Wherein Christine journeys across London alone, taking in as much theatre as she can before practicality snatches her back to New Hampshire.
Descent
Bronze and silver glitter glint
Beneath a smog-filled sky,
Whilst inky night flows with Intent
Thru rivers deep and wide;
–
The city sleeps, and wakes, and breathes,
A hush is on the air,
Whilst distance dampen’d pageantry
Parades its streaming fare;
–
Within the hold of fantasy
This world is seen below,
As if to tantalize the thought
And make a preference grow;
–
Yet real it is, make no mistake,
The glow fire’s glimm’ring dawn
Hails roads’ and rivers’ majesty,
Not idle Dreamer’s yawn;
–
Look with Intent and you will see,
Within the fireworks’ show,
The Craft of Man and ecstasy
Of life passing below.
* * * * *
Customs: Encore
Giant jellyfish still loom above my head,
The line’s yet long, the air is still quite dry.
What’s changed is me, no trepidating tread,
Self-crippling fear, denying to belie;
Now there’s but me, firm set upon a path,
Not knowing where it leads or how it winds,
Yet that’s okay; My calculating hath
Deduced that walking thus loosens my binds;
There is no reason I should walk in fear
Of who I am or where I wish to go,
Nor need I count Gold’s lack of interest dear,
Nor serving lips, false deeds, or Kinship’s show;
My steps must tread on stones that please but me:
If I walk long, like-minded boots I’ll see.
* * * * *
Me
I’m afraid I’m a very boring person,
I talk of plays and poems and of snow,
I talk of trees and mountains and bright Mindscapes,
I talk of brass, of willow, and play Go;
I’m not that good, (I’ve got no one to test),
My skills are not a practicum of kind,
With what I use to live and take my rest
I’m terribly bored and horridly disclined;
I’m willful, moody, caught within a sea
Of tines and type, I linger and I doubt,
I don’t make friends; I gravitate to be
With what I like, quite blundering about;
I don’t know how this thing that’s me exists,
And yet I do; (Though, “what to do with Me” persists.)
* * * * *
Yojimbo
Constructs within a maze of ink
Flash fire within a melded can
Tin glide thru a cratered rink
Freeze frame thru a stuttered bran
Swing slice in a lated wood grove
Cross piece in a petal wind
Breeze crisp in a grizzled good wove
Creep dash in a kettled bend
Frost fast in a brindled hood, Yo
Keepsake in a bamboo floor, Jim
Twilight in a summer’s heat, Bo
Crash deep in a curdled roar:
Honor held in a well-taught hand
Father’s son, Proud, protect this land.
* * * * *
Tea For One
I’m not prim and proper
Nor am I stuck-up tight
But tea’s a meditative state
That must be taken right;
–
Shape the teapot so the spout
Does not ensure a drip
And make the strainer’s holes right small
So leaves don’t give the slip;
–
Place desserts on plates that are
Appropriate to size
Don’t let them slide about alone
Like googly, giant eyes;
–
Give me a fork that’s newly clean
Not used before for egg
And when I ask for tea for one
Don’t look as though I’m vague;
–
I can have a tea for one
Quite happily alone
For ’tis the act that pleases me
Not mere consumption’s tone.
* * * * *
City of Angels
The interplay between a writer’s work
And how they live is frequently bemused;
There’s no accounting for the taste of quirk
And oftentimes their motives are confused;
They haven’t need to dally with deceit,
And yet deceit of Self is how they live,
Until they’re forced to wrestle with defeat
And find the answers what they’ve writ can give;
For it’s all there within the spattered page,
Concealed beneath a wall of flattered doubt,
A fantasy within a printed cage,
Perfumed with lies, which others seek to flout;
Beneath a writer’s words are truth-bared Souls,
Which they don’t see ’til drowned with falsehood’s Tolls.
* * * * *
XLVII
Within the confines of a fertile stage
I take my rest and linger on the page;
Within the text of terrifying sage
I loose my Voice and question thru the age;
Within the fields of fantasy and doubt
I find my Joy and rapture in the rout
Of vacant spleens and carapace of joy
Within the tomb of barren show and Toy;
Within the toil of Honing Craftsman’s Pride
I find respite and walk the swelling Tide
Along the shore of Passion’s frantic bide
I pace alone and watch the currents ride;
Within the confines of this fertile Sea
I loose my Heart and let my spirit free.
* * * * *
XLVIII
Is it a curse to see beneath the text?
To watch two shows where other Men see one?
The first, the real, bestowed with life and breath,
The second, ghost, flick-shadowing begun.
Is it a curse to hear two voices speak
In mirrored lines, when other Men hear one?
The first presented with intention brief,
The second whole, with truthful Heart now sung.
Is it a curse to feel a song betrayed
Whilst noting still the good that stands before?
To see potential in a blasted heath,
Hear fragrant notes ill-nurtured, bland, and bored.
‘Tis not a curse, this beauty haunting me,
And yet it hurts, for others do not see…
* * * * *
Misconstrued
Exchanging looks within a crowded car,
I don’t know you, yet census isn’t far,
The way our eyes and quick expressions meet
Tells me we share opinions on this feat.
I wouldn’t know what sort of day you’ve had,
Or if your mum was feeling kind of bad,
But I can tell we both are not impressed
By how the rowdy crowd nearby doth jest,
So we share looks and smirking, secret eye
Whilst glancing left at noisesome bother by,
And then we grin and shrug and look about
Until it’s time for us to both get out;
That’s when I realize, (belatedly),
That you thought you’d been flirting well with me.
* * * * *
Awaiting Dismiss
Coming, maybe…
* * * * *
XLIX
An iron hand doth hold me in this place,
Whisp’ring to write, though what I know not where
Nor why, nor how, nor caring for disgrace,
I lift my pen and bend to Idler’s care;
With ne’er a thought the words scrawl past this page,
Masking these lines with sugar-sweetened lace,
Fanning across the wisdoms of an Age
With chary toil and sprinting bosom’s chase;
The birth of this my iron hand doth guess
Cannot be seen or felt with senses sure,
Yet care not, friend, to scorn or count it less,
For here within you’ll find this bosom’s cure;
To sit and toil without a thought to Why
Is where all berths of Inspiration lie.
* * * * *
L
The trappings of a dream suffuse my bed
And linger fresh within my bosom’s ward,
Filling a sea with tears of spectrant dread
And hopeful grace, arousing weeping’s chord;
I cling to dreams to give my Spirit strength
For fast Despair is quick to seal his grasp,
To leave me weak, apanic with the length
Of path and toil I’ve chosen close to clasp;
For never have I deigned aspiring small,
Reaching for Stars beyond the End of Time,
And ever do I touch a glass-maze wall,
Barring my way, despite seduction’s chime;
And so I dream with glist’ring eyes of Stars,
Feeling my way past trials that merit Mars.
* * * * *
Bright Star
(a dancing ditty)
–
Touch close, hold fast
Tight choir, short cast
Breath high, breath long
Sigh bright, sigh strong
–
Sing song, cry call
Lift high, stand tall
Dance wide, leap sky
Twirl star, whirl fly
–
Shine bright, Shine far
Sky light, sky star
Sing song, sing sky
Dance long, dance fly
