My gift on treasured shoulders lay
Touch him, roll him, kiss his breast
But know, you're not his first
I too came to love this bit of shell
This tiny structure, set upon my pink cushions, soft as day
Together, we lay in watery depths, hidden within translucent light
At first, its birth unwanted
I tried to shed this growing thing
In time, I came to know this silent child, held fast within me
He grew in circlets, brightness in its unseeing eyes
I shielded him from the outside world
This thing, my own, my special orb
Then one day a metal bite
Fingers entered and felt my child
A rip, a tear and then I lost
My orphaned one, bound on knotted string
His future lie, on slender necks
Adorned by a lover's gift
Now, I a tiny thing, a bit of shell
Placed upon pink cushions, soft as day
To wait and grow, until I too, can be touched
And kissed upon a loved one's throat
Like a bridegroom crowned in crimson,
He rises out of his chamber,
Scarlet circlets round his person,
Bedecked in tangerine amber;
With tears of joy* shed on the grass,
The world rejoices when he comes,
His smile's reflected on the glass
Of each river, as daylife* thrums;
An incarnadine cirque, he glows
From one end of heaven's doorway,
In merry-go-round, he follows
His circuit till the end of day;
The birds belt out ballads divine
When he stirs them with soft caress;
But, he's barely a ball of shine
Before the Sun of Righteousness*.
-------------18.11.16-------------
( *Tears of joy - dew;
*Daylife - opposite of nightlife
*Sun of Righteousness - Lord Jesus Christ )
Jeweled circlets of sequined sleet
Crown kings progressing up silent street.
Copyright, November 21, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
they say that pearls are gemstones, and it's true:
their beauty often takes our dreams away,
we string them into shiny ropes of dew
and pride ourselves with what the others say
when they are charmed by bracelets, circlets, rings,
and any other pearly jewel we flaunt...
the heart in front of their pure beauty sings,
and we enjoy the outcome of our vaunt...
but never do we take the time to learn
the cruelty of the price one oyster pays
to bring to life ONE pearl, the pain, the yearn,
the agony in which the oyster lays...
if WE could turn to pearls our inner throes,
would we be just as proud to flourish those?...
She bends over me as I sit yawning
morning lazy at the kitchen
table;
ever carefully, with a potholder,
she gently holds and lifts
the pan handle.
Slowly she pours steaming, gleaming
water into a cup, filling
without spilling;
the brown powder tosses tiny islets
on the rippling surface, floating,
swirling,
disappearing as they quickly dissolve;
the water turns into amber
syrup;
and she stirs tiny circlets with my spoon;
tan, sudsy whirlpools hypnotize
my cup!