Long Crinoline Poems
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The Geography of the Void
We never know for certain if it's worth speaking of that gentle exile,
of the secret only we knew, without witnesses and without a word,
we migrate toward warm labyrinths where every groan holds a rare value,
and we make love by calendars gone slightly wrong — at night, by day, toward evening.
Bread bakes, and wounded shoulders are wrapped in rough, clean linen,
we walk the boulevards telling each other locust-memories, all withered,
like sheaves of dried reed that rustle and carry an old grief inside them,
we speak a tongue of back-alleys and farmland, stubborn past any road.
Powerful plants grow from the earth, victorious over time itself,
a vegetal world watches us from far off and writes to us without a face,
a timeless heat dries us out like a bed emptied of every dream,
only a canopy above, urban and rural both, keeps us still shut in.
Along those plausible paths you can hear words hatching out of words,
and see hourglasses lost inside their own nostalgia, mindless now,
the iron in you rusting inside them, a ballet girl asleep in a tin can,
while an old man from Alexandria writes his laws on a small matchbox.
And everything is clear, you leaf through the treatise on the great Void,
you walk in a crinoline beside a fence, your hair damp and stiff
like drowned Ophelia's in the mist, while I confess my love into a white amphora,
in a tower with feet as wet as a woman's after the lamps go out,
the evening eaten alive by mosquitoes, under a sky of total transparency,
while a sad parrot gives me lessons in geography, belonging nowhere, leading nowhere.
A translucent bluish-white mineral with a mysterious sheen
I hear them rustling behind heaven's plisse,
fabric seersucker curtains, opaque but unlaced
One breath and suddenly
I'm a teleported being
letting go of all faculties and senses;
A prayer on the lips searching for everlasting hope.
These precious substances of color and charm
both calm and confident, ignite the soul
and usher it to peace, love, and harmony.
Filled with Goddess energy
exuding warm tones of luminescent, ephemeral light
the hand receives what the eyes have encased
lost inside clairaudient auditory movements
Moonstone Melodies;
Yokiko reveries fill me like no other
listen to the sound they make
Angels dressed in crinoline gowns,
swooshing and spreading light
everywhere...
Lost in their chime like sound of tinkling glass
they are un-comparable,
A thousand stars of heaven could never compare
to these moonstone gems,
who seem to claim the heart bit by bit
and then, all at once.
A damp musk fills the salty air
as gray dawn rises over the star field of night.
Unseen, crows hawk the glitter of light
upon the dunes of day,
calling out to man and feathered friend alike
to rise from within the bejeweled shades
of emerald and turquoise.
The scruff pines prickle an expansive horizon,
lifting from the dark onyx of night
scenting the still air.
Stalwart oaks finger the nubile rays of gold
morning edges their crenulated leaves
breezes lift limbs with a rustle liken to the
scratch of crinoline.
Topaz acorns cascade from the crowns of oaks,
homage to the placid play of summer’s end
at the beach at last.
Pushing cascades crest bastion, stomach lost
Largesse spread wafts orange blossom bridal
Bestows clouds let go to marshmallow moss
Fearless flight crinoline crash vertical
In gospel gothic deep chasm, drunk mink swims
Stirring fate, bleeding tea leaves bewilder
Leather gil quiver, loaded to the brim
Goddess mink Milda, silk coat cylinder
Poison spore auburn myrrh lassoo arrows
Immune audine preened, unwitting Otto
Seduced by sadist, dart sought embargo
Incapacitated poderoso
Discharged firearm, struck futile, fratenised
Love liege embalms gun powder, satisfied
Ninth February
Hijacked by
Milda Audine
Walk everywhere. Go on long sea voyages;
Ask for days like symphonies of slow music,
banks of blue flowers to wrap you in the moment.
Become immersed in watching clouds
spiders building their webs.
Travel by the slowest modes of transport.
Ride a camel, camp out in the desert.
Move into a museum and declare it real time.
Dress in a crinoline. Decorate your room with
fossils. Read endless books- make your own wine .
Churn your own butter. Grow a garden.
When all else fails,
pull the hands off clocks. Declare it a crime to tell
time.
Hang curtains on the daylight. Hold back the sea.
Ruin the sun and cycles that turn,
annihilate the moon - close the doors on eternity.
