i am a pastry chef
the constant baker my lot in life
i have shelves filled with life's spices
grains from many different fields
my ovens are in constant heat
doors begging to be opened
that feed the outer shop
where the world may peruse, purchase
if it so cares
but on that end, i hardly bother
i am not interested in what life
saunters away with
more so the ghosts that come in
this kitchen for an illuminating chat
after the recipe has been prepared
and the tray safely behind the oven door
we sit and line by line remember the limns
that now rest in ages gone by
delighted i am with each new word
that passes the lips from fields long harvested
or explore a bit of myth, perfect metaphor
how can one ever be alone
when so many pastry chefs
come thru the door, accompanied by pages
that has served them well
and tho they never lift a tray
they are in every recipe
and every pastry you taste
OKC 6/27
Categories:
limns, poets,
Form: Free verse
The Whirlpool Galaxy of grand-design,
a stately spiral with companion small,
once held to be in gravity’s confine
of greater galaxy’s imposing sprawl,
is shown in sharpest image ever caught
to have essentially been gliding past
for myriads of years, beyond our thought,
behind the Whirlpool’s classic swirling cast.
A cosmic canvas visioned by Van Gogh
limns canopy above from earth below
as though he could intuit fluid flow
of astral turbulence the skies bestow
in Vincent’s Starry Night’s celestial dream
with Whirlpool soaring o’er in stellar stream.
~ Harley White
Categories:
limns, art, earth, image, space,
Form: Sonnet
With my plucky granddaughter, I'm ne'er bored.
She saunters at connate emblems and depth.
And the way the fay sway with her.
Five-year-old darts on slight span.
Brilliant, brittle crane drum,
Tall, hefty gist sight,
Pitch in limns burns.
With swish rifts.
Wingbeats
wheeze.
Categories:
limns, analogy, childhood, daughter, granddaughter,
Form: Etheree
Like sparks trailing
from a million, billion fireflies,
a single thought limns a trillion suns.
From the first small bonfire
flickering across four million years,
whose light imprints itself
upon the canvas backdrop
of a feckless, barely cohesive Infinity,
the matter of man, no more than
the past, transmogrifies the future --
denies the import of "real" or "black"
or any other type of matter.
Yet existing, it defines the local locus
of now and when ... and how and then.
The freezing cold of space
burns like energy backfiring on itself.
Somewhere, celestial lightshows
flare across parsecs of near emptiness.
Liquid oxygen fuels
the laboring lungs of multitudes,
singing out the music of the spheres,
maestros of a trillion symphonies,
platelets in the lifeblood of the Universe.
Like a Coriolis wave that imprints itself
upon a formless sandstorm,
a thought burns itself
into the very fabric of Eternity,
opens like a budding flower,
and initiates its own realities.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ibPT24qMTw
Author notes
Je suis un Capricorn.
]
This is my Desiderata.
Written December 2nd, 2005
Categories:
limns, 9th grade, poetry, space,
Form: Free verse
Come with me
into the meadow of the mind
where God is found. Its ambience
is of reflection, and cannot be earned.
It is the ringing in the far-off hills,
never heard above the silence of the damned.
It is the glimmer of the light
just after sundown as it falls
upon the facing cliffs that form
the walls of dreams.
It is the unpretentious whispering of love
relentless patriots will always bury
underneath the fusillade of war.
So limns the meadowland of God,
footprint of the divine.
It is too much to worship, venerate or pray to.
Too much to wrap around reality
or ever simulate or hold above our heads.
It is not to understand; for
God may not be any where...
at all.
~
Categories:
limns, allusion,
Form: Free verse
He's gone!
His paintbrush
no longer skims my canvas
perhaps he became bored of staining skin
and chose to sculpt himself
a heart instead
one that limns
lifeless things
He always said,
we're better off disjoined,
both being artistic lovers
who tire
over the slightest
familiarity of tongue
this time,
it just happens to be mine
still roused
bleeding
over the sharp edge
of his brush
Categories:
limns, lost love
Form: Free verse