She nods
her hair has the same freedom as her brushstrokes
on canvas - I look at her
I’d rather be than do, she says
be-do-be-do
she’s full of music
simple rhythm
and I am the observer
I woke up this morning
questioning elusive traits of myself
and what if I held it in my hands;
my creation?
They came in at night
as the light was dimmer
they took the time
they took the butterflies
out of my lines
some verses were left crying
when they opened the old cabinet
and counted the possibilities,
all the ideas I had listed
for them (to learn from)
But they took them away
the hints and hues
the music that I hummed
-- the story of a woman
walking to her revelation
I couldn’t tell anyone
and kept the theft secret
slowly rebelled to what I felt
I couldn’t tell anyone
Next time I’ll know
and I look at her now
I could hold her hair
as a discovery
an artist’s tool
--it’s symbiotic the way
she lives on canvas
Maybe I’ll learn to
keep my words, vivid purples
safely shielded in time
maybe I’ll believe in
science fiction methods
of paranoid protection
…for a while
Lovely Charlie, just lovely! I relish the friendly, bittersweet emotion that you put in there and also those "verses" that "stood in front, each holding tightly to a word or two"... what a beautiful picture! Thank you!
Any thief that steals butterflies
from a poet's lines
is the kind of a thief that
only God himself can adequately punish!
I can only say that the wake was lovely.
And for all of you who could not attend,
here's what happened:
The verses stood in front,
each holding tightly to a little word or two
who whimpered for their half-born brothers,
while the verbs swayed to comfort them.
From the back, the semicolons searched the crowds,
scanning for a stray idea here and there
who had perhaps been dropped,
but forged a way back home.
And we laid the lines to rest--
to rust--
to dusty dust,
and moaned their loss
as only poets can.
Farewell dear lines, bereft of butterflies!
Oh how we'll miss your would-be flutterings...
and one by one
the phrases drifted home,
but weary-eyed and wandering,
and shuffling.
But there's a dull music that still resonates from the site.
Dear Axilea, You painted this poem very nicely. Yes, the painters, without telling anything, they in fact unveil their model. We could say this is like an intrusion of our inner self. It is always nice to see you in your den. Bienvenue. Love Emile
Axilea,
An honest account of self through the eyes of an artist.
There seems to be a lot of soul searching going on in the den lately..So good to see you have returned..Certainly have missed your golden pen.
Much peace, love, and light,
Amber "V"
You paint yourself, Axilea, in personal soul colours and your questioning is never acceptance but challenge...word self-portrait of great distinction.
It's good to see you back after so long.
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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and your heart-and-mind-wrenching poetry. This.
my friend, is as good as it gets. -gene.
Love and Blessings,
Susan
Axilea
Any thief that steals butterflies
from a poet's lines
is the kind of a thief that
only God himself can adequately punish!
I can only say that the wake was lovely.
And for all of you who could not attend,
here's what happened:
The verses stood in front,
each holding tightly to a little word or two
who whimpered for their half-born brothers,
while the verbs swayed to comfort them.
From the back, the semicolons searched the crowds,
scanning for a stray idea here and there
who had perhaps been dropped,
but forged a way back home.
And we laid the lines to rest--
to rust--
to dusty dust,
and moaned their loss
as only poets can.
Farewell dear lines, bereft of butterflies!
Oh how we'll miss your would-be flutterings...
and one by one
the phrases drifted home,
but weary-eyed and wandering,
and shuffling.
But there's a dull music that still resonates from the site.
Be-d0, Be-d0, Be-d0oooo
Be-do, Be.
Do.
--Charlie
Ron
An honest account of self through the eyes of an artist.
There seems to be a lot of soul searching going on in the den lately..So good to see you have returned..Certainly have missed your golden pen.
Much peace, love, and light,
Amber "V"
It's good to see you back after so long.
John