Suzanne Delaney
At any rate, she knew she wasn’t alone
With both the baritone and guy with the trombone
‘Twas hard to tell wearing the blindfold
Which was holding onto the bricks of gold
She decided to have fun and play along
Drew the line at joining their silly drinking song
She found herself lounging on a bearskin
And in a crinoline feeling quite feminine
So far the sideline was odd yet somewhat divine
When she recalled needing to catch a flight by nine
No time for shopping in spite of having gold to blow
At any rate, she had a plane to catch and had to go
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on August 17, 2018 for PREMIERE CONTEST NO.170 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 4TH
and on January 18, 2018 for contest AT ANY RATE, IT WILL BE FAST MOVING sponsored by JULIA WARD
"50 Words for Poe: Hysteria"
Incantation to you
Manifesting the Phantom
with the Hysteria Paroxysm Blues
Hellfire Club got nothin’ on you
Hot hysteria paroxysms
flying on your broom
a whole new world
Black cat purrs
You, the catnip for this girl
https://youtu.be/boQ9ytantA0
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
https://youtu.be/ETIPuORrPyo
“I put a spell on you”
“Little gusts of sunshine blew, strangely bright, and lit up the celandines at the wood's edge, under the hazel-rods, they spangled out bright and yellow. And the wood was still, stiller, but yet gusty with crossing sun. The first windflowers were out, and all the wood seemed pale with the pallor of endless little anemones, sprinkling the shaken floor. 'The world has grown pale with thy breath.' But it was the breath of Persephone, this time; she came out of hell on a cold morning. Cold breaths of wind came, and overhead there was an anger of entangled wind caught among the twigs. It, too, was caught and trying to tear itself free, the wind, like Absalom. How cold the anemones looked, bobbing their naked white shoulders over crinoline skirts of green. But they stood it. A few first bleached little primroses too, by the path, and yellow buds unfolding themselves.” D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover
Bechstein, Blüthner, Steinway or a Fazioli Pianoforti
long had he craved to play them.
He was in love with grand pianos, their shape and sheen,
their sweeping contours, their circuit bodies.
His hands, so unmusical, his heart a natural composer
of words but not more than two or three notes together.
He admires from afar
the ornate candelabra set upon polished wood,
a wood so dark it shines and reflects.
He imagines the discrete intricacies of maple and spruce
within its handcrafted mahogany torso.
The sprung brass of muted pedals,
A frame of tensile Swedish steel;
its resounding skeleton,
all built to create both delicate nocturns
or the most vigorous of Hungarian rhapsodies.
Ribs, strings, hornbeam hammers,
Lindenwood keys all strung, spun, or carved
all brought together
to construct one perfect medley.
These grand instruments even when silent
enchanted him. He would run his fingers
over their curvaceous ebony forms
allow fingertips to caress the un-played keys,
white on black almost erotic
when a chaste lid is lifted.
He dreams of playing for a lady in crinoline
a music lover, and he the intense composer
of unspoken love and desire.
He dreams knowing that this cannot be
not then nor ever
as his workman's hands crash down once more
upon his hard-worked and clattering
laptop keys.
I listen to the silence of the twinkling stars,
as they slowly fade in the early morning light.
Past misty mushroom crinoline clouds
Dawn winks through breathy eyelashes
blowing each tiny candle flame out.
Like dreamy silhouettes cast long against
the darkening ominous shadows,
to face another day seems but wasted human sorrow.
Then, through the gloom, sweet, like viscous dripping honey,
your words so tenderly sooth my anxious mind.
Your wit so quick, so wise, so funny,
brightens the dark of the gloomiest night.
With your gentle caress I feel new found warmth
and look upon the awakened face of a brightened sunrise
once again seeing the promise of my heart’s desire
as your warm shaft of healing light starts to mend my broken heart.
09/01/2017
Bechstein, Blüthner, Steinway or Fazioli,
even an archaic Pianoforti,
long had he craved to play them all.
He was in love with their shape and sheen,
their sweeping contours, their circuit bodies.
He loves the sensuality of maple and spruce,
those handcrafted mahogany torsos,
the sprung brass of muted pedals,
deep resonations
within a grand iron skeleton
a tri-legged, beast of beauty,
built to create the most delicate of nocturns,
or a thumping Hungarian Rhapsody.
He would run his fingers,
over their curvaceous sable forms
allow fingertips to caress un-played keys,
the almost erotic white and black harmony
beneath a chaste lid.
He imagines playing
for a lady in crinoline perhaps,
and he the intense composer
of unspoken desires.
Sad to say,
his clumsy laptop fingers,
clattered upon that keyboard,
his coda forever silent.