The Things That Still Rule

The bitter rush of old ocean-

Impossible, yet a ghost of gods

tossed in elaborate song!

Stale and sweet,

The mighty roar of waves rolls in,

A velvet, too smooth with lost wonder

grows brittle claws like arrows-

still at war with the silent voice-

Innocent, yet another soul lost.

The magic still lies, of course,

Deep in the fortress yet untapped-

The darkest stronghold, a dulled enigma,

a palace of the greatest machine.

Forever in tongues few will know,

are enchantments, untouchable on tightropes,

for their false gods who stand,

ready in songs of siege.

(The real demons, the real lords

call those threads a city of light).

Magnolia XII

Is it all the same as before?

her being a goddess once more?

She shines in gold, but

modest blush of her maker.

He falls into her soul, as only he could,

revels in soft layers of cool;

Her word unspoken, her fullness

quiet in shimmering grace-

Born again, as she dances.

Her silver veils fall away,

the cold mists, so exquisitely dark,

does she remember?

Mourning came, morning went forth

from behind shades of pastel,

from the nights of shadows awake,

sprawled and arched in dust.

She was once so wide

she folded up to the stars,

a silent maid, behold!

The kings of celestial court

warred to distant stalemate,

'til the night wind burned with fire.

Endless courts, endless watercolor palette-

One sky of her own, one sky not,

she flees them both- her fate-

The dark dance of years suspended,

illuminated in tossed shadows-

her hourglass.

Another Wish

I'd wish you a million wishy wishes

if I could see but one,

over the crest of the wave of sky

before the day is done.

I'd wish you a million million more

to see them in your eyes-

Such magic meets it fellow quick,

To spark it- how time flies!

A million, million, millionth wish?

What good would it be?

You have the rest inside of you,

except this poem from me.

Magnolia XI

How fine is she, now!

The day is whole of heart,

flushing all in soft, swirling dance,

His bold hands stroke, caress

the tender cheeks of all dames alike.

To her, a visit unexpected-

She blushes, a lofty story tumbling

in flourished cascade,

filling unseasonable robes heavy.

Rich emeralds rise, burning

on jade alight with fresh ember-

A fullness fluttering, a languid bliss-

Suddenly, a ripe joy once more.

To her king in all his glory,

A fickle man, yet the crown jewel-

That shard of impossible diamond,

That memory lighting from within,

bound in the sea of sky, a gift

from the finest merchant of charms.

Magnolia X

My lady, my solemn muse

strolls in the shining rain,

layers of petticoats tied heavy,

laced in patrician airs assured.

Fair with an ancient gravity,

She faces the east, plain to the fickle day-

(he who comes and comes not)-

more a song than deserved suitor,

She of no blemish but longing mourn.

'Tis the season to wait, poised with hope,

A goddess subdued in trappings of time-

in somber, rich emerald, her masquerade,

yet she glows just the same.

To Dream

She wears her mask of sadness,

The same melodrama,

night and night again.

The butterfly trapped in shadow

spins in late cocoon as time wheels on,

a bare chain of what eternity left behind.

The same tears rip seams, pour forth,

Bleeding from the same tired portrait-

dead wings still fly,

dead profiles still walk,

the last of the soul still burns;

Still, her wicked beauty lives ever in fire-

her hand traps all that comes my way.

Once, I was the sole spider;

This glistening story flooded turgid,

Draped in canopies of rain-

Came the sun upon my palace,

struck all but the bottle of her flame.

Spring Yet Unwritten

Teardrop flowers drift

full and heavy in tall water wheels

climbing, falling in lost time-

the finest thread on the loom

yet unwoven by the sun.

A bittersweet silk heart knots hidden

yet exuberant in scattered light-

scattering the seams to see the soul,

the secret lost in blushing green.

Come galloping the spring rain

to scatter the falling earth,

And perhaps the twisted stones,

the hard flourishes of pressed song

will open and fly free.