Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Tag: free verse

So Striking, You Obstruct

A gentle waver,
resigned to constant flux.

She confides
her consequence
with confidence.

Fine structure, self-apprised,
delved into by wires that twine
and spinning knives
that pierce her glassy eyes.

Appendix A. (Revision)

There’s a mirror-man,
with dark, rough hands,
in the theatre of retrospect
cueing our fine intros.

His cane swings to still stuttering lips,
his over-weight pride en-lightens.

Destroyer and builder
in turns I smile and fight him
as his bruised hands beckon the next act.

Stage lights flare precisely
as our players praise the night,
the curtain falls amid
each improv soliloquy.

“This play you inhabit, says he,
is deadly serious.
You lament the things that uproot you,
but if lightning suits your complexion
you celebrate the ruining storms.”

Express/Shun

Sometimes outlets
are a perilous affair.
Flirting fixtures,
wary wall-plates—
edges stained with paint.
But floorboards are
better than bookshelves.
Carpet than cabinet
and vanity.
I swore off Swarovski
long ago.

Currently

Under the crests,
into the trough,
succumbing to
a lesser loss.

You’re fielding crops
as the soil
exhausts.

Salt water
on our heads,
and in our eyes,
withers every stalk.

Why, Elle? Why? – or Riley and Shyla

Wryly, the bashful.
Shyly, the rash.
Slipped on a part
when roles were cast.

Wry, to cry and to sigh.
Shy, to fight not take flight.

Writhing and Shriven,
their fate is a given.

Oxidate

Quixotic,
the oldest fables
rise as dross.
The faith is frayed,
luke-warm, and
destined for the flame.
Pathetic kettles evenly
pour blame.
A righteous rage
half-hearted and untoward.
Forsaken, sickened, ancient.
The Rust will reign.

The Alchemists Aim for Altitude

The laughter starts
just as they make
the hard ascent,
they wryly trample
past the groves,
their mirth wells up at
stunted pines on rocks,
they gasp and cough
as air grows cold.

The summit shines
for lasting want
of devastation.
A note is taken,
soon to be addressed.
A pike is standing
up with headway,
spiked to smite
all past regrets.

Their aspirations rage and lurk
beneath the tree line,
they carve out root bark
for the heights.
The stench of solvent
canters all around them,
their poisoned sweat
molests the clime.

Formative

I felt it
move beneath,
your skin
a sort of sheath —
retaining hate.
Porcelain
and cubes
and shivers sink as
thoughts release.
As you wait to wake,
your givens break,
soaking the sheets.
Hardness under
fingers pressed,
malignant whims,
the absence of Dream.

Paging Waste

Knowledge breaks
on rakish faces.
Tines abate on plates
and fruited plains.

Celestial stains
as wounded sparrows leap.
The legend sinks
and North is
out of place.

Abate, abate.
The hook is relegated,
bookshelves dusted bloody
as we wait.

Foci

After we met,
I swore “eclipse”
would never
darken these lines.
I suspect my vow
is suspect.
For this round
I’m circumspect.
That you were
never the mean.
On average,
that’s what I meant.