Tuesday, July 14, 2009

A Number of Poem Drafts

Waters of Pleasure

Waters of pleasure
poured out over deserts
uncover treasures
in caverns of stone,
with sacred charisms
unbar every prison
like light through the prisms
of fountains a-glow,
and wash away sorrow
or else make it hallowed
with dreams of tomorrow
felt in our bones.

No, You May Not Kiss Me

No, you may not kiss me;
that never could be wise.
There is purring in my throat
and on my lips are lies;
my fangs are now so bared,
the howl in me would rise.
No, you may not kiss me;
death is in my eyes.

How Fair Is Paper White


How fair is paper white,
unwrit by stroke of ink;
it begs the mind to think
and turn to words its light.
It yearns with hope and waits
for thought to sally forth
like blizzards from the north
sent out through icy gates,
or sunlight's burst at dawn,
or rain upon the lawn.

Holger Danske

In caverns old and dark and deep
the angels Holger Danske keep
against the time when men are weak,
forgetting heart-wise courage meek,
and know no more of fortitude
and sword and shield alike refuse;
then Ogier with his Viking beard
will rise to strike the foe with fear,
with sword and axe to lead the fight
against defeat and fall of night.

Cicadas in the Oak Trees

Cicadas in the oak trees
trade in memories;
they gather and sell each one,
just as you and I
trade clouds that walk the sky
in languid summer sun.

Floods

The freedom sweet that pours like glory down through beams of sun--the taste of swelt'ring air, the feel of blanket-warmth--the scent of light that wafts--the sound of sun like bees that buzz--if I forget these things, let floods pour forth to wash my heart to sea, for it has died and lost its living fires.

Noontime Traffic

The windmill grass lies by widow's tears,
the day-flower dripping sorrows shorn;
the canyon cool with sundry earths
holds senna blooming in the morn.
Yet here I sit in concrete places,
shaded from siesta sun;
the air is stiff and bound, unpleasant:
noontime traffic has begun.

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