Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Tag: poetry

Old Icarus

Remember, child,
do not forget again:

To every raven comes
a reckoning,
and to the maven,
magistrates.

As Guinea hens
oft illustrate in pens,
your wings will wither
slowly from this sin.

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Bereaved Singularity (or Hello, Myth)

And shapes;
Once for
Coalescence,
Once ignition.
Paths
for and before
consequence.
Force of Fusion.
Galactic race
to second place.
Light streams teasing,
shapes
and debates
of meaning.

The Press of Gravities

These;
they fade,
days sorely missed.

Occasions,
pages from an age
pummeled
by the galaxies
and displays of violence.
Arrays like hyacinths.

The darkened stain upon
a solar blaze
lost confidence
in context and
contrast.

Uncomforted
by forces
hiding in
the mass around
your core.

Radiance…
convection —
it’s all the same,
second place
to fusion.

Bilge

We regard the
sinking scow —
clouds obscure
her lucky stars.
Now and ever,
taking turns
they pray,
diving they divine,
the dice urge casting
deep.
Hopeless eyes
scry the skies.
Depths to the east and
debts to the West.
The greater lights fall…
as blackened orbs,
and rest…
pockmarked shields,
adorned with stripes,
on battlefields
of blight.

Heights

Around and up,
in branches twining,
vine and leaf and
winding tendrils creep
to bowers where
her resting lashes lie.
Fingers fumble,
slumbr’ing lovers sigh.
Delightful languors,
pink-tinged morning skies.
Ever slaking,
never wake these eyes.

Avenues
abandoned, and
side-streets retained.
A sidewalk
of flesh and
rooftop flashing.
Overcast, or
perhaps cast down
the down-pour.
Poverty reigns.

Helix

The twisted grip of
shale unfixed.
Quartz-flash, agile
shadows flit.
Cliffs of flint
form finger grips.
Shadows lower
into mist,
the Spirals slip,
ignite.

Depths

Imagination
in the grip
of twisting wisdom,
writhing life.
Their forms ignite
a lifting mist.
Beckoned lower,
shadows shift.
Pennies plumet
off the cliffs,
redeeming passage
as they slip.
Spiraled shale and
flint unfixed,
quartz-cracked,
agile fingertips.
Imagination
in the grip,
the twisting grip
of life.

Threshhold

Ceremonial freak outs
as someone realized
the girl outside gives all,
but it’s a front.
It’s expected, except…
She’s me —
carved out to sell ads
and hate.
She’s me —
except, unexpected…
and mystic.

Dustbin

It ends
with the sound of
sweeping.
These are paths
that children
may not tread.
Straw on skin,
the handles callous
tender palms.
Bristling at
the thought of
his regard.