A Pretty August Day

There was a box,
sitting in a field.
A lonely box,
a brown box,
with shimmers of gold and mirth.
No on dared near
as the river rushed down
the steaming rapids.
The box,
it sat unopened,
its mysteries held within.
lost in the world.
lost with its treasures.
No one cared,
when the rain pelted down
and the box,
weakened, crumbling.
But a pretty August day,
someone neared,
picking up the box
in loving arms,
to share the wealth of treasures and love.
Finally saved.
finally loved,
as the sun basked down,
bathing both box and savior,
in happiness.

Utopia

To be grateful for the sun.
To thank the gods for what they have done.
To make believe there is a utopia.
A land of unprecedented greatness,
full of animals never seen before,
like Treetigers and Aligatorbreath.
But everyone's world would have to be different,
would have to shift and morph with the moon,
would have to bend with realty.
A Treetiger would be a Firelion or a Kazzoble.
It might always be day,
or always be night.
There may people
and there may not.
To each her own and to own her each.
As long as the crows caw,
there will be no breach.

To a Big Brother

To Shawn, the protector of my college family.

For a big brother.
never daunting,
never scary,
no matter how much he towers over me
and always seems to know
when I need a helping hand.
To a brother.
who might be a geek,
but he's loved still.
who might always be found watching Star Wars
or Stargate or looking up armor or katanas.
and yet, is always looking out for his little sister,
making sure she doesn't get in too much trouble.
For a dear brother.
who might not like sisters stealing hats,
and yet never attacks back.
who is always there,
for a good conversation or a hug.
Oh Shawn, dear Shawn,
please never become like Wesley.

For a Sister

To Rachael, because she started the page view competition.

For a sister,
who needs a lesson in not procrastinating,
who always has some kind of chocolate in her room.
someone that can put up with a lot,
who adores naps and
sometimes is antisocial.
Oh sister,
who I will not ever watch a horror movie with again,
whose dreams are in the clouds
and nose is stuck in a book
and hands busy drawing and sketching the latest building.
Dear Rachael.
whom her little sister loves.
Don't ever change for anyone.

For Wesley

 This poem is dedicated to Wesley Axtell, my 500th page viewer and my dear friend. <3

For Wesley.
a kid once thought nice,
turned creepy.
sometimes a good brother,
sometimes bad.
sometimes needing to hold his tongue.
But Wesley, oh Wesley.
His intentions are well
and his arms always open for a hug,
with an open ear waiting to hear
whenever a sister needs to ramble.
Wesley, dear Wesley.
can be evil, but usually ok,
with hands as soft as silk
and bleeds easily,
but yet he takes it well
and never gets mad.
how we love him,
how we love our dear
Papa Wes.

The Raven- Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!-
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"By that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!

Invocation of Raven by Susa Morgan Black

 

 Morgana of the Dark Moon Night

Onyx bird, bold in flight  

Raven, come to us now!

Keeper  of the sacred well

Where the faerie spirits dwell

Raven, come to us now!

Guardian of the Blackthorn Tree

Home of the feared Banshee

Raven, come to us now!

Teacher of warriors, and of sex,

spells that heal and spells that hex

Raven, come to us now!

Bean Sidhe by the river bed

Washing shrouds of the newly dead

Raven, come to us now!

Twin birds of memory and thought

Who brought the knowledge Odin sought

Raven, come to us now!

Raven with his bag of tricks

Always getting in a fix

Raven, come to us now!

Stalwart guardian of the Land

The sacred bird of mighty Bran

Raven, come to us now!

Wise One of the Second Sight

Who foretells our human plight

Raven, come to us now!

Raven, Oldest of us All

Watch over us and hear our call

Raven, come to us now!

 

When Ravens Fly

When ravens fly, they fly like shadows.
They are the wind, they are the clouds.
Take the sky like the balding eagle.
Capture the sun and beat the light with
flickering feathers.
Snag a branch on a hollow bone
molten blood dripping down a black beak.
Eyes of endless pits stare far into the looming distance.
Remind myself still to breathe,
to keep beating wings,
to go into the orange streak of horizon
and disappear from the world.

