PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Dreading the pending last call every night,

knowing the spigot will turn off the flow.

I’ll stagger homeward in my drunken plight,

not caring if I’ve reached my plateau.



I sit and sip ‘til my olive is bare,

wobbling with fingers twisted in my hair.



Night after night I play the same old game,

mixing it up with Seagrams and Schweppes.

Knowing I have only me to take blame,

pondering if I should start the twelve steps.

Blocked out by a celestial object

while attempting to follow my path.

Darkness creeping into my thoughts

while light was kept from my soul.



Who knows why I’ve felt this way

while others follow the brightness.



I wonder how things will finally fall

when it’s time for my last breath.

For I have tread this path way too lightly,

all the while my life eclipsed.

He said, "Good tailor, I ask you to make
"a pair of stockings, purple and opaque---
"and weave them, if you please, to my legs' measure
"that I may wear them for my Lady's pleasure.
"(Hers you have made of sheer silk, wholly white.)
"Nor draw conclusions or judge the appearance
"of my request---it is quite licitly
"considered, without worldly interference,
"and without shadow of perversity.
"Shoeless---in public clothed; in privacy
"less clad---we wear our stockings to delight
"each other and, thus, pleasantly beget
"desires well satisfied.  By day or night,
"I share this with my Lady, Juliet."

Starward
 
[jlc]

Our house is in a meadow filled with flowers.
There, we are wont to spend some sunlit hours
of summers blazoned, cloudless, casual days.
Surrounding all that, ancient walls and hedges
protect the whole estate and mark its edges:
the height of them prevents perverted gaze.
Clad only in our stockings---his opaque
and purple; mine more white and rather sheer---
but otherwise unclothed and nearly bare,
we revel in the licit love we make,
the almost naked pleasures that we share,
having a peace far from our families' feud,
not Capuleted and not Montagued;
and, toward Verona, neither wish nor fear.
 
Starward
 
[jlc]

"Viktor's strange way of life inspired the great poetess who resided in one of the best situated of the lakeside castles to write a symbolic poem, though not all who know and love the poem, are informed about how it came to be written, or would believe if told."
---Robert Aickman, "Niemandwasser"

Look to that castle, tall upon the shore
that fronts upon the lake's placidity.
From there issues profoundest poetry,
adorned in most amazing metaphor
and also most compelling simile.
Although the world may scoff with giggling doubt,
not knowing what those verses are about,
those who have known and loved the poems agree
that in this penetralia, eaxh soul
finds terms both cognizant and beautiful:
like this, the latest, woven in smooth rhyme---
in elegaic form, a lover's story,
a subtle and symbolic allegory
set on the shore of life, the lake of time.
 
Starward
 
[jlc]

O sovereign Sun, a legion odes dost thou inspire,

as at thy shrine, the planets gather to adore.

Unthinkable is a day absent of thy sacred light.



What gentle morning dove has set thy soul afire...

such energy that emanates through every pore,

as thy ardent blaze ravages the boughs of eager trees?



Lackluster are the silhouettes cast by the night,

unlike the amorous shadows gilt by thy desire...

Thy zealous fervency ignites into their very core.



Thou paints the achromatic skies with solar sight

in fiery hues reflected by impassioned seas...

as entranced mists, in homage, pirouette below thine eyes.



May thou ne'er take umbrage, may nature ever please...

and in thy warming embrace, we shall e'er aspire to rise.





© Ravenne

Entangled strings of innocence hold fast

to once beribboned, naive yesterdays,

when silver moonbeams bathed in purple haze

and starlight held enchantment in their cast.

Though tears may dim the moments from the past,

to kindling, melancholy tinder strays;

intrinsic trails to blaze from newborn rays

invoking joyful memories to last.



Horizons, rich with fallow earth, await

the severed bindings of retrospection,

thus granting the unlock of future's gate.

The birthing of a new season begun,

as beckoning adventures conjugate...

and sullen shadows fade beneath the sun.





© Ravenne

Brusque are October winds that coldly blow

insouciant to the sorrow of the sea;

its jilted supplications, woeful, flow

rippling the surface of iniquity.



Importunate, the brine that greets the sun;

Threnodies bled of crimson lullaby...

and empathetic tears meet horizon

as dusk crescendos in a cerise sky.



Besotted breezes dazzled by the scene

now know the ache of unrequited yearn.

Poetic justice... as the libertine

falls victim to the fickle tides that turn.



The ocean's beauty many suitors seek.

Zephyrs lament...Symphony Pathétique'.







© Ravenne

The curtains on my window softly part

as, gently, wafts a breeze that calls to me;

an augury of a journey made each night.

My spirit soars on slumber's lustrous flight

to follow trails of soul-brailled memory...

perchance to find a homestead for my heart.



Within a secret journal, buried deep,

whispers a treasured time revived in sleep.



A dream, an achromatic pastoral view

bathed soft in light, sparked recognition of

a place unknown, yet so familiar too...

as if, from far before this life, I knew

the rhythmic cadence of exquisite love;

its heartbeat clearing pathways home... to you.





© Ravenne