Silence telegraphs with empty leaves-
lines that flowed in likeness, ink and clue
what once was filled with calligraphic ease
and endeavored to connect, just as you drew.
Of arcs entwined and crossing interplait
a scratch adorned the page as I cannot.
Written from this shine and crimson faith,
this rose in thorns will finish my last thought.
Urged to move in pacing and in slant,
on fertile ground sent forth from secret souls
in purposed guise impressing and entranced-
and held in hands imploring rhythmic tolls.
Your cursive memory lingers and demands
confession, written -scored- in my own hand.
Thinking a bit about writing -actually physical writing- this morning. The art of penmanship is fading. I never excelled at it, mind you, but I appreciate the beauty and craft of well-done handwriting. And the personality of handwriting…it is so intimate.
Anyway, this poem started as a few random couplets, and then blossomed into a sonnet. Let me know what you think.
In her imaginary distraction,
stops as she looks around.
She selects a turn,
the one of coloring
a highlighter pink
in the field of grey-
of a sacred familiar-
and she pursues it.
She captures the banded words,
a gathering of flowers
to fill her hands
and draw in close,
holding her breath,
across the face
of the moon,
lights tinder by
in a slow procession
passing from dark
and back to dark.
that brief time,
of all bright with allure
of anointed time [when it resolves]
and on the lake below
in the shallows-
a spark burst
in sun-ly ways-
an excimer flare-
a dazzle- beware
of this exclaimated
when the airs
are gone – vaporizing
and in the moment,
a crumbly proclivity
appears and departs
in a fluted nigh,
and we are left with
nary embers or sighs.
I do enjoy the sounds of words. Also, I enjoy the freedom, as a poet, to create a “word” where none exists -if it suits my purpose for conveying a mood or contributing to a sound collage. This poem, I think, does both. Thanks for reading.