“Go and catch a falling star.”
(John Donne)
St Barbara, a poor white gloved icy ingénue,
Has long been a dusty piece of Black Forest wood
That grew out of the ashes of Sibylline books;
The black stone is gone from the Palatine --
Only infinitesimal phantasmagoria of the sea
Dwells deep within the grave mound of the soul
Whilst carrying a torch clothed with the sun;
Nikola Tesla still feeds a pigeon every day --
It’s an aperiodic dolphin atavism.
Awakened by an unknown lyre,
Such things drink virtue from a moon beam;
Only Saturn, the herald of lavender hope,
Silently watches the humble bird
From the depths of our star-drenched earth.
Part One: What I Love
After seven decades I am satisfied
with the me I see, the inner self is beautified,
wounds of youth have healed well
and every scar to no longer dwell,
they were absorbed by tears I cried~
I write the words by which I tell
stories rich and maybe plied,
but absolutely bona fide!
Part Two: What I Regret
I admit I used to runaround,
party and carouse until I ran aground
against days-long blackouts
and poor decision fade-outs,
knowing my next stop was a grave mound~
Momma said the only way out
was for me to turnaround,
and become a sober devout.
Part Three: What I Hope
I have no grandiose plans for the future
because the future is unsure,
the present becomes my habitat
and I have no desire for idle chit chat,
time grows short, there is no cure
to stop death’s scat* whereat~
I will sing the words allure,
and dance upon the welcome mat.
* scat: singing jazz; the singer substitutes nonsense syllables for the words of the song and tries to sound like a musical instrument
Spring winds blow their sound,
Winter now is bound.
Knees in,
Melted, sludgy-browned,
Green peaks through the ground.
These in,
Nature's own impound,
Exiled now, grave mound,
Squeeze in.
Snow tries to reason,
Get one last freeze in,
Surprise!
Vernal, yet weazen,
March smells a treason,
The lies!
Mad by degrees in,
Arrogant season,
Reign skies!
Hasten Cold's demise,
February spies,
Be drowned.
Viridescent eyes,
Vegetation rise,
Be gowned,
Prep and lionize,
Time yields yearly prize,
Be crowned!
Youth love broken;
bitter lament, low earthen floor.
Dreamed a dream, dominant image spoken,
painful idle no more.
Defile taste of the grave-mound as they lie crumbled.
Painful overwhelming grief they stand and stumbled.
Muddle, confused, down they tumbled;
precious memories of love and strength awoken.
6/21/2019
Poetry Contest: Enter the 'Writing Challenge 1, June 2019, Crumbling Rhyme'
Sponsored By: Dear Heart
She is the rustling of the leaves upon the trees
She is the buzzing of the bees
She is the reflection in your tear
She is the whisper of the wind that brushes against your ear
She is a sunflower growing tall from the ground
That is her name upon the grave mound
She is a butterfly, swaying around the flowers
She is the one who brings the April showers
For she is always near, she is what you hear.
My sisters memory is very dear.
Find a Cure
Pulmonary arterial hypertension
For my sister Kaysha Dendinger
Sept 15, 1992 - July 21, 2018
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