Triolet: Define Love

About two years ago, I did a collection of poems on the prompt “define love” for a class. I just reviewed again, and this was the only one I still truly liked. It is written in a format called a “triolet”.

 

A word that says too little, means too much,

One pebble that directs a river strong.

A tragic flaw, and yet a needed crutch,

A word that says too little, means too much.

It drives the fool in all of us with such

Flame and fear, and it can feel so wrong.

A word that says too little, means too much,

One pebble that directs a river strong.

Mirrored Mass

Villanelle 3/10

 

In the mirror, in the glass

Eyes locked open to the sky

Dumbly creeps the watching mass

 

Yellow in the waning cast

Of the sun, now arching wide

In the mirror, in the glass

 

Feet crushing the dying grass

Barely brushing with a sigh

Dumbly creeps the watching mass

 

Shuffling down the narrow pass

Blind to bluffs on either side

In the mirror, in the glass

 

The crystal cracks, shines hard and crass

Like an icy winter tide

Dumbly creeps the watching mass

 

Not one rushes, not one hides

Bitten by the webbing frost

In the mirror, in the glass

Dumbly creeps the watching mass

Sketches: Three Quick Poems

Sketch: Words

 

Wander ‘cross the page

Pretty little mage

Shining little wizard word

Curt in frame and age.

Sing a tinkling song

Frolicking along

Put a smile on my face

Though your spelling’s wrong.

 

3/7

 

Sketch: Fence

 

Border me, golden field

Swallow me, whipping wheat

Beat me bare, batting breezes

Crack me dry, summer heat

Paint in chips under sunny

Summer skies, arching blue

Over skipping children’s laughter

They play the fence, too.

 

3/7-3/25

 

My Room 3/17

 

Who am I? My soul’s in piles.

A jumbled mess, a sloppy kiss,

Like rumpled blouses on the floor,

Pick ‘em up and find some more-

More socks, more books and wandering pens,

Who knows? What’s lying in wait

Is best left, my mind’s too far

Up high, down low, no care for tangles.

The dust crowding like scattered spangles

Makes no mark on smiles nor pouts.

The floor hidden ‘neath distant shouts

Is only ground. I see a soul.

Sandy Hands: A Villanelle

A tracing hand

Betrays the dust

On cracking sand.

 

A baking band

Of steaming rust,

A tracing hand

 

That fights the scan

Of vying lust

On cracking sand.

 

Leaves you a strand

Of thinnest trust,

A tracing hand.

 

You’re breathing land,

So sit and cuss

On cracking sand.

 

No time for fuss,

You flail away.

A tracing hand

On cracking sand.

 

3/6-3/25/09

The Written Word

I call it the word, he proudly said,

A beam attending the silvered eye.

“Why it’s but stick-scratched ground, dusty and dead!”

Their judgment passed harsh and high.

 

I call it the word! he called out far.

The sound danced bright between the cliffs.

“Why, it’s river clay, a dust-rock-shard!”

Their judgment passed clean and stiff.

 

I call it the WORD, he protested,

He pressed the proof into their hands.

“Black blood and reeds!”, they laughed and tested

Their judgment on miraged sand.

 

I call it… the word, he weakly whispered.

The word, my word, my gift, my own.

But they crept behind, all softly slippered,

And with judging hands slit his throat.

Shower

Pressing the cool tiles

Fingers break the ivory geometry

Graying lines, blocked and defiled

By a damp human intrusion

 

Eyes tight with thought

The heat stings my back

Leaning on knuckles in knots

I still, and watch my skin age.

 

2/23/09

Crying, crying, crying

Crying, crying, crying,

Wailing wild and long.

A lilting mist of lamentations,

Anguishing, screaming strong-

Unbearable, broken song!

Leave your keening,

Stem your grieving.

Your sons will yet return.

But mourn too much and watch too little,

Soon the city’s all a-burn,

Only embers left to yearn

For the chicks gone flying.

 

10/15/08

Change

The breeze shifted, twisted me round

I dove in backwards, blind and breathless

The breeze shifted and turned the waves

The gulls trilled their alarm, and went on their way…

 

The change was tangible, salty, damp

Silver fog, a storming sky, a blinded dive

The change is terminal, pounding and mortal

The gulls sought their nests, they were prepared.

 

The wind whips, but I find its back

I skim safe in a wave’s belly

The wind wearies…turning? The familiar face…

The gulls stir and whisper, smiling.

 

11/13/08

The Periled Point

(This is the poem that inspired my blog title.)

 

There is, perhaps, a periled point,

Where, lost and dazed, you cannot turn;

But tilt your eyes, and tear a glance

Behind, toward the grainy shore.

 

Only the path, the sea before

The fragile prow, the rotting craft;

Prowling below, hushed by the sky,

Salt kisses on your paling hands.

 

Thirsty mirage conjures the sands.

They rise beneath the foaming waves,

Echo your thirst and mock your eyes-

The luscious islands undulate.

 

But still you falter, taste the bait,

Clear water sleeping on your tounge.

Trapped by static infinity,

Time fails; the end is swift and long.

 

12/23/08