wiles byzantine,

Montresor's bleak design.

VampireI never could refuse a drop of red
to wash down evenings thick with stress and strife -
I never did believe that love is dead,
but love can never quench my thirst for life.
Warm lips are fine, and roving, needy hands;
there's satisfaction in a single night.
I never cared much, though, for one-night stands,
when hundreds of forevers hover right
beneath your skin. Before the sun appears,
I'll hush your frantic heart and drink your fears.

Waking from the DeadIt was like waking from a nightmare, an endless dream of fire and blood. Two miles of guns flashed behind my eyelids, six score horses screamed and reared, and men ran. The musket ball ripped through my belly again and again, and another split Jarosław’s head like an over-ripe melon. There was night, many nights, and there were miles and thorns and rocks and the slow easiness that heralded my death.
That was when the pain came, drowning me, searing me, consuming me. There were dreams at first, as though the battle had never ended, but as the pain grew, it blotted out all else, and I had at least a little peace of mind while my body was being torn asunder. There were voices as well, swelling and ebbing wordlessly beneath the roaring in my ears. I heard my brothers, daughters, wife, whispering amidst the death cries of soldiers and students, a low murmur like the echoes in a hallway in a place I had once known, and a few I could not recognize, speaking soft and low as thoug

FreedomsYou have the right
to tell me what I ought to think
how I should believe
what I should accept
and what I must despise.
You have the right
to tell me who I ought to be.

I have the right to ignore you.

Lent 1 - AshesI am a child of ashes,
a proud sinner,
a waste of flesh and blood.
I am dust, and blind, born in shadow,
shy of the light.
There are worms in my eyes.
My fingers are cracked.

But there is One who bears a torch,
who can rekindle the fire
and burn the corruption
from my torrid bones.
My flesh will slough away,
my whoreish lips curl back,
and I will be incense,
a burnt offering.
When the flames have faded,
like a phoenix I will rise,
new and shining,
immortal,
with no memory of shame,
a child of Your ashes.

On Precipicio

Lover,
When our wings intertwined
and I fell into your music –
(It flowed like a trance and
dampened my skin with droplets, pianissimo) –
I could have lost myself
in your sonata storm
and let my chitinous scales wash away.

Lover,
I knew even then
those strings held you bound
in ways I never could.

Cassandra - Prologue and Part 1Even in death, Cassandra was lovely.
Her hair cascaded over her ivory shoulders in sable cataracts, pooling in the soft hollow between her breast and throat. She was wearing the white nightgown, the one she knew I loved, and the fall had thrown it up, weightless, in gossamer drifts across her legs. Her bare toes were painted salmon-pink, the same colour as the roses in the crystal vase by the door.
So elegant, my Cassandra. I might have expected that she would sprawl, as one imagines that people do when they have died suddenly, but her body refused to surrender its accustomed grace. One hand curled beside her face; the other lay, palm up, across her cocked hips, its open fingers tenderly beckoning. Her eyes were closed, peaceful, the fringe of dark lashes sooty and familiar upon her fading cheek. Her lips were parted in expectation. At any moment, she would wake, look up at me, smile. Cassandra.
My hand found the banister, gripped the aged wood and guided me down the stairs

Pirate MoonA bloody moon rose, hungry, through the mist
to wash his crimson glow across the waves
and froth the surging whitecaps with the kiss
that sent ten thousand sailors to their graves.

Beneath that vicious moon, a sail was set –
as was the fate of some poor, hapless crew
oblivious to the impending threat
that drifted ever closer through the blue.

The moon smiled sweetly, bathing naked steel,
as cannon shuddered through the velvet night
to rend the sodden trader, hull and keel
and put an end to her frenetic flight.

The captain's grin shone redder than his sword
As he o'ersaw the booty brought aboard.

Autumn RainsThe Texas autumn, breached,
pours forth cathartic drops,
an ecstasy of tears
to cleanse her dusty eyes of the agonizing fall.

The brow of Texas boils
in cloudy greys and thunder
amid coyote calls electric
down the city-slicker's spine
dropping low.

The breath of Texas chills -
a saw-blade through the heat -
and screams the cloud stampede
across the hills.

The voice of Texas condescends
to whisper in the huisatch
and whistle in the Spanish daggers
sparring with the mockingbird
to sing before she roars.

The mercy of Texas
is no relief -
this wild trickster goddess burns

then drowns.

Six-word ShenanigansThorny throws great parties; arrests followed.

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Lest we forget

by =QuiEstInLiteris, Nov 9, 2012, 8:18:44 AM
Literature / Poetry / Sociopolitical / Traditional Fixed Forms

In Flanders' fields, the poppies blow,
and we who walk among them know
that here men fought, and bravely died
with equal courage, side by side;
the lark has overcome the crow.

We touch the Dead in memory –
embrace them through the century.
The earth enshrines their valiant hearts
in Flanders' fields.

The torch has guttered years ago;
the enemy has been laid low.
And though your names should slowly fade,
your blood a better world has made.
Rest you now where the poppies grow
in Flanders' fields.

Lest we forgetby =QuiEstInLiteris

Literature / Poetry / Sociopolitical / Traditional Fixed Forms

Wear a poppy over your heart, and never forget.

~auntypsychotic Nov 15, 2012 Professional General Artist

i thought i recognized the first line. you have done an excellent job of - continuing? sequelizing? updating? modernizing? repurposing? - Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae's poem with your own insights into war and why some men and women must fight. it breaks my heart, thank you too.

~auntypsychotic Nov 15, 2012 Professional General Artist

lovely. and to those you memorialize:

thank you, my brothers-in-arms, thank you.

~Jays-KaleidoQuasar Nov 14, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Marvelous verses. I loved this poem.

*Neneplayswithpaper Nov 10, 2012

*AmethystPhotographer Nov 9, 2012 Photographer

I'm embarrassed.....but I am unsure what you are referencing/honoring.

~reflectionsinwater Nov 10, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

This refers to WWI. The trenches in Flanders (Belguim) where a good deal of trench warfare was fought, became a field of poppies after some time, and now it has come to mean a symbol of lost or rememberance? to those who served, although now, during Veterans Day, its used universally to commemorate all who have served abroad in war, who have perished, or are still serving today.

*AmethystPhotographer Nov 10, 2012 Photographer

*nightshade-keyblade Nov 9, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Well, not everyone shares that sentiment.

~KISSmyARSenal12 Nov 9, 2012 Student General Artist

This is amazing. I have actually been selected to read In Flanders Fields for the Culver Academies Veterans Day Ceremony this year (Military School), so this has really struck a chord with me. It is wonderful. You are truly talented.

=QuiEstInLiteris Nov 9, 2012 Professional Writer

Thank you. McRae's poem has always chilled me, especially this arrangement: [link]
I could never echo the grief in his words, but I hope to God that our remembrance brings him and his fellows some peace.

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