Green remembers—
before language
before loss—
a bloom
in glass
a breathing
on the pane
the mirror keeps
a holiday of moss
soft voices
feathered
into silver
Not faces—
no
but after—
images
thin
where laughter
stains
the edges
of day
they flicker—leaflike—
entering
within
then drift
pollen
almost gone
I lean—
my pulse
disturbs
the buried scene
and something
stirs
a greening
in the blur
grief is not absence
but shade
of green
a bloom learning
the shape
of us
So let it root—
in glass
this tender seam
the mirror
blooms
because
it remembers
Blossoms sprout in the heart,
the entrails of the start.
Now things woken with life,
for survival they strive.
At last the evils sicken,
life is never a given.
The battering of living,
for being it is hitting.
Alas, now they pass,
fall down to green grass.
It is leaving the heart,
the ending of a start.
SHADOWS
leaflike
cracks
circled
around
reminding
there
is no
certainty
reputation
fades
into oblivion
lays
forgotten once
once
exhilarating,
enthralling
&outstandingly
impressive
in
an array
of advocates
knocked back
a
passionate
unconventional
& persuasive
dream
thought
juxtaposed
a
profound
rigorous
meticulous
approach
attention
to detail
understatement
expressed
in
relationship
with
deep
feeling
very tender
&
elegiac
poignantly
falls
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
FLOWER OF THE SUN (Cardabelle)
So loved, so loved in southern France
They made you protected
I loved to dance
Around you.
I wanted you, wanted to.
Used to kneel and softly caress
Your rigid bristles,
Your yellow heart, the brownish
Leaflike mess
Surrounding you.
My beautiful miracle.
They nail you on their doors
In that town
Your leaves turned from green
To brown
My flower
My heart
If you were with me, you would have been
Still living
Still green.
They made you protected
I loved to dance
Around you
In southern France.
***
February 28, 2017
© Darren White
prophetic verses set like smooth stones
past the camels dry chiseled steps.
next to a parable and a jawbone.
the dead sea testamental tongues
leaflike water the valley of acacia
transposing their verbal vernacular.
the oral traditions passed down
by the giver of ghost
and imprinted on the skull
bones of martyred saints.
down where bone becomes papris,
the course stones shed their skin.
and under the fingernails of an old
god the fossils prophesy.
yes the dry bones prophesy...
speaking in ancient acrostic constructs,
verse by verse their biblical audiologies
unfold in a east wind.
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