Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Ninety four . . .

My Lady the Moon
by Stormcat

My lady is shy even
as she follows my journey
through that labyrinth of passageways connecting
the eternities, hiding behind
clouds or the earth itself.
To glimpse a silver crescent edge of her eye peeking
around a forest tree or through
breaks in the overcast,
having known the fullness of her countenance,
fills the soul with the heat of hope’s passion.

It seems
unlike the celestials
that mortals are afraid of failure yet
my lady, unlike the others, cowers
from success, of all things, intermittently
close then far, large then small, brighter
then dimmer, white then blue, hidden
completely then in full open view.

Whenever she hides,
as she always regularly does,
darkness gathers me and a terrible sadness
condenses my freedom into
painful loneliness, longing, looking
for any sign of her return.
You see, I’m in love with the moon . . . . everything
her solitary strength and her radiant softness

But I wonder can the moon love me and even if
has she the freedom to act thereupon,
the wherewithal to take a lover
or would such be paramount to treason
in the eyes of all those burgeoning lovers
who depend on my lady’s
solitary spirit
to seal their own
romantic inspiration . . . 

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

Saturday, August 2, 2014

Ninety Three . . .

Death of a Poet
By Stormcat

I read a poet who had lost his love and thought
of you. Of us. The why it feels. The standing,
on a ledge, no way down, no way up, save your
agency to accept or reject and that inability to
thus choose. There are words (derogatory and
venomous) words forbidden, rejected by choice,
by that same agency.

To loose one's love is horrible. But for a poet . . .
such is an existential crisis of the unquenchable
oeuvre. What is to become of all those exquisite
declarations of never-endingness. Such poetry
never to be discarded has become a lie. How can
a poet publish a lie? Thus it can never be read
again. Poetry diluted is moot.

And if his poetry is moot then that poet has no
purpose and life itself . . . ? Moot! Beauty ceases.
Nature withdraws. Stars no longer sparkle and
songbirds annoy. Flowers look like weeds and
food becomes tasteless. Music seems intrusive
but silence, intolerable. Left only is cowardly
nonexistence,  inebriation, death.

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved