White Flower
——————-
Simple, exquisite, beautiful
this small white flower had panache,
dancing gently down from its perch
until it arrived near my feet.
Many others had traveled prior
but this one, oh this precious one
found me within the aubade woods.
It’s delicate petals shown white
with accents of orange and purple
the peak of color and brilliance
and yet today, no, why just now,
did it end?
———————-
It feels like the walls
are closing into silence
each breath tighter than the last
as if love itself might end our existence.
I lie here, half a human
reaching for air and you.
You're holding back, I feel it
but something sacred is taking shape.
Your thoughts speak in whispers
louder than words
echoing in rhythm with mine
confessing what lips still fear to say.
Now it's undeniable
the ache is shared, the pull is real.
The walls are falling
and all that separates us...
is a single breath
and these fragile sheets.
I wake again, the sky still ash
Mostly soft, not quite the weight of lead
seen at five a.m; that god awful flash
of knowing there is nothing when dead
Here inside a room, trying to recall
if sleep or darkness shapes it all
Whiskey breath eats away my face
Oh good! Aubade… finally shows a trace
The afterlife sleeps in, it always does
Woken up in the usual way
Another drink, a top-up buzz
Lifts my spirits, just above dismay
I fumble around with unopened post
Get dressed, eat flakes, feeling like toast
Hope and despair make a meagre pact:
That life bears fruit, and breakfast lacked
I breathe, then sniff, try steady a hand
light a smoke, or slap on a patch
Gesture defiance, attempt to stand
brave it out past the hallway latch
Go search, or not, for what comes after
opt in, opt out, call on the pastor
Who's high as a kite on altar wine,
“There's nothing” he sobs, “or do you bring a sign?”
His eyes light up, as I offer him a line
And you know! that day turned out just fine.
My grasp
Weakens in time
Gravel loosens...my grip
Upon furtive blooms in my youth
Lost son
From Russia with love
Russia is a strange and great country, not quite in Europe
and not quite Eastern, they react to mayhem but seldom
intimate it; for those who are history less they won
The brutal war of 1940 and 1945 by breaking the back
of the German army and making it possible by Britain
and the USA to take the credit.
Norway has up to know had a warm relationship with
this giant, in the form of a barter system, we gave them
fish and they sent us cars for everyman.
It was not the USA that made car ownership possible, but
Russia flooding the market with cheap cars as foreign
cars were hard to come by.
The cars where called Moscowitch and were fundamental
no heating system and a tortuous suspension, but
for the first time, every man could be
a proud car owner.
For those who remember, it was a dreadful car but
nevertheless, a car.
Lately, to our regret the relationship has suffered, this
Is mainly by American political pressure, and partly
by the Norwegian oil industry that has made her
a wealthy country.
This newfound arrogance is miss-placed and silly
we must treat Russia as the friend she is and not
forget we own her a depth of gratitude.
Cleopatra,
I investigate your eyes
through Nile mist that weaves,
jade butterflies that never fly
sable tresses hanging over leopards
bole skin on the border of Venusian dreamcatchers
Gilded diadems dance as burned suns
radiate from golden flakes of your crown
lightning demarcating the border between genius
— and ambition
wars are fought easier than your heart is won;
Cupid grieves your connections
Great men fear being made lesser by You
She of the God-like Mind
made Immortal for her Wise Counsel
I’m no prisoner of Fear nor Envy
nor Love
only Fate & Chance
Passionate war’s trompe-l’œil
Two guys by a bus stop, and they have nowhere to go.
They begin merging plucks and ribbits into a melting comfort.
Their destination is the Earth, and sedans honk at them.
Red stop sign becomes a resting place for a fellow cellist.
Fair lime crickets play along to the weeds, if just for this one moment.
And the taste of copper and paper is thrown at them in antipathy.
They are not homeless if the meadow’s honey is their home.
Yellow plaid is unlikely to grow here, it is foreign, says the guttle.
Different hues of blue in their familiar magical background.
No mortal whistle in the gale ought to be uttered during the tree’s ballet.
One hurricane lantern is shared between deities, or humans, or leaves,
And you can barely make out the vicars of string and bloodline.
Powder white porcelain glares at the back of their senseless heads,
Resting on a moss bed wearing a dress fly-fish dip in and a bear died for.
With a face made of zig-zags, one of them eats their mom’s snack,
The other swims with a black dog in gin bottles and stolen mint.
What a paradox, cried the wolves; they soon bellowed along.
The day the hour,
The meat the shower,
Show no oscillating octopus to an octagonal obelisk and eat a Greek tortilla upside down in a second. It is wiser to tread lightly in a miller’s abode. Round and round the turrets go those turtles so mind your footing for shells can be slippery really.
