poetry

This is

This is the moment

the door opens and the clouds flurry past

a high wind of thought and the hot flash

passing, leaving a flower, open, damp with dew

the scent of your breath and I am longing

for the distant hills and where the pilgrims in a long line

escape through the passes,

and I am left behind to wait and watch

the vulture circling high overhead to swoop – –

the serpent rears back and strikes,

talon gripped now, both soar

and twist in the high cold wind of aether

the tide roars  and I seek you out

with tongue and teeth and lips and you pull me

forward – –

up and

in

your arms tight

breath hot

like clear water

this is the moment

the door opens

and then just as swiftly

closes.

 

 

Portrait no. 9

Ms. Leguin

has gone beyond the wall

and will tell us no more of dragon’s tails

and the

magic of mages                                               struggling of sages

and I imagine her out taptapping imaginary worlds into existence

on her golden typewriter fourfivesixseven

some like earth

some like heaven

Do you hear, Mr. Death, her songs?

 

The Jester’s Lament

Here! This is the essence

The king even will die sitting in the sunroom

And the flowers will sigh in the wind at the loss

 

Befriend the queen of lies who hides the sun.

Notch the arrow, aim high at the semblance of the Sage.

The storm will follow as the thunder claps and the lightning

cracks the sky and hides the valley in shadows.

 

Will you wear the crown of kind being?

But such a kind gesture was and is and will be just a jest.

Where is the jewel of believing?

 

Listen to her words, lest, lost in brief sorrow

and the words of those Wanderers, both here and now

cause you to wander and die

alone and unheard.

 

 

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