Bathe me in the lavishry
Of your shining arms.
Look down on me and smile.
Open your haughty heart
And receive my tiny body.
Hold me up, never down.
O heavenly beacon,
Your summery hands
Touch my cheeks,
Warm my skin, my soul.
Scathe me in the savagery
Of your biting arms.
Loom above my head and frown,
Unsheathe your sweltering sword,
And release my tiny body.
Heat me up, hold me down.
This heathenly beacon,
Its simmering hands
Scorch my skin,
Burn my sins, my soul.
We are all small flickers of light
drifting about and floating around,
but we stop for the lens.
A camera clicks, and we freeze,
glued to the cellulose.
Airy wisps of dried grass
drift through the summer sky.
That sky:
a magnificent purple hue,
“purple sky at night,
sailor’s delight.”
I love that saying.
I remember boyhood,
watching the sky go
from dusk ’til dawn.
I’d take note of all the hues.
I’d try to count the millions of stars.
I’d try to be a man on the moon.
That moon-
an imperfect orb of yellow and white
kissed by craters and marred by shadows,
Earth’s little wonder.
I wish I was Neil Armstrong.
Shriveled husks and dying leaves
float through autumn’s air.
That air-
the crisp, frozen breaths of wind.
Blowing through the hills and cliffs
shifting the limbs and branches.
Leaves crunching under foot,
Making that fragile crackling,
followed closely by tiny snaps
and finished with the thud of my sneakers.
All trivial, yet vital sounds.
Those sounds-
the gentle crackle and popping of fires,
wind whistling through the fields.
the tapping of the trees’ branches on my window.
The air and ground both frozen
the icy grasp of winter’s hands
those hands
a terrible force of nature
clawing at the weak
pulling them down
greys and whites combine at all sides
coming together, blurring my vision
the wintry breath comes quick now
chilling all those who dare tread
out of doors under the snowy sun
that sun
an oasis in the bleak sky
beckoning the weariest of travelers
i wish i had waxy wings
to carry me up there
IV.
after the bitter elder of winter passes
the child of Spring brings its precious rains
those rains
sweet to taste
warm to feel
fertile in their aire
after the skies get flooded and stuffed
the great star arrives and dries the ground
and the children of Man find Nature again
dancing in the warmth of the rays
feeling the freedom of the animals
those animals
beasts and treasures to behold
held in your hand, some to fear
Man’s partner’s on Earth
V.
After the Child of Spring
grows and ripens back into Summer,
the woman of Autumn comes to clear
Earth for the spite and embrace of Winter.
Just like Man, our seasons age and mature,
Just like Man, our seasons are fragile infants,
Just like Man, our seasons are embittered forces
Just like Man, our seasons die to give way to the young.
It was in high school that I made the decision to become a writer. My fascination with language was piqued, and I have not been deterred from the love affair since. It was during this time that I first started writing poetry, and I have kept a good bit of that material, most of which is terrible. In finite terms, I was largely concerned with insects and celestial bodies for some reason. I wrote about the soul frequently but rarely achieved any depth. Occasionally, however, an idea flowed from my teenage pen that is worth revisiting and remembering for posterity. Here’s one of them, an image piece, entitled “Those Tiny Fingers.”
Those tiny fingertips
make tiny fists in the air.
The tiny baby shrieks,
for his mother has gone.
I found a few other poems from back then that I still like, so I may post another one later after I’ve done some preliminary polishing.
O glorious wookie, how we love thee!
You speak in a language only you can understand,
grunts and groans, yelps and yawns.
Your shaggy hair so silky smooth,
almost sensuous to one’s touch.
With a looming height,
you scare off many a foe.
But with a eyes so bright,
your friends love you so.
What would be a fitting name for you?
Defender of the Just, friend to Han Solo.
Co-pilot for the Millennium Falcon.
Fred? No.
Sparky? No.
Chewbacca. This is your title.
O Chewy,
keep fighting for the safety of the weak and oppressed