A Laden Quill Pen in Hand
Lay a quill a pen in hand moulted feather of a swan;
Jest a written piece of verse wrote in stammering breath;
And important historical documented quest;
Wonders of wandering authors protest dawn;
Black it’s the chosen ink stirred upon drawn;
A sole paper now being presented to be dressed;
Far be it from the story to be mis pressed;
With writings of HIStory penned brawn;
8/21/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026© Italian Sonnet
DISAPPEARANCE
Light baptised my forsaken body
red whirling a glimmering ocean
Perseidon’s crystalline tears
drip-dropped into mine
manifesting oyster shells
Odysseus smiled blinking
compassion from diamond
rays of Arcturus
embalming my shoulders
with his terrible travels
Silent my soulmate disappeared
crawling onto an opposite bank
into fields of chaffed wheat
towards abyss black
She moulted into grains of rice
or maybe a ladybird’s swoon
floating between Venus wings
seeking her paintbrushes
cleaned and singing
I sought strawberry
yogurt
What else could
sorrow do ?
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
&Song2013
Potential is
the moulted skin
of a snake in jest—
laced with
the plastic tatters
of an old crow's nest.
A makeshift bulletproof vest.
With a valiant crest.
Worn by a soldier
on a hollow conquest—
to claim broken toys
in a fetid wormy chest.
It means nothing.
Searching
Searching,
in the debris of the past,
scraps of casually discarded emotion.
Searching,
in hastily trashed yesterdays,
an inkling of moments flung away.
Searching,
in heaps of rubbished words,
that tiresome sigh of defeated thought.
Searching,
in the layers of moulted skin
the wilting self that once was true.
Searching,
in the reflections between the ripples,
for the whispered pangs of roaring desire.
Searching,
in the blank eyes streaming endlessly,
an echo of the faintest sigh of new life.
Searching.
Scented ember a moulted smoulder
Skied as crackling softness
Spied and felt thru a film of dexterity
Uncalibrated, solvent, translucid
Trance and dance
Street fleet, guttering inhabited by creased indoctrination
Yet to be ironed
Yet to be pressed and left on the stoop
Cornered like bluefin, fed, foddered and canned
'Til the ink runs dry
Dust, seen but not sawn
Settles on my pine needles
Green hue askew now turns to blue
Appointed to the disjointed and as hard edges glint
Drones trudge thru sludge to fund the mints
(I know these words are bare, and that this poetry is bleak but it's channelled from a source which I seek.
A clear blue nectarous swivelling blissmist.)
With wax and feathers
Strapped to his arms,
Icarus took flight like a bird,
Escaping Crete,
The labyrinth far below.
Forgetting his father’s advice,
Feeling freedom,
Like a moth to a light,
He soared towards the sun.
The wax melted and he moulted,
Then down he plummeted,
To the ocean below,
Where the waves washed over his corpse.
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