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.

Imagine (II)

Imagine if my hands were the wind,

My soul a water nymph, quicksilver fast

in a dance among thoughts,

My heart, a maid of the sun

lost in unending silks of light.

In my high castle amongst the clouds,

Cold with deep keystones of ice,

my own sky

in nets of crystal

a river of thinnest golden frost

running always over my lap-

The unripe sun pools on the ground,

The whole world light as a feather.

Forever, I'd weave the day, guard it,

Hold it close in the night-

A keeper of life in a sea of stars

on an island nearly lost,

An unending siege in a standstill.

A Struggle of Dimensions

My thoughts were once fish, yet
Stretch legs from bare bones,
From weak, unceasing whispers-
A destiny called forth.

Fledgling ripples, unrelenting blooms-
They peel away at the subtle veil,
Rising, unstoppable, tangled
in the ancient shadows, the stranded light

dancing on the surface,

crumbling in mild conversation-

All but the movement of a subtle line;
Still is the pale night, above and below.

Full, clear waters fall glassy, now blue,
The sky, just another surface on this one,
Now gated hastily too-
Shadows and bowlegged trees stand,
Twisting in locks of oId.

How impossible it is to stand still,
to take the living ghostly candlelight,
cut its seams from the water,
wish it free.

Imagine (I)

Imagine if my hands could fly,

Plucking a world of liquid color,

shadow birds and butterflies

dancing behind each current-rose,

A different taste of pastel, each

touched by a blessed light.

Wide as the sea itself, I'd let it swallow,

Paint me as I change my threads below-

Some would catch in impossible stone

where even the seas come to rest-

in a place of perpetual ocean, left

asleep in drifting meadows beneath.

Tying my knots at the horizon,

I'd wash myself in sunset, a soft beginning

to the sweetest oblivion, yet to come-

To watch the sea, washed anew,

as I pull in another gossamer tapestry

from above the river of night.

The Spirit of Words

Dark, pungent airs dance light,

wings unfurl in maddened flight-

It flees from prisons of narrow glass,

To be seized, drowned in the empty air.

Pierced by the fine-threaded horizons,

netting the world, end to end-

It falls upon the running wind,

Old screams choked to whispers

Unending, woven tough and thin.

Thus, it forgets the lofty sky,

The sweet carriage of barrelled sleep,

To meet worlds, tempests far in the mist,

Behind a wall of broken songs.

Magnolia IX

The stillness overtakes me,

Casts pale sheets of light

upon the soulful, trickling want

dripping slowly over weary eyes.

Her soft gaze bears deep pools of gold,

Ringed with rippled watermarks-

veins left from the receding deluge

pin the sky over her face.

A dancer in subtlety, she sweeps, at last,

Bending to touch the cloaked ground,

Clutching its hidden seams,

So slippery, in nimble hands

so wisps of winged shadow fly,

but to come back in morning sky.

How quaint, as old memory recedes,

My friend of unchanging grace;

My love, as firmly rooted as she,

In rare, sweet rediscovery.