Magnolia Tree (III)

Shrouded in silhouette,
The sunset sweeps as winds
Slice at waxed confine:

Fair ladys' palms clenched
Against the wind azure,
But shadows on the bark;

Shining leaves woven for summer
Are dark and satin gloved,
Their memory to mourn.

The layers shed, the bud
Becomes sweet and warm
With the passing day.

It seems the farthest,
Most quiet the air
When the sky is worn to hold
More cloud upon the sea.

Weave

Rising, falling peaks

Tugged with time become matted

Valleys of slow suns.

*

Lady in the Moon

Sweet Lady, that muse
Who wears no shoes,
Yet tiptoes the clouds
Upon soft rains;

She comes with tides
And coldest day,
When twinkling stars
Are led astray.

She longs to swim the salty sea,
To tread the furthest shore,
Far away from the end of sky,
Far from her front door.

The tallest waves but grace her gate,
The highest peaks but pins,
Her gown of midnight, breath of dew
Sigh as our world spins.

There, the stories, ours to hold,
And rarely, Lady sees
Such a tale in her night sky
And minds so bright as these.

They are ours, here below,
Waiting, just the same,
Like Lady, like you
Who turns this page,
To give a tale a name.

Lady, the muse for many a pen
Shares a mortal's dream:
In this world of endless sights,
Hold all days in esteem.

Where Ideas Should Begin

No leaves do dance upon my palm,
I hold no song of elves,
Yet human voices coax it sing,
(They let go of themselves.)

The marbled moor, its fair faced queen
Empty of night's souls,
Only in dreams to vessels fill:
When sunrise overflows.

(This world of magic,
My lady lore,
And all these told
I've seen before.)

The sunrise coral on murky sea,
And no fish blinks an eye,
Feeding on the broken tap
At the end of sky.

(I've seen it happen,
It's happened before.
Perhaps each day,
Perhaps of yore.)

The tap will dry upon the morn,
And then they'll wake and see,
Their sun will rise, a fading rose
Wilting in decree:

"There was the secret, spoken before.
Hence the silence, and sleep no more."

Where Ideas Begin

No leaves do dance upon my palm,
I hold no song of elves.
Yet human voices rouse it sing;
(They let go of themselves).

The silk thread sky, the marble moon
Empty of their glow.
Only dreams do whispers fill
Of sunsets staining slow.

(This world of magic,
Our world of lore.
And all I've told,
I've seen before.)

Coral sunrise, the murky seas
Where no fish blinks an eye,
Feeding on the broken tap
At the end of sky.

(I've seen this happen,
It's happened before.
Perhaps each day,
Perhaps of yore.)

This tap, it dries upon the sun,
And then they'll wake and see.
On a bed of fading rose,
There the riches be.

"This is the song I've heard before.
These lines known, there will be more."

Ring

Treading
tingles with rose blush
Revealed: no tipping corset wielding,
Or semblance of blue romance,
This hard vein of vanity proudly small.

My semblance of passion, of mistake
Left by Lady Lore, not ever a miss;
Pursed lips, withdrawn further
Will empty just the same.

It was made to be there, thin promise,
Pursuing the notion (just slip it in)
To catch old Folly next door!
Such youth, we are reminded.

Epic?

Next challenge: 5000 lines of poetry in a month. EPIC! I hope I'll be able to finish. 163 lines of poetry a day is quite something. Maybe I'll change my mind against doing this after I finish Script Frenzy, which is in April. I wouldn't want to miss that, even if poetry mania sounds like fun too.