June 9, 2008 by Deightine.

I look up to Urania and ask what I have done,
and glance over my shoulder at Clio stalking my steps.
I tell Calliope I am unhappy no matter how far I run,
while Melpomene powders my eyes in rosehips.
Erato no longer visits me in my dreams at night,
leaving me without even Polyhymnia to sing me to sleep.
I look to Thalia whom denies my laughter’s right,
and from Euterpe I hear not a peep.
Terpsichore never dances before my eyes,
no longer to have my presence graced with her light.
I swear to all above that none of them hear my sighs,
as my sweet musings fade off into dark night.

Let my prayers beat gently against the bottoms of clouds,
rising like clinging smoke from these pressed key exultations.
I find not my inspiration in parties or crowds,
but in those long moments of iris adoring invocation.
My bigamy is a tender thing of whispers and gifts,
each muse visiting in her own time and manner.
Every breath is saved for attempts at preventing their rifts,
when each speaks to another about what I’ve given her.

So I kneel before your collected inspirations,
tears coming to my eyes as I feel my dreams slipping.
Hear my plea to accept this broken poet with no patience,
and to grant just one moment to send his heart skipping.

I promise to remember you when I break heart or new bread,
and to cherish your murmurings every moment ’til I am dead.

Either way I give thanks before I sleep…
     into which dreams I pray you creep.

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June 9, 2008 by Deightine.

I beg forgiveness fair and silent Selyne,
for the moments that the poets prey on your image.
Tying ourselves in knots romanticizing your likeness,
when you deserve a fairer pilgrimage.

The wordsmith in me cries out at this very act,
in that I salute you in this common habit.
Always in the past we brought you flattery,
in hopes of wooing maidens; we began it.

And for these reasons my eyes part curtains of glass,
to chase your soft light across the sky.
Sorrow at remembering how few times I’ll see you pass,
in these stolen moments before I die.

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May 8, 2008 by Deightine.

I feel the quivering twitch of the old pain coming
old angers, new rages, old angst newly drawing
like puss from a wound that refuses to heal
scent triggered, memory lingered, a tired red weal.

My fingers go to the pen, tips touch the key
leaving me to wonder which writing it will be
An extension of the elbow, of the shoulder and mind
a curiosity surfaces over what I’ll leave behind.

The curtain draws but my words do not
it isn’t because I’m choke or that I’ve forgot
But because on my wrist lingers a tender brush
of hands not my own or in any rush.

I move to write, to vent, to feel and remember
but at that soft condolence my thoughts all dismember
And she brings to me pain unlike any I can recall
as fingers slack, mind hazes and I forget it all.

—-

Sometimes the most tortured soul is the one that finds forgiveness… because it sometimes murders the ability to feel when every second you feel pain, someone is there to pick you up. People consider it a blessing, but it isn’t for those of us that spend so much time coasting and only remembering what emotion feels like.

Sometimes we need to hurt… how else can we remember what it is like to be happy?

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January 6, 2008 by Deightine.

Over widdle and wattch,
went the Biddlyblatch,
jumping and hopping each row;
But who gives a fiddle,
or dares answer the riddle,
of where a Biddlyblatch might go?

Not I! says the crier,
Maybe I? says the liar,
while the fool stands around and drools;
But a nuisance it is,
that eats our grapes and our figs,
and breaks every farmer’s rules!

Does a Biddlyblatch eat honey?
or look like a bunny?
Nobody seems to know!
The apple barrels are empty?
we had saved up plenty!
Where does all of our food go?!

We searched the widdle and wattch,
finding no Biddlyblatch,
and began to search the trees;
We poked them with sticks,
checked all the cricks,
but no Biddlyblatch did we see!

As we were about to give up,
maybe sit down to sup,
we heard the most haunting sound!
The farms were all dark,
the sound couldn’t be a lark,
and we kept turning round and round.

We gathered our weapons and sticks,
walked barefoot back through the cricks,
and approached a low berry patch;
We double-checked our greaves,
parted green and blue leaves,
to find the culprit we couldn’t catch!

A Biddlyblatch has lips made like bow,
mud on each and every toe,
and giggles the whole time it’s hid;
But try as we might,
to chase and to fight,
we could not chase down this kid!

So let this be a lesson,
an old man’s confession,
about the Biddlyblatch and its run;
We spent days stressed out chasing,
our feet sore from tripping and racing,
while the Biddlyblatch just had fun.

—-

A little tribute to the stylings of Carroll.

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December 29, 2007 by Deightine.

I am the Barker,
Lesser staged, all enraged;
A mustachioed siren calling,
hands out I beckon, harder as they reckon.

Leading back the timid,
my cane parts the curtain, a nickel from each certain;
The innocent veil their eyes but peak around,
pupils tag your every curve, blushing attentions swerve.

You stand with conscience tightly veiled,
eyes distant and cheeks redding, clothing shedding;
Steely eyed you regard the crowd,
jaws slacking eyes glazed, each blameless, phased.

But right as the last layer is exposed,
your fingertips quivering, the audience shivering;
I tap my cane and tell a quick tale,
even if it’s lies I weave, anything to make them leave.

With a tap and a point I direct them away,
they remember propriety and guilt, climbing pillars they’ve built;
As I pass you I’ll smile behind their backs,
and point them to the next tent’s sign, grinning because you’re mine.

—-

Just had the odd urge to write a poem about a barker and his stripper wife, a la a 1890s medicine show and circus’ sideshow.

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December 6, 2007 by Deightine.

An Old Muse

Gauzy see-through black flows sandy under nimble finger,
but not to catch and drag at fox-soft fur freshly shaven,
and feline grace beyond human reason prepares for this show.
They gather in the wake and starved nonsensical, they linger,
yet week after week do not whisper to those pale ears, voices craven,
they arrive skeptical but after the first dance, they know.

