Time and tide flit so fast,
Forgetting how mellow memo faded.
So long pain and pining last,
Getting missing mood brocaded.
Strings in both hearts, rent by retrospective rift,
Amid murky mopes, melody of yore adrift.
Ring on single finger, fretted by foreshadowing frost,
Unto wild wind, faith for future tossed.
Elvani, if your charm did forsake my flattened rhyme,
Let my word salad flounder to fetch the past of your prime.
Elvani, if my flavor did flee your muffled fife,
Let your unvented sighs fill and figure the rest of my life.
Perhaps it is the yellowing autumnal foliage
that the evening light reflects,
or it could be the yellow corvette
parked beneath this particular tree
that up-lights the sky?
Dusk brings diaphanous flights
of jonquil-tinted clouds
The horizon retires
embedding itself
within a canopy of brocaded gold,
a gown so embossed, so quilted,
it has become too deep
to be lifted.
The headlights of the corvette
gleam their seeking suns.
Night drives out
sweeping before it
russet murmurings.
May their dying prayers
illuminate the dawn.
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.
Windswept nimbus sentinels are gathering
quickly darkening the noon day sky.
Sunlight wanes, becoming veiled
behind layers of opaque clouds.
Like shrouds they hasten by.
Gusting winds approach from the north,
forewarning of a tempest storm.
I hear thunder beating on his drum,
followed by claps from many more
as the chilling temperature quickly falls.
Winter's fingers are traveling with speed
and waves are crashing along the coast.
Their frothy bubbles reach the shore,
filling puddles in the sand at high tide.
Gulls screech in search for one last meal
before finding a haven in clearer skies
and mariners hurry in search of safe harbor.
Maple branches sway with the wind,
collecting earthbound snowflakes
upon their bare limbs while
Mother Nature is changing her faded dress
from the wrinkled one she wore in Autumn.
It's torn and tattered upon the ground
in shades of gold, crimson and brown.
She's donned a lovely glittering new garment,
a brocaded gown and cloak of Winter white.
December 30, 2022
Winter Storm Contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues
Miss Nellie lived up Paint Creek way
She spent her whole life in solitude
Some say Miss Nellie had attitude
She clothed herself in grandest array.
When Miss Nellie came into town
To shop in the only stylish boutique
Easily spotted, she was so unique
She wore a fancy brocaded gown.
She paid for her purchases in cash
No credit cards in her Gucci purse
She rarely ever took time to converse
Miss Nellie was on her way in a dash.
Miss Nellie made her fortune in coal
Sold off land to a greedy coal baron
Who stripped it out and left it barren
There really was black gold in that hole.
written July 19, 2021
I see before me in all array
collections of a bygone day
classic chairs and dated books
clothing and a complete attire
of chairs where I have never sat
and books that I have never read
the clothing that I never wore
Trappings if you will, to seal the span of time
that maybe if my fate allows
I'll sit in the chairs and read the books
and wear the brocaded shirt with the paisley tie
And someday I will give them away
but who would want them anyway
©Ralph Sergi
January 25, 2008
All the riches of the Kingdom are mine
The embroidered cloths,
The silver chalice,
The golden earrings
The brocaded silks and satins.
The shredded veil of the Temple that time has rent.
There are no manacles in my mind
The fetters have fallen away
The chains are dust
The contract voided, my psyche set free.
Terror has become awe.
I am no longer an artist without a medium
Or a scientist with no discipline.
The two of me are one
In wedded bliss.
And I have found my Princess!
My goodness,
I’ve been handled by the best of people
And the worst of people,
the purity of my crisp white borders
has been eroded by the sweat of wily men.
The hem of my petticoats
marking the border of my self
has been besmirched, blackened
My angular, prismatic, diamond core
has had thumbprints pressed against
the blood red of its planes.
My golden locks have been coifed
restrained from their rampant fall by
brocaded folds of embroidered linen
yet, still I reign Regina Queen of Diamonds
see my specter, curry my favor for without me
there will be no flush dynasty…all hail the Queen.