Revolution

He returns because it is a part of him because the thought of having left is too difficult to press between the sheets or place in his left pocket like a wallet every morning; he returns because, in the end, all he ever does or aims toward or strives for is returning, always returning, whether he knows he has left or not.

I saw them frozen on the trail: Villanelle

The ice has held us far too long.
We are as mute as it is thick:
We are too cold, too cold for song.

Observer those limbs which once were strong!
Now tattered muscle on bent sticks
The ice has held us far too long.

There are no words, no wrights or wrongs
To save us from the blizzard's pricks;
We are too cold, too cold for song.

We have no breath with which to long
Or moan through some strange wind-magic.
The ice has held us far too long.

We once had mouths--those now are gone
To frost of our own artifice.
We are too cold, too cold for song.

If you see us--(think! frozen in throngs
Of ignorance) remember this,
The ice that holds us for too long.
We are too cold, too cold for song.


(HOLY CRAP.)

I just wrote a form a day, (nearly) every day.

More thinking about that later.

Tybarn

I called
and felt
the wind
(your breath)
upon my neck behind the only
veil of consciousness and loving grace

This one is about ghosts: Tritina

Who can we call?
(Ghostbusters! but I can't see us
hanging by the telephone at home

hoping that they'll home
in on a signal, some misplaced call
for help none of us

truly believe in.) None of us
have hearth or home
in mind or soul. Call

us foolish--we hear the phantoms call us home.

Triolet: Beware the Whip

Beware the whip.
Beware the yoke.
(the words came easy to the fist)
Beware the whip--
beware the death of Feeling's grip
(she smiled slightly as she wrote).
Beware the whip.
Beware the yoke.

Terza Rima

Terza Rima is one of my favourite so far.

It was not death, nor any age
of reckoning within the green;
I felt no silence stir my page

it was a shadow to be seen
a kind of flutter in the chest
a kind of sign from rook to queen

who knows life stirs, but honour bests
the rigid tiling of the board--
so holds life squirming to his breast.

Who held his days as in a hoard,
who felt his time like summer tide
like birds who fell when others soared

Such greatness I cannot abide!
O let me stay my course awhile
and smile and hear the others cry

and hear the others cry, and smile

Tetractys

Interesting this is.

Yoda I am not.

I
don't feel
any pain
at all at all
(he swore, staggering drunk into the night)