Written: November 09, 2023
________________________________________
An allegedly assured affix
distracted by wistfulness
to assess arousal of anguish,
wherewithal shadows tackle by day
amidst thick mist, in propinquity dry wells.
carrying a titian heartbreak on my shoulder.
a gentle regret that is not a zenith dread;
brocade as taffeta, a bluesy lullaby.
spun from gentle yarns; weaved.
Striving to scale a sibilant soil surface
toward porous roots of sequoia
trapped by the force of gravity.
allow only tangerine tears to flow
from my sorrow.
Getting into the quagmire.
in quest of one's fortitude.
whilst waiting for syzygy perigee,
to occur on perihelion.
A spider carefully plans and schemes
the pattern for its life and quest.
It spends its hours weaving dreams
until it creates its sticky best.
Its web is tatted small and refined
or brocaded in heavy tapestry.
Soon prey finds itself entwined,
entombed within this basketry.
The spider calmly enswathes it,
a gesture quick yet fatal.
To paralyze this tasty tidbit,
its single bite is detrimental.
To live, to spin, to weave, to eat,
is spider’s deadly task’s cycle.
Web mastery, a cunning feat,
ensures the spider’s survival.
His earnest quest for survival
Has meant off-and-on revival,
Bus boarding to far-off crusades,
For weeks avoiding nice brocades…
Not anymore one who’d bubble,
Sometimes chin with a week’s stubble:
Arch enemies in connivance,
The injurious for contrivance;
Had in dreams poisoned his noodle
And Christ said “Straight into puddle!”
Enemies flexing raw muscle,
God making it Divine Tussle…
His fervent quest for survival
Has meant much speedier arrival
For their camp’s redemptive prayer
That should fortify John Sayer.
She wore brocade of red with silver threads
A tight fit, clinging to her shapely hips
A matching shade of lipstick on her lips
The lady was determined to turn heads
And turn around they did, news quickly spreads
On the cruise ship she both stunned and bewitched
She wore brocade.
The dress was split both sides to top of legs
Suddenly back of the dress came unzipped
She tried to hide from the cheers and the quips
Till the captain sent all off to their beds
She wore brocade.
*+*
13th October 2022
Rousing Rondine Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jeff Keyser
Written in Rondine form poetry.
I am a tapestry
woven of colored threads
that intertwine to a pattern.
Details in subtle hues
spell opulent stories,
rich and beautiful as a life.
11/7/2017
For contest Fabric
Sponsored by Nette Onclaud
Bequeath to me no inlaid jewel brocade
If you are called before God calls to me.
Your saphire blues and ruby reds will fade
But give me fire that fueled your heart so free.
Your glowing flame a gift from God to thee
As comfort balm to calm and warm the years.
If death should call please gift your fire to me
To stroke my soul and dry my bitter tears.
If I am called I'll face death without fear
For then your greatest friend in life is free.
But hear these words I whisper while still near:
As friends we've been but lovers now should be.
Your essence does excite and light my life;
So faithful friend become my faithful wife.
An interval of quietude; she sleeps,
caressed by copper curls in silk cascade.
Observing beauty in her calm, he weeps,
remorseful of impassioned hands he laid.
From searching eyes, secluded pain she hides,
within her mind, love's solemn vow replayed.
Through purest skin, dark cast of anger rides,
wrapped safely 'neath soft folds of green brocade.
Breath falls, as into endless void she slips,
unable to withstand the next tirade.
A tear-stained note in resting hand she grips,
'My love, forgive the final choice I made'
03/20/2009
I decided to resurrect this write after reading The Highlander's excellent poem 'She Internally Weeps'.
A similar theme but quite a different outcome.