Poetry

[Leigha]

Hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops - at all.

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the Little Bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the Strangest Sea
Yet - never - in Extremity
It asked a crumb - of me.

-- Emily Dickinson

[Secular Sanity]

the glass

the glass was half-empty he argued
the glass was half-full she had said
so they told him he was pessimistic
that he should think like her instead

but what they had failed to fathom
and what they had struggled to see
was the state of the glass in the first place
was key to how it was perceived

her glass has been empty to start with
so, of course it was now filling up
whilst his had been full to the brim, overflowing
and spilling right over the cup

so, yes it was now looking emptier
and maybe his loss made him sad
but they told him he couldn’t bemoan it
for he had more that some people had

yet for her they did not use the notion
that the way she felt should be ignored
no, the didn’t tell her that she couldn’t be happy
because there would be someone with more

Yes, we should count all our blessings
And try to look on the bright side
But a loss is a loss, if we see it or not
so it’s easier just to be kind

see they say don’t judge books by their covers
well, we shouldn’t judge glasses by halves
and we shouldn’t judge people if we’ve no idea
what they had in their glass at the start

"Talking to the Wild"- Becky Hemsley

[Leigha]

[Image: YvVtyFD.jpg]

---

The Owl Fairy
Wanders at twilight
When the trees cast
Gentle shadows
On the mossy ground,
As she steps she sings
A magical chant
And the forest
listens with delight.

By Paola Merrill, artist and poet

[C C]

Earlier stages of development concerning these two were posted elsewhere -- that is, not inflicted upon this particular thread. The sole item actually revised here is the title of the first (no longer obscuring the pandemic allegory). Absolutely the final versions, since both were turned into animated gifs earlier this year. (No more surrendering to the "gotta change that" temptation bug once they're chiseled in stone.)
- - - - - -

Masque

Quickly, quickly,
Pass through that day.
Do not touch the sickly
Nor falter for the stray.

Let mortals sun and succumb
As sprites flutter in the shade.
Let crowds prate about freedom
As their paladins parade.

Hearken, hearken,
The time is cursed
If the hill tribes bargain
And the trumpet pods burst.

Will the old gods intervene
When the dead's pyres are lit?
Will the meadows yet be green
When the imp assassins quit?

Hasten, hasten,
Reach high retreats.
The mad throng will chasten
Stragglers lost in the streets.

Eschew the fey jubilees;
And be deaf to frantic yowls
Of wretches crawling on knees,
When Pestis drains his bowels.

---

The Story Tellers

At moonrise, 
When the living relax
From the terrors of their enterprise... 
Tribal alchemists wax
About hope;   
Chanting potions that cope
With ills, burdens, warfare, loss, and ache;
Transmuting dung to cake.

Through that lens:
Squalor highlights splendor,     
Hunger is a slope to grain filled bins. 
Death becomes the vendor
Of diverse
Couplings with the Divine. 
Misfortunes bare meaning and purpose, 
Serving a grand design.

Wily prose
Is the new primate's aid
For enduring what it alone knows.
Parsed not by eye, but weighed 
By ideas -- 
Mindless Nature, she is
Charmed by the biped's useful fictions; 
Sown with aims, volition.

[C C]

This revision (from the Halloween period in a different thread) only involves a few word changes, and the title. Also still a lyric, or lyric-ish (licorice!), what with the refrain. The "sisters" take turns in the "conversation" parts, which is why it might be confusing at times which one is "speaking" to the other.
- - - - - -

Inner Sibling

Whispering, pleading to sister dear.
Imploring to no one near.
Could you allow me out today?
I'd like to feel the warm light and play.

Peering through the spyhole in the door.
Seeing no one anymore.
You don't really like the sun.
And I know how you fulfill your fun.

I'm the lock; throw the key to the Moon.
If it sparkles, let her roam.
If it darkles, leave her home.
Hope I'm not picked like a banjo tune.


Slithering closer to sister dear.
Deftly chanting in her ear.
Could you feed me something sweet?
Long months have passed since I've had a treat.

Murdering countess, lady spider;
They pale beside my Rider.
Combing through night, baneful gowned,
The lonesome world is her stalking ground.

I'm the lock; throw the key to the Moon.
If it sparkles, let her roam.
If it darkles, leave her home.
Hope I'm not picked like a banjo tune.


We dream of being an amputee.
Clinic calls us dee-eye-dee.
Oh, but these aren't crippling whims,
Since both of us want to keep our limbs.

Funny priests cast out the demon's rage.
But I'm trapped in a domed cage.
My dear Conscience, this I vow
Someday you'll be the severed bough.

She's the lock; throw the key to the Moon.
If it sparkles, let me roam.
If it darkles, leave me home.
Hope you're not picked like a banjo tune.

[RainbowUnicorn]

a little thought for just a time
that's pleasing for all to read
a poem a poet
a rhyme a thing
just typing ought to show it

[Magical Realist]

“Built to be lonely
to love the absent.
Find me
Free me
from this
corrosive doubt
futile despair
horror in repose.
I can fill my space
fill my time
but nothing can fill this void in my heart.”
― Sarah Kane, 4.48 Psychosis

[Image: not-such-a-lonely-place-after-all-origin...erback.jpg]

[C C]

Another one salvaged from a developmental stage elsewhere. Performed a major, major overhaul on this one. Title is still the same.
- - - - - -


The Strangling Fall

Harvest weeks have surrendered their yield.   
A closing battlefield, that's picked clean, 
Yet dirtier than a floor unswept. 
Robbed of green, flag unfurled, 
Noisy geese above a world
At dormancy's doorstep.
Exodus underway... 
Nothing sleepless or guilty can stay.

Brooding
In some failed temple. Time for choosing
To forsake or continue the crawl. 
Leave discontent, or keep it in tow,
Our chapter for letting go
Over the strangling Fall.

Memories loiter outside the flames; 
Ghosts so old they've forgotten their names.
Leaves a colored wreath for summer's pyre,
The wooded slope is afire.
When their gowns shed in grace,
Naked trees will betray
A hillside, bouldered face...
Yesterday's misgivings on display.

Don't hedge,
We can ease into its clutching glow --
Breathing the season's narcotic call.
Its flow will carry us to the edge,
Then just let go, just let go,
Over the strangling Fall.

[Magical Realist]

Good Bones

BY MAGGIE SMITH

"Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful."

[C C]

Eh... No revisions since last posted in another thread, so I guess this one is ripe for "final version" status. I changed the title, however, due to realizing that obscuring the particular myth is actually what one should want. Sheeesh...
- - - - - -

Coronation

The brute shock,
And the extremity,
Of that queen slain for King's Remedy.
Now I am the next block
Cemented by his mute Bricklayer.
Wed to this sage, this wraith,
Her lover, who was her betrayer.
I weighed by misgiving,
But he haunted by his breach of faith.
Each day, this man's guilt is reliving
ache.

The calling
Of a cavernous space
Escalating, roiling in his face...
Soon he is withdrawing
To her realm, an ophidian place.
Scaly in the distance,
He dwindles from my biped existence.
Her bereaved subjects there
May damn him; but a wry curse that leans
To anoint a Judas snake, as Queen's
heir.