Saturday, February 05, 2005

Poetic Scrawls

Scrawled out in various places; somewhat different from my usual scribbles.

Commonplace Things

The light lies softly on my eyes,
then dies;
broken upon a battered wheel,
tidal pulses that I feel,
the light lies softly on my eyes.

Touch is but a taste and then
the sons of men
leap up at little whispers;
and, as for vespers,
touch is but a taste of then.

The sweet of light is softly thrown
with gentle moan
across a tree that, lying, lies,
where the tree, in dying, dies,
the sweet of light its softest throne.

The child is made by folk and sun,
the little one
is flesh and lighted heat;
from head to dusty feet,
the child is made by folk and sun.


My thoughts are pendant in a void
dewdrops suspended on the air
before they splash the ground,
planets spinning in their space
around a spinning sun.

A gleam of light through crystal glows,
a rainbow leaps, unbodied,
a newborn spirit in the light.

My thought is in that promise,
the moment before the rainbow's birth.

Winter Sunset

the light is rosy pale
the sun swings low
the moon has raised her head
a trifle early today
my fingers are numbed
by cold that makes my breath
billow out clouds
like a dragon's sign
all is pure and good
not made for man
but pure and good
and man can live
with things not made for man

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