A Wizard's Mercy on a Drunken Poet
...so I hid only his left hand.
As an afterthought,
enchanted his cat into glassware.
whoever first came up with the idea of the drunken poet? they must have been one themselves. however, running afoul of an angered wizard...well...one must have done or said or done and said something that aroused such a one's ire--yet also might not have been all that big a deal.
Who knows; or will say?
I can't. The above is only what was reported to me, another writer who runs the dimensions, going back and forth, in and out, through the separating membranes.
Surely Not That Many!
in may he remembers
the december past as
shaped glass unicorns, cut crystal mice:
gifts to a girl but returned so
up on a closet shelf they went.
...remembers refusing a broken heart;
becoming a craftsman and molding
the forms of his sorrow
into shapes others saw as joy.
he brings them down and laughs
to wonder how many of his products
now gather dust on closet shelves.
I think that one speaks for itself, and might not want me hanging about...the same for this next one.
Fawn tan-Tawny Is In Love
looking, she remembers various aspects of it all:
...blushes, then blushes again this time at herself
for blushing in the first place--all the while blinking
looking away then looking back at him to see if he notices
but he's doing something doesn't see...she marvels at it all...
places palms together on the same side of her face
openly stares at him in admiration lost in momentary dreaming
expression not quite Asiatic nor Mona Lisaish or even childlike
yet an intensity of all three as differing from a likeness:
at that instant her femininity becomes total and he feels it
like what you see? like what you see? like what you see?
echoes around through her being with her not realizing
he's spoken...the sensations of the utter feeling his voice
rocks her to her foundations until she cannot know whether
trembling arises from his voice or being but it does it does
--nor can she pull her gaze from his eyes once he looks up
over to her gasp!ing deep inside she must close her eyes!
waves pound wash her she spins floats until all fades and
with a silent orangepink wuhwuhwuhwuhwuh everything
comes back and she opens her eyes smiling warbling
still held in the oily warmth and the calm neat friction of life
I think I might have one or a few more odd bits of cobbles together lines here in the house somewhere...just have to find them to get them here--don't get me wrong now: at a certain point, when it came to me just how difficult it can be and is to write good poetry, I think I stopped at that knowledge, and didn't really try again--not that I thought anything I'd penned up to then was good--a lot of that early stuff I burned--especially one work named "The Multi- (Dark) Colored Flames of Hell" [yes, friends and neighbors, at one point I was very darknatured!], and was relieved of it.
No, poetry is best written by me almost one line at a tyme, with my remembering the previous line while making room for what might follow.
One day a fellowscribbler read one of them and suggested that I lengthen the idea, and instead of trying to turn it into a poem--which it might not want to be[?...!]--let it be a bit fiction.
Which is what I'm working on now, and seem to be happier for it.
Til next tyme, loved ones.
Edited by Cobalt60, 07 December 2012 - 05:33 PM.