I
The desert lapsed
indulgent of monsoons blooming
prickly pears, thorns
upon thorns,
apsidal angles of Jupiter
and chuparosa lately open.
The sagebrush leveled
painting the hardened clay
from natural red to scents of blown pollen.
Three whooping cranes flock
beneath their belfry voices
racing the sun, its further
precession. A cumulus
hugs their breeze.
II
Yesterday I wore a cloud to the window,
held it in, laughed as it tried to rise.
Yesterday I wrapped it round me
like a Roman, held with a safety pin,
then crowned myself with l
Light propagates across
white walls, resident space, and empty
atmosphere of a March afternoon.
In 30 million meters
shes a second away; fluorescent,
all absorption and reemission
of intangible soft white.
Shes framed in mahogany,
faded gold once painted
but now dust in her eyes.
A fraction of her bleeds through:
evanescent because shes critical,
all frustrated reflection.
She turns in winds
of dark halos, holding
together strands of justice
and sedition, her eyes
now patterned interference.
Let there be
photons graze
her irises, color them meadows
across the silvered glass.
Flecks of yell
The evidence of what is unseen.
Yet I have seen, the light
refracted and distorted, incident
upon the blind. I was there.
Blessed are the poor in spirit.
I tended the lamb,
a coverlet of shorn wool
forming a tenuous shroud,
(blessed are they who mourn)
a setting sun shining through
the Empyrean Rose, the Last
Judgement stained in San Chappell.
Behold the Father, Son, and Spirit.
He said bring light to dark places:
Rwanda and smoke, snaking
the wind. Decay rots the mud, flesh
burns cleaner. Ash was bone.
My hands were lifted.
Oh, Mother Mary, descend your grace,
show mercy. I went a pilgrim
up to Saint-Etiene du-Mont
I.
It was a Thursday morning, we
were gathered in the fog, careful
of our steps and of our language.
We walked through that window
of enveloped stone, wispy fog 5
and an old man walking slow.
You asked him, Come si chiama
quella chiesa là? Smiling he replied,
A me è il Duomo. We all gazed
through that mighty fog huddled 10
in jackets, strangers standing.
II.
Nebbia, Ricardo had said.
Come sempre nellinverno.
I stood looking at a school
house without edges. 15
The fog entered through
the glass window pane. On the bed
Eddie licked her paws. My suitcas
It snowed again.
I could taste it in the air.
It was like dreaming,
as when Mother sang:
lullabies of winter,
a blackbird on the snow,
the rivers motion frozen
and fish still swimming on.
She said it was a phantom land.
All shapes were reflection,
borrowed by frost and chill
while rainbows dance in fog
and the wind whispers sunsets.
Mother smelled of rosemary
she called it Severn Sea, spreading
in earth-bound canopies
hung on my walls.
Father drinks deeply of the smell.
He forgets too, sometimes.
He washes away the smell of salt,
tucks sister and I to bed
with a wordless prayer.
Sister doesnt remember
And This is How We Say Goodbye by belgarath, literature
Literature
And This is How We Say Goodbye
Without a sun to gauge the progress spent
across a waning and cerulean sky,
no shifting satellite of reflected beauty
with changing phases as grains of sand
of the desert endless and forever
barren of even a tempting fruit,
a thorn within the needles
threaded without eyes, the swelling
red of pricked solace and tears -
A fresh breeze can blow the infinite
grains of sand, irresolute, without
weight, and carry them away
to the schism of red and blue detached
by that untraceable boundary.
How nearer they land, to be
in the unchanged place of departure,
within the painted brown withered
by streaks of spreading crims
The Vampyr's Song - draft 1 by belgarath, literature
Literature
The Vampyr's Song - draft 1
Canto I
In the dusk, whereupon the moon rises 1
to cast shadows off from an April day –
shadows that pass across stone roads, cobbled
back when that ancient empire stood
upon the seven hills, and flow'd across 5
the Tiber's banks, to lands remote, to lands
soon conquered by the Holy Roman truth –
but these were now old shadows, left intact
by roving gazes, history, the hope
preserved in memories – the past to fall 10
with time, its slow decay, its loving kiss.
