A Posey of Poesy (for International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day)

[talkstowolves]

Speaking of giving work away for free, cadhla has been doing it for years, both in the form of Iron Poet and her awesome poetry tutorials. Because I am mad like a mad thing and also enjoy learning shiny new skills, I have also been known to engage in a round of Iron Poet or two and also to use cadhla's tutorials to practice new poetry styles. (I even composed a Lover's Chain. No, you don't get to see it. Unless you're the person it was meant for, in which case you already have.)

For the third annual International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, I have decided to share some of my apprentice labors with you all! (Don't laugh too hard. Constructive criticism's okay. ;))

First, a triolet inspired by Desire from Neil Gaiman's Sandman:

"Eyes of Desire"

Your eyes amber, the color of dunes,
burn me like the sun sears the sky.
What is this desire that within me blooms?
Your eyes amber, the color of dunes,
cut me deep, leave me bereft as the sea croons,
lapping against the shore, a desirous cry.
Your eyes amber, the color of dunes,
burn me like the sun sears the sky.



Second, a tilay:

"A Nap Beside the Quiet Sea"

When She hums an elegant tune,
my heart is put at ease once more.

The elegance is of sussuration:
a sea rising and falling in gentle breathing
and blue tones in my mind set to softly seething.
She invokes movement of imagination.

Whole worlds spiral; I fall to sleeping curled:
a double helix of stars slowly revolve here
in my heart, in my eyes as I lie sleeping there
and I recall when I first walked this world.

This, the meaning of dreaming's core:
my weave revealed in Mother's croon.



And, lastly, a Variant Italian sonnet:

"Gather No Hyacinths"

The past echoes,
sinking through dreams, deep into blood and bone:
a body-map of what was
drifting from you like smoke from fire.
How do we set this down, a book read,
consumed, left to seep into
the background of life unfettered?
Why stand still in startled rue?

The past echoes,
stirring a memory of eyes: grey stone,
and a cheek slapped because
your wings spread and took you higher.
Can we not set this down, a book read,
some pages torn out, held true,
on your heart stenciled and lettered?
Why still stand in startled rue?

When can we set this down, a book read,
cast off for its foolish view?
Will we live a life undeterred,
leave this life of startled rue?

I will scatter past ashes
with no sense of startled rue.