When shopping for an Aberdeen Angus bull it is wise to carry an umbrella as showers can occur from any lengths of tail thus rendering talismans useless and a fruit fly would remark that a plate of steamed rice is simply not that exciting really so now after all that information you can leapfrog over the dandelions wearing a cotton pair of anglers waders and a fish hat with or without fins.
X anthropomorphic creatures X
The things I mostly bothered about
Death, worry. those that shout
Death is always crawling about
a relative, a friend, someone with clout
Worry about the weather, children
the things we doubt
And we hear the voices that often shout
the screaming, the yelling
the complaints of a spouse
But the thing i worry most about
is the thing I can do nothing about
She had thought that love was only a game; something one could wear like a badge to garner envy amongst friends. The chill of the night enfolds her troubled emotions where dreams are unwelcome. A Stygian cloak of loneliness weighed heavily on her as she awaited an elusive epiphany. Finally, the watershed moment came, bringing the realisation that the light, the very fire of love, is from within. If only she has the courage to reach out and follow her dreams. Lifting her head, shedding the burden of perfidy, her heart becomes exposed to light. The dawn chorus accompany her lover’s aubade.
The truth
What is the truth a question that should be easy to answer
but many truths often depend on
religious faiths
There is a Christian truth, a Buddhist truth, an Islamic truth
Based on a system of beliefs
All the people who belong to any of those groups
Think of what they believe as the truth
The nearest we can come to unadulterated truth is
You Shall Not Kill! This is an axiom that cannot be overcome with
a yes, but...
Roads long squandered,
Routes trained to memory.
a crack in the long unyielding concrete
unremarkable.
Then, a wildflower
A peculiar pink.
Leather, nostalgia.
Cinnamon, mellow.
Stop dead in my tracks,
Wistful, yearn.
Many a while did I dream of creation
After all, what does it take?
Soil, water, an undefeated soul.
Many a while did I long for something that called me God.
Many a while did I pick up a pen,
Dropped it back down.
Afraid of laughter no one laughed,
Fearing fingers yet unpointed.
What does it mean to begin?
What does it take to begin?
Paper, ink, a sliver of hope.
Do I have what it takes to begin?
Now every new page,
A breath of awakening
In a book awaiting it's soul.
A step, far from empty pages.
Albeit one, this stride
holds strength of lifetimes far spent.
And as I sit, winds of change,
Of beginning, blowing through my hair finally let down.
A start.
Breaking apart the shackle that is anticipation.
Everything goes, and so will this fear.
And as my soul, my blood, my sweat, my tears, I wring into form,
Perhaps,
I have what it takes to begin.
Maxwell Montes
Dorsa Rupes
Tharsis Isiadis
managed by
Bellatrix Safran
escorted
Congreve to
the Boneyard
there they discussed his use
ability.
When Congreve asked a question
Dorsa Rupes dismissed
his concerns by saying he was
bragging and his words
were whoretorn relics
that echo among the foolish people
who idolize him.
Never answering the questions
and saying then what was
of concern didn't matter
due to his lack of interest in the topic.
He said that he committed his
concern to memory and if
recoletion would
serve him he could see his words
as more trending then interesting, so
until then he'd cite his concern as bragging
and being arrogant. As a means of song prompting one
might find such "boogie woogie refrible t other than that
such words are outlandish and trival and
lean toward bragging and making reference to studying
which then might lead to knowledge.
We can't have some people finding these words
might they began to use them.
Isn't it amazing how it goes on like a flowing river?
Unaware of disheartening droughts and ecstatic springs.
The moments cherished together get lost in history.
Hearts once close decouple as a sweet mystery.
The eyes used to witness have no tomorrow.
All of a sudden, the heart is full of sorrow,
Leaving back the wound hard to recover,
Regretting over the words which were not uttered.
Leaving the clusters of emotion hard to deliver,
And life goes on like a flowing river.
Standing in a small boat
on one of the Great Lakes
the early morning sunrise having
turned into a cloudless new day.
Shoreline behind me, mostly trees,
some houses, a large park
that was once a factory
and water as far as I can see.
It was a matter of perspective
this view I enjoyed
the birds and ducks could see further
while planes overhead could see for miles.
and I had my lake level view
Fish came to the surface
a piece of drift wood floated nearby
a plastics bottle (ugh!) moved with the current
another boat trolled near with two men aboard.
and I had my lake level view
A seagull landed near us
hoping for a fishy handout?
While my uncle and I talked of nothing specific,
worms, seaweed and another lost fish.
and I had my lake level view
Specific Types of Aubade Poems
Definition | What is Aubade in Poetry?