Ah, to write again, though mind you I am, regardless, still not writing for fun. I am on an errand of massive proportions to write a depressing, morbid poem for a teacher, two in fact. And I am dragging my feet every bit of the way, and so I turned to this to create an element of fun to help me try to enjoy this poem. See, I am already beginning to feel the urges of love for it.
Unfortunately, that was a joke.
(Break the Snake)
Wooden planks built up coral reefs
Holding a sleeping willow wisp
The moon shuddered down to dark depths in brief
and the Blue Hands that taught us to kiss
Pushed back the silken cords of a delicate nest for rest
I watched him twisting inside the cold, biting net
With salt in the eyes of blooming black rocks
Seagulls cried out into that grey dawn where I met
today. His blue eyes were painted with a tear that mocks
when I last tried to hold an untamed beast.
Sitting, sunken into my rickety silver chair
Breathing sullenly, with savage eyes
He glares at me without a trace of care,
Daring me to to try to even surprise
him.
I have only temporarily imposed on him, that will make no difference.
In the oily night, laying frozen in my bed,
I listened to the creature who gnashed his terrible teeth,
Howled in shivering breaths, and clawed at my door of red.
I could hear him scream and seethe.
I whispered," cry, rooster, cry, for night has devoured my sun."
My lone cottage perched as solitary as a tree
Was shaken that night in its boots
Pans littered the ground, their cries calling out to me,
Rushing out from my barricaded room, holding an old sea root,
I glanced at my swinging, ruby door, and heard the waning calls.
My wild thing was in a dance
Singing curly eared chants
He span with the fervor of an unfortunate romance
Raking hands pine for the chance
To grasp onto more than a small, plain toad.
Finnissimme. Thank you for suffering through the first poem and now I will offer a poem from one of the masters of art, and whim. Emily Dickinson,
There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
of cathedral tunes.
Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar,
but internal difference
where the meanings are.
None may teach it anything
"Tis the seal, despair-
and imperial affliction
sent us of the air.
When it comes, the landscape listens,
shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, 'tis like ht distance
On the look of death.
