Short Satyrs Poems

whose bliss is this

when all ye have tranquility
absorbed in meditation
as purified drops of water
are drawn into a sponge

a wild and roving gypsy girl 
this pagan wench becomes
and takes me to the byroads
where fauns and satyrs run....

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Sometimes 
I write poems about
 Wine and other essential
 Molehills of Life at 
4 AM when 
Bacchus is still awake
Conniving in 
Sheer revelry at the
 Mere notion he invented
Satyrs and other
Preternatural nymphs.
Speaking of nymphs, I relish the whim that at 
4:10 AM or thereabouts, if I rush outside into the
 Oozing Black Syrup, I might brush against one,
Intentionally....

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“How may I help you?” asked the quasi-mother earth counter girl at the espresso bar/quasi-coffee house, “Oh, give me a cup of house coffee; after all, I’m just a caffeine slut,” I replied,

She looked startled, then controlled, gave me my beverage and returned to the cultivated profanity of a repressed wildflower aboveground disconnected from her roots in the fertilely non-sterile soil of mythic satyrs and sacred whores....

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Nurtured into a budding bloom
My hands are busy, they start and soon
Shake with blue; white; doves intone
Bones, body brown with eyes that drone
Like tiny gashes sewn up by hand
Tempered temper: fueled and fanned

Dripping dew from simple soil
Bead and bend, like drops of oil
Slick, smooth and shadowed still,
Rush the ground like boulders fill
Forgotten craters; satyrs; round and then
Devil’s whittled son, left wooden red....

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Crystal country morning,
a splash of red barn,
just enough for that perfect painting.

A festive fairyland
where satyrs dance among
the wooden-glass spires dotting the land.

Did you catch a glimpse
of the snow fairy
as she whisks from tree-to-tree, like a honeybee.

Just outside of the
human realm lay those moments of childhoods imagination 
inside the magic crystal country.



5-17-2021
ALL YOURS (May 18) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand...

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(I)
I am the very tip of
Byzantium’s jagged lance,
the bridge between
our forefather's fall
and the luminosity of the
our sons' golden age

(II)
I am the
Antiochian knight
burdened by
Mehmet’s yoke,
my torch
blazes with a
Varangian ire
that turns pagans and
satyrs, robed in
postmodern depravity,
into stone

(III)
My tale unravels
on cobbled pathways
mirroring Hagia Sophia’s spires,
beckoning before the
celestial halo –
apotheosis veiled by
dawn’s icy veneer...

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