The youthful maiden
toying with the threaded tapestry
of fate with her two sisters
about her, behooved the hero
to take up title and sword.
She said to win himself a place at the table –
the head of the table –
where he could recount the glorious
battle that leads to greatest honor.
“For what is worth the price of life,”
she asked with her palm, cool
against his sunburned cheek,
“If not to be gambled with?”
Fool that he was,
he thought himself in love,
July 25, 2014
Love, Poetry, Writing |
death, fate, love, Norse mythology, poetry, valhalla, war, writing |
I can only love the warmth
of your voice, which
unswayed by the seasons
remains a constant vibration.
Against the sunlight
the mountain curves
a gentle heartbeat
like a last breath of dark
before the dawn
of a new age.
And I, its spectator,
Southern sea ships
minus sails raise anchor
waiting for the right breeze
on circular drift
Today, the bench by the Riviera has taken the day off.
It asks that amorous couples keep their hands to themselves
and that birds find some other high ground to roost upon.
Leaves that linger will be swept away by the wind
and any baggage left unclaimed will be checked
by a raccoon guard who works for the odd discarded pretzel.
Today, the bench by the Riviera is not on duty.
Today, the bench by the Riviera has the view to itself.
Another year older
To age and grow bolder
To find acceptance and poise
To embrace quiet and noise
To still work on loving myself
With a little generous help
From writers and readers like you
Thanks, and have a great day, too!
Writer Notes: It’s my party and I’ll cry be schmoopy if I want to. Thanks for making this a great year. =)
I knew an old man who collected buttons:
puce plastic, mother-of-pearl, teal craftings.
Some were large enough to cover half your palm,
others small enough to pin on the waistcoat
of a bumblebee.
When I asked him why, he said:
“My mother was a seamstress
who was never proud of her profession.
But she mended the seams of my pants
whenever I split them in rough play.
She sewed buttons on my sister’s dresses
when we couldn’t afford better fabric
and still she sparkled –
a mosaic of stars.”