When ravens fly, do they think
about crashing down, hitting the ice,
shattering realty.
Do they begin to consider
the pain and sorrow that comes with living.
Do they know,
how lucky they are,
to fly across the sky?
Like a lost sparrow,
without a home, without a nest, without somewhere,
somewhere to touch down.

When ravens fly, do they see
me? Do they wonder what I'm doing
so low here on the ground?
Do they laugh, cackle in my ear?
Why do they haunt me...
Why do they follow me so?
They are the spirits of the night,
come to capture me
and never let go.

When ravens fly, do they bring death?
Do they bring this depression over me?
Do they make me feel this way?
Is it all the raven's fault,
the dark gloom blanketing the sky?

I want an eagle, I want a light.
I want something to bring me out of
the darkness of the raven.

Smashed

Smashed to pieces,
I never thought it so.
I never thought a person could bring me so much woe.
Or unsettle a settled heart,
and tear it vein by vein.
Or pick up the boulder that sheltered from the rain.
It is he who smashed it,
who lived insides an illusion.
The fake visage that I were perfect and true of heart.
Wet, hot, dreary tears.
Tears of the weak,
of the heartless,
of the feared,
of the smashed.
He will never understand why I do what I do.
He'll never understand the pain he puts me through.
He will only think of his own pain,
the terrors of realty he must face.
He will never embrace the future,
full of change.
He will try.
I will try.
But in the end,
we will both end....
Smashed.

Doomsday

Now is the time of bold unrest.
It is the time to settle fear and gain redemption for the soul.
It is time to spill lover's blood on the cracked pavement of lies.
The cobblestone dripping with wetness of cheats and despairs.
The hot red drips slowly off the roof,
gathering the hurt and healing the pained.
It is liquid fire,
come to collect the souls of the sinned.
But it is one heart. One heart still beating.

A tiny girl,
with a white cloud of never-ending purity and innocent,
that shields the faithful from the blast.
It is she,
who has come to avenge the righted and play with the puzzles of the sun.
A single wave of black,
rising from the molten blood,
comes over the shield of light.
It beats it down,
it pressures it,
hoping for a break.
But the crack never comes.
The dam stands still.
Time.
Time.
The clicking clock of doom forgets to chime.
The little girl will continue to play
as the restless clock brings no day.

Park River poem- for Writing Contest

He created the little river.

washed the pebbled dirt from the ground and hollowed

 the winding path. Forced the oaks and

 maples to part like Moses and

the Red Sea.

molded the circular mouth and graced its tongue with the gift of rushing rapids.

“Why do they do this? Why do they block off my beautiful work of art?”

he hurled boulders of hail at them.

stabbed them with shooting stars of blinding storms.

buried them in white blizzards.

and yet the dam stands.

they battled with his artwork.

they pierced its delicate waves with rocks

 and dug into its banks with dark washed wooden picnic tables and rigid docks.

breathes of ice froze the waves.

freezing the leaves that had fallen from the oaks and the maples.

chilling the tiny delicate feathered ducks to the splintering bones that had stayed over into December.

the slippery bridge overlooked his creation, its eyes watching over the little river as

a single iceberg drifted down the broken streams,

destroying, ruining all the icecaps in its path.

tearing down the old dam and allowing the ducks to settle on the rocks,

restoring and completing the landscape.

He smiled down at the little river,

at the work of the iceberg,

as the little river returned

to its natural state.

Perfume

deep tasty chocolate leather
small piles of dark manure
spreading bites of alfalfa flakes
squishy squash of mud under boots
fruity shampoo on shirt and jeans
white washed with flying foam
coarse strands of hair stuck
little soft patches of shedding hair
creaking wooden oak beams
sliding clash of metal locks
tapping of hard hooves on concrete
swish of whipping tails

Changing of the Guards

Standing firm, alert.
Sturdy, sure, set in their footsteps.
Solid, confident, strong.
Until the chime of the bell.

Questioning, moving,
Feet move as one.
Relaxed, almost there.
When the bell chimes.

Leaving, deserting the posts.
But not long before,
They're occupied again.
After the chime of the bell.

Someone new. Someone strong.
Someone alert. Someone ready.
Standing firm, standing solid, waiting
Til the bell chimes.