Stars & freckles

The sprinkle of stars across the sky was an inverse of the scatter of freckles across her nose, her shoulders; as the one constellation grew brighter by night, its echo, too, became more prominent, but in darkening the longer it was exposed to day, to the sun.

The stalks of wheat in the mid-August evening light were an imitation of the strands she kept loosely woven down her back; they whispered and whisked in the wind, dancing like the fair flyaways that framed her face.

The languid blooms of yellow trumpets taking their midday nap were like so many miniatures of her in that saffron sundress, flitting around in the summery warmth, teasing him with twists and turns.

The morning storm clouds, gathering heavy and angry in the damp grey sky, patterned those slate shaded irises of hers; the lightning flashes mirrored the blaze of her gaze, and the nimbus nebulosities spilling their tears replicated her own precipitation.

No, he could not escape her.


A Reading of A Flawless Fabrication

Lately I’ve been quite interested in hearing poetry spoken rather than just reading it, so I figured I would give reading my own poems aloud a shot. In addition to the reading I uploaded of Frozen Ponderings, I’ve made one for A Flawless Fabrication.

A Flawless Fabrication

We were lying in the grass together,
Gazing up at the spill of stars across the obsidian sky
With our fingers carelessly intertwined
And our hearts engaged in a modest foxtrot,
No sense of time passing,
Only the melody of the moon:
Thousands of insects harmonizing under the crescent glow;
Light languidly dripping from the heavens
Landed on the earth around us as fireflies,
And the cool summer breeze
Encouraged us to seek warmth from each other.

The only way it could have been more perfect,
Is if it had actually happened.

A Reading of Frozen Ponderings

Frozen Ponderings

Smoky grey tendrils of warmth creep from
deep within my lungs and escape
into the surrounding frost until
they are lost, swirling away into the icy air
as my hair is misted with crystals.

Is this breath the only distinction
between the biting cold death that awaits
in nature’s frozen château
and the flow of hot blood indubitably
indicating my life?

Naked silhouetted tree limbs sway
in the moon’s silvery light, and as the wind dances
the cold fingers on their branches reach out
imploringly, to touch my cheek
with whispered queries of their own.

Capricious Concord

Cold sky leaked in through frosted panes,
Gently pouring its glow into the empty chamber.

A crow moaned inharmoniously,
Severing the soft hush of the atmosphere’s breath.

Her uncovered toes flirted with the shingled edge,
Shimmering strands dancing about her face.

Dark eyes watched from within the willow,
Whose pale jade limbs flickered nervously in the wind.

The air begged for companions as a distant clock sounded,
Persuading two dissimilar creatures to take flight.

Leafy fingers flittered in discreet protest;
Crumbs of asphalt littered the earth below.

Black feathered sails floated along the cloudy current,
Hovering high above a fragile and broken doll.

The Lady Catelyn

It’s been far too long since I’ve written or posted anything. Finally, after three in the morning on what is still Monday night for me, inspiration for a poem struck as I finished a particularly bloody and significant chapter of George R. R. Martin’s A Storm of Swords. This is the first draft; changes may come. But I must warn you, if you have any intention of reading the book series or watching HBO’s Game of Thrones, do not read this enormous spoiler of a poem. You will certainly regret it and probably hate me for your mistake. I guess you could say this is my interpretation of one of the novel’s particular events.

The Lady Catelyn

The grief
Pierced her heart like
The dagger
Carved her hands, and
The tears
Drenched her face while
The ache
Engulfed her soul with

Memories of her sweet young boys
That were no longer,
Thoughts of her darling poor daughters
Who were lost to her,
Longing for her beloved
Who was naught but bones and dust,
Vision of her remaining son
Who lay punctured and leaking rust.

Each hurt was a wicked claw reaching and clutching,
Ripping her love asunder as
Fate leered at her mockingly, refusing
To grant even a single wolf permission to howl at the autumn moon,
Each fiber of the pack shredded and cast down
To drown in the flooded rivers
Of blood surging from her throat, choking off her screams
And laughter.