Spiral carved spheres on long green stems
brimming with redness
Fiery egos afloat in spring air
Layered petal enclosures, soft cups,
paper thin,
Leaves tapered upward in brisk solidarity
Beneath the sun, unapologetic and fierce
Rebel flowers, masters of attention
Bulbs cradled in mottled ground
To set the spring in motion,
when sight is subdued by a stage of blooms
escape hatch from burdens worldly
from whatever drags us into bleakness
Unblemished red tulips, clumped together,
a shrine
the ruddiness of momentary
that moves your soul
when you are silent
( A sequel to my poem “The Lady of Whitelace Castle” )
Are ye, my lady, an apparition
or perchance a fair servant frail?
The ruddiness of pinks
touching neither your cheeks
as you wander about so pale
My lips turn blue from winter’s cold
under this arch of elm sentinels
growing quickly despondent
not knowing the truth
of your present presence tale
Speak, please now, that I may dispel
ghost sagas of Whitelace myths…
Be ye her Mistress
in this ghostly vision
or the fair servant once lost in the mist?
Some hold the truth in the latter
but for me the true facts do matter
as I am the one
that bid Mistress farewell
when her hand was promised another
It’s been bantered about for years
that you seek true love unattained
I’m wondering now
if our forbidden vows
is that love that you search for in vain
I beg that ye now speak your story
tossing my sanity here out as witness
for in health’s decline
my heart also seeks
the lost love of the Castle’s Mistress
I stand here now in this snow drift
shivering skin on now brittle bones
I could surely die
A satisfied man
If my joining your spirit would atone
© 2014 Debra Squyres 01/30
Wandering across this satiated beach
Occasionally lit by the ruddiness of moon
Softly lashed by a brackish winter wind
Flavored with the hint of winters first snow
Uneven staggered imprints upon the waters edge
Carving my pathway through faces in the sand
Marking instances of this clarity ridden trekking
Across this rough faceted cacophonic seashore
Embossments of my greatest creations sounds
Nothing more than a drop in this art filled ocean
Overlooked or misunderstood by searching eyes
While once many voices fade out to near silence
Beyond the sandcastles written past many twilights
The waves filled with new voices upon tides rolling in
Washing away his thoughts and the last of his essence
Cleansing all impressions of vaguely recalled verses
Smoothed over and lost his footprints in the sand
Gone the previously heard verses of a friend
Just an instant in remembrance of an almost existed
Withdrawn from the silence of this crowded beach sand
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