Tension in the Loom
No one escapes
till light.
So I weep a scarf to wind me tight.
No ragged wooly shawl askew
No next addition to the stew.
No vagabond sleeve;
no peril weave.
And justly to sleep,
upon their leave.
No spear to pierce the gloom.
This implacable shuttle,
the darkened loom.
An eye foresworn.
A lie reborn.
(Nobody speaks in shadows.)
Still half-dyed by morn.
a love letter to he who must not be named
Do I thank you for what already hides so quietly within me?
Yes.
Not for it being there,
for that came in young mornings when the moon hung like a nickel in the sky;
and in afternoons spent chasing strange echoes over a knife-edge horizon;
but for the finding? Of course.
For you reminded me of the moonlight that lingers on bright street corners;
and when you heard the horizon calling, you offered me a hand to climb over;
There are never enough thanks for that,
for you have given me back everything I had lost.
#childhood, #imagination, #love, #friendship, #lost
*Counting to 10 in Bulgarian
Look at that girl,
Blue eyed and yellow haired
Hearing her songs fade away
in the winter ice
But waiting,
For that silver coin in her pocket
To bloom like the flower moon.
Lingering in the darkness, dreaming
Of that boy, sweet eyed and
dark humored
Bringer of warmth (all ways)
And he shines in the night
Like the coin in her pocket.
As he comes
With a pocketful of hope
as green as the verdant roots,
That during spring nights flourish.
Unexpectedly.
For not all things grow by day.
It is their time.
Like the silvery bloom that has ripened
Through the window
Finally in fullness glowing.
On the road
It is not love that binds here
It is charcoal and dust,
Ashes and a tongue,
angry and scar-leaving.
Her heart on the wooden table lies
Open to slings and arrows outrageous;
Another’s love entangles her
-and no less wicked ’tis -
anger is not what marks her.
Yet, better, tender hands leave their mark,
and laughing kisses sear her flesh.
Leaving marks whose recalling makes her smile.