Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Her Dead Lover in the Mist/Poetry

Her Dead Lover in the Mist

Great billowing soaring,
sweeps his cloak, the mist,
up to the lake with eyes-
eyes that we can see,
eyes that coldly glisten,
eyes like diamond earrings,
in the freezing fog,
I see the freezing eyes,
sweeping towards the lake.

A stalwart duck,
floats upon the water,
to me his flapping wings,
flip around, almost-
revolving, in form of clock,
and here begins a great ticking.
Tick, tock, throughout the beach-
the fog is drawing ever nearer,
flashing me with cold eyes.
To who-
to who do they belong?

I gasp.
The cold eyes I see in the mist,
are those of my lover.

Lord have mercy on me!

The clock ticks, and the duck goes under.
The fog, is overtaking me.

I cry for help.
My lover has come back for me . . .
dead he within the mist,
sentient now as he sweeps,
much like he had,
in our lives together,
when in the night,
my goose pimples were aroused,
in the cold frigid bedroom,
where I'd lay my head,
in the sinking shame flow,
that we'd carry away deeply,
into the perpetual flowing infamous-
cloaks and shawls and rags,
of possibly perfected picture,
to the world until tonight,
when, those gaudy shawls ripped,
rags then they had turned.

And the stream
the stream of fire,
of my shame began again.

It went forever,
until one night,
I drew my knife,
and cut the fire with cold.

His burning eyes were
frigidly rent,
until tonight they were vanquished,
for now the fog,
has prickled my skin with goose pimples-
again, and again, and again, and again!

I'll never be rid of that man,
and when I grow old,
years into the future,
I might, want to
lay down on my bed-
till I hear the whisper,
'join me.'
In death, those frigid eyes,
those frigid eyes . . .
get away from me,
cloudy mist,
so I cannot hear the hour,
in which I created those,
frigid eyes.

Upon the shores of Lake Michigan, this afternoon, my family was enchanted by a mist that crept over us with no apparent reason for its manifestation. It had no purpose while it swept through the meager area of the beach we had utilized, but faded away after rolling amidst this area for a short time, seeming to have had its fill. I wondered about the games it had been playing upon us, for such a mist was unlikely in its form, not only tangibly in form, but also in its manner, its relatively short lifespan. Perhaps its lifespan was shorter, than we knew it to be . . . as you see here.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

I Kiss the Fire/Poetry

I Kiss the Fire

The sea billows,
Swiftly over the meadows,
While I wait here sitting,
Beseeching the maelstrom,
To break through me,
So I will be able to feel,
The wind as it tangles me . . .
The fire as it blows through,
The forest that hungers.

There is forest that hungers within me,
I know that I can trust,
It to devour me,
So I take my leave,
As slowly I shift,
Turning, at the sound of the wind.

I stand with my poor arms,
Raised as eagle wings,
Teetering slightly,
While the storm waits for me,
As I have waited for it,
And, I embrace it.

Its disguise to me has shaken,
For I know the rage has been used,
And I know a brutal kiss,
The fire blows upon my lips.

Why have you been disguised,
A mask, that crept from the Earth,
Seeking from me a flavored penchant,
That has zapped my last zeal, and honored strength.

Oh, holy wise Earth,
You have teased me so,
Oh, your passionate urges,
Have gently worn my heart,
When all was sunny,
And I never knew what you hid,
I never knew you were really a storm,
God forgive me!
God forgive me!
How has this come to me?
Now I can’t stop it.
I kiss the- the-
I kiss the fire.