Letters from the Other Side of the Rain.
DISCLAIMER: All poetry found herein is, like all poetry, based on true fiction.Saturday, April 08, 2006
Dear Humanity,
Pleased to report, Polly isn't my father.
My soul hurts. I have a villianelle to post, and several rondels, but I'm lazy.
Traveler's Lodging - Accompanying Rondels
The Traveler Spoke:
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air
The sleet rain's coming down like frigid fire
These are the consequences of desire
But I've somewhere to run, and I don't care.
What was the phrase? Beauty without compare?
Without compare's my lady, lovely liar.
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air
I lost myself in a beautiful mire.
Did I come to her that night? Did I dare?
I did, and now we're fleeing from her sire.
My lady trips, her cloak's snagged on a briar.
I'll leave. Frostbite will take her, or a bear.
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air.
The Lord's Daughter Spoke:
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake.
Lips to full of warm red for just a child
Put wanting into men, and made them wild
And I covered my face, for Mama's sake.
I ne'er knew men could give, but only take
Or have two eyes so blue, or nails so filed
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake
I'm running, with my lover, undefiled -
My cloak's snagged. And the briar will not break
Stop your mad dash, my love, all snowflake styled!
Come back! Am I not fair? Have you not smiled?
Oh love, I see you were a snow storm snake
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake.
And ski lift poetry, that is a metaphor for. . .um. . .I don't know. Something, prolly. My first free form for a while. Whee, alliterative.
You wait in line
Then shuffle frantically forth
And you're swept up by the cold leather seat
All scattered over snow.
You tumble upward, but the ride soon smooths
The rhythm of machinery a soft constant.
Ch-ch-ta. Ch-ch-ta.
It's one great mechanism at the top of the mountain
You're not a part of it yet
So you pull down the bar to still
The frantic feeling in your stomach
That comes from soaring unsupported on the soft snowy seat
Put up your skis (That's a load off, thankyoujesus)
And watch the white landscape running by
It's undefined and virgin, never touched.
There's something sweet about it
But too cold to be truly sweet.
Ch-ch-ta. Ch-ch-ta.
The machine-song is coming closer now
You put up the bar, straighten your hat
And put your ski tips up
And wait.
You disappear into machinery
An instant of assimilation
And then, in that embraced moment
The ski lift spits you out.
"I wasn't ready!" your mind screams
But no one ever is.
And a villianelle, possibly to act as a preface to a novel that might get written.
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades
Tapdances over my old memories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
Her wares were of a thousand different grades
Shd had a mind that buzzed like stores of bees
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades.
She danced, stained her mouth red with sweet Kool-Aids
And brought exuberance to histories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
She said she danced with Krishna, his milkmaids
She said she loved our speed, our vainglories
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades.
She her folly late, and now she bades
Big folk to avaunt from fairy stories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
She was a fool to trust, no human aids.
Fell victim to Kool Aid, late night Maury's.
A changeling crone, hair in a single shade
Once she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
KITTY WRITE SO MUCH ANGST OH NOES.
Love,
Kat
Pleased to report, Polly isn't my father.
My soul hurts. I have a villianelle to post, and several rondels, but I'm lazy.
Traveler's Lodging - Accompanying Rondels
The Traveler Spoke:
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air
The sleet rain's coming down like frigid fire
These are the consequences of desire
But I've somewhere to run, and I don't care.
What was the phrase? Beauty without compare?
Without compare's my lady, lovely liar.
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air
I lost myself in a beautiful mire.
Did I come to her that night? Did I dare?
I did, and now we're fleeing from her sire.
My lady trips, her cloak's snagged on a briar.
I'll leave. Frostbite will take her, or a bear.
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air.
The Lord's Daughter Spoke:
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake.
Lips to full of warm red for just a child
Put wanting into men, and made them wild
And I covered my face, for Mama's sake.
I ne'er knew men could give, but only take
Or have two eyes so blue, or nails so filed
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake
I'm running, with my lover, undefiled -
My cloak's snagged. And the briar will not break
Stop your mad dash, my love, all snowflake styled!
Come back! Am I not fair? Have you not smiled?
Oh love, I see you were a snow storm snake
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake.
And ski lift poetry, that is a metaphor for. . .um. . .I don't know. Something, prolly. My first free form for a while. Whee, alliterative.
You wait in line
Then shuffle frantically forth
And you're swept up by the cold leather seat
All scattered over snow.
You tumble upward, but the ride soon smooths
The rhythm of machinery a soft constant.
Ch-ch-ta. Ch-ch-ta.
It's one great mechanism at the top of the mountain
You're not a part of it yet
So you pull down the bar to still
The frantic feeling in your stomach
That comes from soaring unsupported on the soft snowy seat
Put up your skis (That's a load off, thankyoujesus)
And watch the white landscape running by
It's undefined and virgin, never touched.
There's something sweet about it
But too cold to be truly sweet.
Ch-ch-ta. Ch-ch-ta.
The machine-song is coming closer now
You put up the bar, straighten your hat
And put your ski tips up
And wait.
You disappear into machinery
An instant of assimilation
And then, in that embraced moment
The ski lift spits you out.
"I wasn't ready!" your mind screams
But no one ever is.
And a villianelle, possibly to act as a preface to a novel that might get written.
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades
Tapdances over my old memories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
Her wares were of a thousand different grades
Shd had a mind that buzzed like stores of bees
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades.
She danced, stained her mouth red with sweet Kool-Aids
And brought exuberance to histories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
She said she danced with Krishna, his milkmaids
She said she loved our speed, our vainglories
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades.
She her folly late, and now she bades
Big folk to avaunt from fairy stories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
She was a fool to trust, no human aids.
Fell victim to Kool Aid, late night Maury's.
A changeling crone, hair in a single shade
Once she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
KITTY WRITE SO MUCH ANGST OH NOES.
Love,
Kat
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