Based on artwork called "Spellbound on the Stairs" by Catrin Weltz Stein
The night is a
surreal sky blue
A raven-hair maiden
sits at
the top
of a garden stairway
Branches from bushes
that drip
roses
of violet-blue hue
flank each side
of this b r o a d stairway
The young girl’s
summer white gown
of delicate lace
d r a p e s
three of the seven
stairs
beneath her
She is a swan -
neck gracefully tilted
down
as she intently reads
the large black
book on her lap
A moon both blue and white
looms above her
offering her
a huge globe of light
to read by
Sprinkled in the magical sky
are tiny twinkling orbs
Are they fairies
come to life
as she turns each page
of her fascinating book?
Spellbound is she;
Fantasy perhaps
has become
her reality
I
had
aspired
to hover high
on the horizon where
the blue sky meets the land
and fly like a colored kite made
of dreams in the air carrying the scent
of the spring from the blooming garden I left
I would float like a bird and ride on the
flank of drifting cloud taking me
to the distant unknown sky
I would make my home
won’t return to
concrete
jungle
for the string
I
w
i
l
l
s
n
a
p
Its winning
The darkness is winning
My defenses are down
My rear flank destroyed
The guards are dead
I am losing
There is no strategy left
My generals have been defeated
My lieutenants have been captured
My captains are dead
Its winning
The shadows have invaded
there is nowhere to run
nowhere to hide
I am losing this war
I am going to surrender
there is nothing left for me to do
I've lost this war
Plato was dazzled by the numbers' dance.
Their interlocking rhythms made a song
which must have come from God, since they alone
stood unmoved in the welter of the world.
The flushed and youthful flank, the glancing eye
articulate with desire, and quick response
to fly or flutter near, that so engaged
passions so deep they had to be eternal,
all withered to the slack and fusty dugs
of each day’s lying truth, that drip the sour
after-mockery of joy gone stale.
But in the reasoned frenzy of proportion,
strong as steel and delicate as fire,
he found a lust refined of all corruption,
the rapture of the body in the mind.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Flowers will dazzle the eye with delight.
A serpent's dream is to suck them dry.
With jaded tongue and Cheshire smile.
To keep the blossoms somewhat safe
, flank petals with eagle and razor blades.
Lay a scale of wisdom before the bronzed gate
Nurture the lamb to keep the flickers at bay.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
frost-etched grass whispers low,
bison flank touches flank—breath clouds
merge. No lone head lifts.
an ancient pulse beneath snow~
Where the mass goes, I must go.
Movement Shod
Heeling halt
Abbreviated democracy
Flank in route
Gaurd maneuver out
Folded company
Beret for address
Redress complete
Back in Britain
Marina Ann Hantzis
Princess Matilda
Vulnerable Matilda Prodigy
Florence of the ash reddened twine Nightengale
Graphic design
I come from a brass adorned general
We don't resemble excess points
I am exit of branch in brass adjacent brad
Minute brigadier
Halt
Ag is creation
In duration of appointment
Grass is yawn
Foreign testimony
Irresolute burden
Friendly visions 1
The refusal of hindrance
Nulled void in presence of buddha
Blvd.
Bill of ardent
Assembly of literature budget
Education boundary activities
25th hour calls on sight
I think it’s a cormorant
Spreading its wings,
Just waiting to see what
This afternoon brings.
It sits on a log on
The riverbed’s bank,
Its beak poking into
Its chest, neck and flank.
I’m on a bench watching
The bird do its thing
And wond’ring how long
It will wait to take wing.
It has no awareness
That I’m even here
And doesn’t display
Any interest or fear.
A pigeon, however,
Just strutted right by
And stopped for a snack,
But I couldn’t comply.
The master cracks his whip
across the horse’s trembling flank,
pushing the beast to its limits
until the wildness snaps and the horse reacts,
a flurry of chaos beneath the sting.
When silence falls, the master
believes the animal has learned,
believes the wounds are healed.
