Sorry for the delayed entries – went out to enjoy the sun on Saturday (pics on my main blog) and worked today. I didn’t check what the prompts are but I am sure I am ignoring them – again .
Wind travelled the world, knew every nook and cranny
yet one day found a door,
an entrance never seen before.
And so Wind tip-toed through to find a simple scene;
there sat a woman, a pigeon among peacocks.
For she was clad in grey
while the vast tapestry around her shouted colors and yet,
she was not belittled by the blaze but made brighter
…a peacock among pigeons.
Wind watched for a while, wondering
and then whisper-spoke a question,
The crone stitched silent and skillful,
centuries of sepia-hued memories stained her gnarled fingers
she carried on, a seamstress of monotony
and did not answer.
Wind dove deeper, a diver in search of a lovely pearl
and breeze-queried the question,
Still the wizened woman pricked cloth with thread,
her hands a map of perse-colored veins,
hands that utterly refused to relinquish this task,
that knew only to create stitch after stitch…
and did not answer.
Wind fluttered, curious beyond curious now
and gusted yet louder,
And though the harridan’s dirty mane tousled in the draft
and her knobby knuckles creaked unceasingly,
yes, they kept on…
and on and on,
In, out, over, under
those frail fingers kept focus on that rudimentary method and
still she did not answer.
Wind stormed and raged and bellowed,
all sophistication lost in sirocco fury,
Beldam raised her eyes from that grandiose design,
eyes clear of age, not wisdom,
eyes so aqua the seas could have poured forth
and she spoke.
I feel no fear at your fury,
Not I who have sat and made the centuries,
stitch by stitch, inch by inch.
You presume to ask me why?
Because I love.
And she smiled,
those aged, beautiful fingers still marking,
…stitch by loving stitch.
(C) jp 4-15-12
From diseased Eden the dreamer emerges,
leaving behind fiberglass gallows
and suburban hallucination,
naked flesh craving chemicals
they filled her veins with; toxic love.
She wades through the shallows,
in a delirium of demented desire,
trying to reach the graveyard’s tower.
Wind whistles over the crumbling
structure, causing friction and decay,
then disappears into the catacombs,
where blood is currency…
The dreamer waltzes onwards,
in a lithium and morphine haze.
Her eyes flicker, like fading holograms,
as she gazes into the past’s time line;
that falling tower, yet still…
it is perpetuating survival of the fittest.
Her heart beats loudly; electrical impulses.
Horizon looms, parallel to the skyline
and as zero hour looms closer, she hears
the faint roar of the nuclear city
beyond the tower in her path.
She must reach it; lamination of steel,
glass and vodka induced ethics.
There will be no more detours,
the dreamer moves resolutely forward.
(C) 4-14-12 jp