Poem Updatetetetetete!

Whelp, I certainly have been keeping a bit busy workshopping my previous poems, getting them whipped into shaped thanks to my writers’ club feedback and critique. So below this are links to three more short poems that have received the ol’spit’n polish. As usual, all and any feedback, comments and such are more than welcome. Cheers! 

-L.

This Dance
Came A Deer (previously Spoke The Deer)
Ivory Memory (previously Ivory God)

Of Other Nights

Neon impulse dreams

A night of endless lines

Where fades crosses

Into your streams

Of endless consciousness

Come and enter this placid

Waking of vibrant colors

That endlessly shift

Into kaleidoscopic sands

Of realities distant

This is the end station

A slow dance of euphoria

Meeting in everlasting nowhere

That greet you with criminal desires

Of tremulous awakenings

The vast oceans are divided

By words and deeds

I see your eyes split reason

And dreams come into me

Of penitent corners

There may be a place

Where time crawls away

In the moment that I care

All simply slips away

Of quiet moments.

Simulacrum in G Minor

Oshora knows the feel of ivory. Her slender fingers barely brush the keys of the black piano, only enough for her sense of touch to be set alight. This. This feels like a dream. The room is large and bare. There are no flat walls, only a long, uninterrupted, curved wall that wraps the place in its cocon of plaster and white paint. Cracks on the surface spider at random intervals, creating rivers of decay between large swaths of pristine nothingness. The room’s domed ceiling is made of glass. Light pours in, washing the room’s centre with its radiance. The piano is the black hole at its center, swallowing the light so the edges of the room are bound by shadows.

It suits Oshora. Her mind is at the tip of her fingers, dropping thoughts over the piano’s keys. A melody stirs awake from some corner of memory, untangling itself from the bondage of her own forgetfulness. Air is slowly sucked in, the dust motes stir in the air as the light shows their ceaseless dance.

The piece begins to unfold itself from the piano and out into the room. Oshora’s heart beats with each note as falling light shimmers over her slender figure and, for a brief moment at least, nothing else matters.

“Oshora?”

She abruptly pulls back from the piano. Gasping, her chest rises and lowers as she stares at it. The keys still move, continuing to fill the space with melody for a moment and then, as it began, it stops. Timidly, Oshora half turns.

“I was just playing a bit…no one else was using it.”

An older woman dressed in white metallic robes looks at Osha with narrow eyes. “You know the rules: you need a healer to be with you at all times in case you need assistance.”

“Sorry…”

The older woman’s eyes become less narrow and some wrinkles form on the corners of her mouth.

“It’s such a lovely day outside, and you need your fresh air. Come.”

She turns around and glides smoothly across the floor. Oshora follows her, glancing back briefly to the now-mute piano.  As she steps out of the room, her arms flicker then disappear.

Hungry Strings

Ansalda plays her violin in the deserted central plaza at her town’s centre. Wearing a simple white dress, her red hair flutters with the Autumn wind. Invarguntosh, the name of her town, a place where crows, of plumage so black they swallow the Sun’s dim light, hang heavy on bent, crooked trees. Here, no leaves ever bloom. She plays alone, a mournful tune that no one but her own weary soul, hears and laments.

The sky is dim
And I have come
With no more tears
My life undone

The furtive shadow of a stray, brown cat darts furtively back and forth among the statues of the plaza. It was the only curious companion that would dare thread upon the cracked  floor of tiled stones, dotted with monuments erectec to dead men, long forgotten.

Yet a smile remains
In my wounded heart
We shall rise someday
From this endless dark

A smile plays placidly over Ansalda’s lips and with a flick of her wrist, the melody of her music shifts to something more lively, more pleasant. Now the plaza begins to fill with a bit of color and candor. In the distance, birds chirp and sing back to her strings vibrating, wings beat and rush the milky-white sky.

Come my friends
Our time is counted
Death will come
But not today

Several birds of red, brown and blue, circle around the plaza, a blur of color and sound. They home in and land on the heads and arms of the statues that laid abundant there; Ansalda’s song pleased them as chirps of excitement filled their small chests, jumping back and forth with screeching delight.

Not today
Not today
We celebrate
Today today!

The plaza slowly grows in attendance as the forest surrounding quiet Invarguntosh begins to heed the call of Ansalda’s violin. A pack of grey and brown wolves, tongues lolling, pad their way close to her, keeping a distance as their orange eyes pierce her with curiosity; mice and squirrels chitter and dart across the floor, keeping away from the wolves, while forming half a circle next to Ansalda, jumping in uncontained joy, even the great grizzly bear, the black death around these parts, lumbers entranced, until it rests a few meters from Ansalda’s small figure, she is already spinning while she continues to play. More animals came, the forest chorus grew. Her violin was laughing with every note. Bringing joy and unity to the animals that had gathered. Ansalda’s smile grew a bit more, a ray of the pale Autumn sun glinted on her mouth, two fangs peeked briefly, as her smile grew some more.

Yet on your wake
Many will wonder
How did this pass?
A tragic ocurrence

Ansalda reached a fervent pitch in her song, as all the animals gathered frolicked and reveled in frenzy abandonment. The tune had touched their savage souls.

Never forget
Always remember
A wolf lies in the corner
Waiting always to devour

The violin screeched to a halt and just like that, the spell was broken. All the animals, at first confused, were startled to find themselves among other species, in the middle of a human settlement, before they noticed her, and how she had changed. With roar, screech, yelping , they all flew off, scampered, ran, jumped and some even buried themselves underground. But they were always too late.

The worm digs deep
The dragon flies high
Now you know for sure
Winter is here to stay

When she is finished, no animal was left alive. A mountain of bones of all shapes and sizes now rests on the grassy ground, bleaching under the Autumn sun. Ansalda gives her lips a satisfied lick, blood smeared over her face. Her appetite was satiated once more; first the townpeople, then these animals. Soon, she would grow hungry again, but that did not matter now. Still smiling, she resumes her playing.

All is gone
We are dust
No one left

To cry for me.