He reaches out with clean hands,
petting the horse's weary muzzle,
his fingers gentle, but not soft enough.
The horse, though still, does not forget.
It smells the leather polish on the master's skin, the lingering scent of cruelty woven into the fabric of his flesh.
The horse knows the weight of that smell,
knows it cannot be washed away.
And no matter how tender the touch, the horse remains wary,
the scars deeper than the skin, unforgiven.
The master must face the truth of his actions.
the horse may no longer fight,
but forgiveness does not bloom on the soil of mistreated land.
The horse is not healed,
and the master is not forgiven.
the horses
Three horses graze on my land, and one
is still a foal.
In the twilight and with gentle rain falling
they remind me of the horses of bygone
days when I steered the plow that made
furrows in dark, clean soil.
When I stroke their flank, the good aroma
of warm horses arises; dreams are endless.
In daylight, they pretend to be boulders, but
even then, they make the land serene.
Damp linens flung aside
sodden cushions
Flank by flank
She was damp
Nickel sack and bark rings
Verdant gaze meet hazel orbs
Ripe late April Northern Flatlands moisture
Slaughterhouse savory mist perfume
Slender dull rose covering on the pane
Cooling unit recirculating
Coral beams groom her visage
Midday vernal noon
the drizzle ceased the light slivered in
Naked gourd blossoms adhesive juice
Lurching brined
The toddler flesh on her abdomen
She didn’t cleanse
Just exited my one-room lodging
Infatuation perspiration,
Empty uterus,
Pixie sperm dribbling,
Contraceptive device
Marriage band fabricator.
shadows stretched
from unblinking stone
a sun dares trespass
it's obsidian skin cold
wind whispers unknowns
of forgotten wars
iron tears flown
upon obsidian flank, rust
earth exhales silence, ancient
shrouds frozen breath, dust
within its hollow soul
pushing the rank crust
pulse, violet dark
strange geometries bloom
in the frost upon a base, lost
flock of silent wraiths, gather
circles unknown speak, daggers
ravens scream, unseen
taste of ash n bone
bitter stone
in the air somewhere lingers
broken metronome, marching
sounds all shone
nowhere home, north
a ragged crone, standing
cold monolithic, grace
waiting, watching all alone
A wise mouse lived alone in a narrow hole he had dug
in the soft soil in the backyard flank of a large house,
whose owner had a pet cat that seemed the master
of the house, for she moved around majestically
in the sprawling premises with an agile feline grace.
Once as the mouse was sniffing the ground for food
the sprightly cat chased him, but failed to catch,
for the alert mouse ran like lightning into the hole.
From that day the cat sat all the while by the hole,
waiting for the mouse to come out in search of food.
The hungry mouse faced a problem of life and death,
choice of death from hunger or being a prey to the cat
became a huge predicament, but he chose the latter,
for there was a chance that the cat wouldn’t be in sight,
and outside the hole he could find fast food to survive.
After his stomach was full his brain started to work,
flashing a novel idea across his confounded mind.
He crawled cautiously, dug a few more holes wide apart,
the confused cat didn’t know where the mouse was,
who was happy for inventing a bright piece of thought.
Moral : A little thought can solve almost all problems.
Dappled cloudy scales
Drifting along a sleek flank
Fish eyed moon looks down
When the whip of the wind strikes the earth’s flank,
Dark clouds rush forward, dragging low and dank.
Like a female camel moaning for her calf,
The heavy clouds, their big nipple isn't half.
The autumn sky weeps, then suddenly smiles,
The dark clouds drip in a rhythmic style.
Washing the dust from the steppe’s face,
Shaking the heads of wormwood in its embrace.
The poor wormwood stood there, unable to sway,
Shoulders heavy with dust, locked in dismay.
When the cool breeze brushed its face in delight,
Its fragrance burst forth, wild and bright.
Oh, how marvelous, this land so beloved,
Its cherished scent holds all life discovered.
If not for wormwood, so enduring and true,
Every other plant would have burned through.
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