Tag Archives: lake

Ode to Winter, Ode to Summer

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By the west end of the Lake
is a bittersweet orange
it is the tang and oder of sorrow
and the sweet citrus skin of newness.
I bring these things from the lake,
the west end of the lake in june
so the waters rise like a slow baloon
and the winter crawls out from its snowy cocoon
and the oranges flower at noon.
by the west end of the land
she spies you
and her hands grasp at her middle
as a sharp longing.
to feel the same as a child
and yet to never be forever young
it scraped at the bone marrow of her.

You left a little bruise on her cheek
and she smiles.

It is like the soft rain beating against a drum
sprinkling her soft berry stained lips.
the oranges are all tied to her bedside
and the smell is like sorrow
covered with the feathers of a crow
and all of the feelings
that were once new.
by the west end of the Lake
is a bittersweet orange.
it is the tang and oder of sorrow
and the sweet citrus smell
of newness:
to begin again on the same road
is to never end,
it is to know the skies
as well as you do your brother
with the faint rustle of trees
in the fall,
on a morning
oh so aching
as a welcome
haunting
call.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

the Swan Piano Contemplates Her Existance

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taking on the form of a piano swan, we leave in the earlyness.
why have we returned?
we do not have a choice, I think
the swan inside us is floating,
the piano is just being plucked.
the movement is stifled and unstifled
it is a pain to return, to arrive.
In spite of ourselves we were just budding
and closing in on ourselves again
like newly oiled playing cards.
what is a swan?
joy.
what is a piano?
rage.
or maybe, they are both
or maybe more.
We can think of adjectives ( both of us)
and maybe bears will think of verbs ( they like to lumber and bumble too)
and birds, onomonopea:
taking on the form of a piano swan, we leave in the earliness.
returning is like feeling my mother’s absence.
coarse, paining, unhinged.
lightening striking and no thunder
fire and no fighting and no blunder.
the other swan would be my lover,
but I blame his faults on magic, or his naughty brother.
( well, I blame our faults always on magic)
feeling the swoosh of the seaside
and my soft feathers brushing against my hand
unconsciously playing chopin
my lover is playing a jazzy serenade
from a play no one has played:
taking on the form of a piano swan, we leave in the earliness:
I don’t complain.
Sometimes i hear the ticking of my strings in the middle of the night while we sleep.
but I think it’s just me
singing an unconscious lullaby
to an unhinged, unstifled creature
known as me.

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