Back pressed to brass prayers while fingers climb them, that supple wrist,
marking subtle hymns down button chains while hips sway side to side,
pale skin blushes peach sunset from friction and spent sweat.
The men and women of the masses sit lips pressed and unkissed,
hoping to catch a sweet promise as thighs part from collide,
and wait awe stricken with need; their laps dry and minds wet.

—-

A New Muse

That cherubic tone of flesh and tenderness hides any worry,
while she smiles those bow shaped lips with no sense of hurry.
A caring visage of angelic warmth holding up against the storms,
while inside the darker choir sing-song laments against the norms.
The child of past wrongs and forced beliefs carrying new faith,
…while haunted by memory and imagination; demon, ghost, wraith.

But what makes the mind’s loin stir and quake for all it can take,
it is not the shallow hallucination that first glancing eyes rake.
The heat and tense, the taste and sense, the smoking souls incense,
comes from the depth of those eyes gazing back, emotions intense.
That sweet smile, coy glance, subtle grin; brings shiver shakes like rain,
hidden veiled spoken attractions, deviating that wonderful chain.

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November 17, 2007 by Deightine.

In a garden of darkened briar and shadowed bramble,
among the hedgerows and grassy fields of your mind,
grows unbidden a haunting reverie in white tumbled ramble,
the remnant silhouette of what you may soon find.

It is not sweet like suckle or as bitter as the beautiful lady,
but it has sharp thorns to keep the nightmares at bay,
and it stretches, tangled coiling away from spots shady,
its stalking green branches lifting white fruit toward day.

Cup it to yourself, the tender blossom against your breast,
and close your eyes tightly to drive away all pain,
away to another place whisked, and there find your rest,
to let go those hurts that wash your heart in cold rain.

But no matter the path you walk or wherever it goes,
remember that nothing in life is ever as it seems.
And rest thee well among the petals of your white rose,
warm from your hands and dewy with dreams.

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October 16, 2007 by Deightine.

The constant gardeners walk as three,
  their steps in tandem laying out verdant life.
Each a sister named in like, to Be,
  they give birth, let live, and bring every strife.

All three are named differently by each creed and land,
  the first praised most by young and old.
She is the mother with your seed in hand,
  sewing rows to birth each new life foretold.

The sisters tread evenly among both grass and rock,
  and the second tends to virtues above your mind.
Her gentle hands hold your thread and your cock,
  tying you off on garden stakes, rows lined.

It is with flowers where the third is best seen,
  among crocus, orchid, tulip and rose.
With tears in her eyes for all beauty that has been,
  this tender spirit has few following where she goes.

The first two smile divinely unknowing, vapidly vain,
  and the third is left to seperate your chaff from the seed.
And they walk on by, leaving only her to remain,
  to cut the rose and prune the weed.

———-

Not sure where this poem came from, or what inspired me to write it… But occasionally I’m struck with the urge to write something classical and I find it relaxing, lets my mind ease off of the heavier creative burdens that I choose to carry the rest of the time. It feels a little weak in places, and needs to be shored up… But I don’t think it’s going to be one of the pieces I try to carry on with me over the years. So, it might not see revision for quite some time.

For now, its locked away here where any can see it… Maybe it’ll inspire someone else.

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October 1, 2007 by Deightine.

An Old Muse

A wandering young one falls in love ten score times,
each one fallen in bursts of activity, passion, lust,
but tragedy seeks such loving man or woman whole.
Walking wounded and bleeding out old rhymes,
they stagger drunken from house to house mussed,
not knowing what comes from me in this, my role.

I traipse past my last inspiration, o’er corpse and cordon,
stalking gleeful, a rising behemoth that laps and preens,
to feline fall a’pounce those sanguineous beat.
A tear of tooth and nail, rending bloody and moving on,
amidst crowds moving like currents in streams,
and none stop to watch bliss die alone on this street.

—-

A New Muse

Oh curling wave of opaline grenadine,
you touch far more slender tender
than I should see or myself feel real,
unbound, fallen, pincurl reach, without breach
an alabaster neck turned, fixed betwixt.

Those sea filled eyes for days gaze,
soul seeing windows in grey-blue hue
looking beyond the fabric of a pain rife life,
seeing beauty that none else can be, can see,
while a tragic quiet thin smile sit untouched unbrushed.

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October 1, 2007 by Deightine.

An Old Muse

Six string guitars play as well in black hands as white,
music crowding out burdened bars to fill streets with standing,
they come to hear stories, pains, the picking of young and old.
In time as day turns to night the music gains its height,
with revelers pouring out drinks, hearts, souls, on each landing,
but over broken glass and in stripping heat, they’ll still dance bold.

She walks among the beautiful party people, stalking their sounds,
there in the beginning, standing by while tuning came, went,
since first times when men cried aloud for company and now still.
Children curse, women sing, and men dance for rounds,
as she walks off, in wake a tune of her devised symphonic bent,
and even though nobody knows she is there, it is her granting this thrill.

—-

A New Muse

My mirror that sings back those saccharine sharp hymns,
I remember her pressed, entwined, new music on old limbs.
My muscles creeking in tense new ways as I reel.
Now I reach out wishing for forgiveness, for sweetness to feel.
But those pale golden strands hang harp-like beyond reach,
trapped in a cage of petty pain and rage, my sanity’s leech.

I hold regrets as twice hypocrisy now in each hand,
that tender music beyond me now, I scour this barren land.
And I remember back to the beauty of your songs,
not those played on keys, but on a heart without wrongs,
only for tears to fall on my keys, not of lyric but plain word,
running silent, forgetting the music and by everyone unheard.

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