Swing In A Tree: imagery

Showing posts with label imagery. Show all posts

Sunday, April 2, 2023

"To Keats"

With pen touching paper,

I watch the gray shadow float.

What mystery is this—

This writing?

Thoughts of Keats’s imagery

flow through my crowded Mind.

How could he write with such

tingling beauty?

Each metaphor stings with perfection.

Every allusion, Spring water clear—

Fresh, sweet air,

almost the bitter sweetness

of a deep Red Wine.

Can our vineyards produce such a tasteful red?

Could I, or any other wondering

Bard of this century—

Ever create such subtle horizons—

such mystic hues?

No, Romantic as I may be,

there will be no more virile

poesy such as Keats’s

No Grecisms forever alive.

Thursday, April 30, 2015

"Saturday in the Swing"

Saturday in the swing

serenaded with cicada song

and the chuck-chuck-chuck

of chiding squirrels

I float

aimless—and appreciative

of quiet moments spent swaying

My dog calls greeting to our neighbor

rolling her Rs like that old Ruffles commercial

she’s a sentry

sniffing out lizards

A breeze plays with my writing paper

dances the words among the shadows

cast from sun and leaves

making me dizzy in the Texas heat

A paw taps my knee

accompanied by a whine

I’m abandoned

for central air

Moisture collects

on the back of my neck

on upper lip

around my hairline

behind my knees

I inhale humidity

yet I linger

savoring my Saturday in the swing

Friday, April 3, 2015

"When"

When you look into my eyes to see if I’m in pain,

When you reach out at night and smooth my hair,

When you throw back your head and laugh at my small jokes,

When you hold in your anger as I rant and rave,

When you create a song, a poem or a painting,

When you spend time sifting through the sand searching for lost treasure,

When you say nothing about my shortcomings,

When you take my hand as we cross the street,

When you pout because I’ve been too busy,

When you pull me into your imagination,

When you give and take within the course of the day, that is

When I love you.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

"To Keats"

With pen touching paper,

I watch the gray shadow float.

What mystery is this—

This writing?

Thoughts of Keats’s imagery

flow through my crowded Mind.

How could he write with such

tingling beauty?

Each metaphor stings with perfection.

Every allusion, Spring water clear—

Fresh, sweet air,

almost the bitter sweetness

of a deep Red Wine.

Can our vineyards produce such a tasteful red?

Could I, or any other wondering

Bard of this century—

Ever create such subtle horizons—

such mystic hues?

No, Romantic as I may be,

there will be no more virile

poesy such as Keats’s

No Grecisms forever alive.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

"I Dreamt of You"

I dreamt of you last night

vivid images

sitting across from you at a table

your hands toying restlessly with a cup of stale coffee

impatient for a cigarette in this smoke free room

the scent of your perfume mingles with dust and mold

as you laugh at my inane joke

my attempt to tease you away from your grief

I dreamt of you last night

a muted mirage

mimicking reality

your haunted eyes deep set and dark

desperately darting here-and-there

avoiding my scrutiny as I peer through your façade

sensing sorrow under your kind words

as you offer support and comfort to me

I dreamt of you last night

"Study of Two Woman Grieving" by John Flaxman
http://www.metmuseum.org/en/collections/search-the-collections?ft=Flaxman%2C+John+(British%2C+1755-1826)&rpp=20&pg=2