As night increases and stars ascend, the moon
yet waxing full, before St. Paul's there comes
two ladies walking by. Their clicking heels
echo against the ston
Light streams without windowpanes
filling a room's gray walls, its single
bed, sink, toilet, the door half of space,
half of bars, and the sentinel of their shadows.
He holds up a hand, it is not
like the light, illuminating white
dust, nor the absence of color
behind long strips of steel,
but brown – brown like the earth.
There's none of that here.
No blowing sands to dry away tears,
forming rivulets of horizons
with a sun that blushes and bows
to the hills, the houses, his sweet
caravansary. No longer his.
No longer. Where his friends
drank of meeting horizons,
then stood and fought for their own.
As skies shed skin in light of evening's wane
across the streak of men, and lights humming
in black and halos of descending rain,
the lines of men draw course in their seeming -
those suits of memories, flowers faded,
red cheeks yet dry in April's weeping gaze -
past gates of angels fallen and erased,
they that attend to where all living stays.
Lines fold around the oak, bagpipes then play
no words to spend beneath that mystery
of faded moonshine bathed in seas of gray,
and uncertainty of the melody.
Amidst the sound of birds they go their own.
No flowers, but two coins to take him home.
Unwanted Love from a Squirrel by belgarath, literature
Literature
Unwanted Love from a Squirrel
Along the forested green of winding way
there beset my path the notion of a tail
enrapt in fur from base to banded tip.
What pause might I take in moment's haste
with the tiny fury's two paws on my leg,
and his eyes permeating my charity?
"But sir," I exclaim, "I have no nuts for you!"
Its squeaks rang shrill as up my pants it tore
to nestle its fur around my shirt's collar
and abided there with its furry tail in my ear.
I felt its nose brush upon my cheek.
My hands sought and found no stable grip.
Down my back it lit and to my pocket stole
"Those nuts are not for you!" I raged.
When it jumped free I grabbed its tail and kicked
I
The desert lapsed
indulgent of monsoons blooming
prickly pears, thorns
upon thorns,
apsidal angles of Jupiter
and chuparosa lately open.
The sagebrush leveled
painting the hardened clay
from natural red to scents of blown pollen.
Three whooping cranes flock
beneath their belfry voices
racing the sun, its further
precession. A cumulus
hugs their breeze.
II
Yesterday I wore a cloud to the window,
held it in, laughed as it tried to rise.
Yesterday I wrapped it round me
like a Roman, held with a safety pin,
then crowned myself with l
Light propagates across
white walls, resident space, and empty
atmosphere of a March afternoon.
In 30 million meters
shes a second away; fluorescent,
all absorption and reemission
of intangible soft white.
Shes framed in mahogany,
faded gold once painted
but now dust in her eyes.
A fraction of her bleeds through:
evanescent because shes critical,
all frustrated reflection.
She turns in winds
of dark halos, holding
together strands of justice
and sedition, her eyes
now patterned interference.
Let there be
photons graze
her irises, color them meadows
across the silvered glass.
Flecks of yell
The evidence of what is unseen.
Yet I have seen, the light
refracted and distorted, incident
upon the blind. I was there.
Blessed are the poor in spirit.
I tended the lamb,
a coverlet of shorn wool
forming a tenuous shroud,
(blessed are they who mourn)
a setting sun shining through
the Empyrean Rose, the Last
Judgement stained in San Chappell.
Behold the Father, Son, and Spirit.
He said bring light to dark places:
Rwanda and smoke, snaking
the wind. Decay rots the mud, flesh
burns cleaner. Ash was bone.
My hands were lifted.
Oh, Mother Mary, descend your grace,
show mercy. I went a pilgrim
up to Saint-Etiene du-Mont
I.
It was a Thursday morning, we
were gathered in the fog, careful
of our steps and of our language.
We walked through that window
of enveloped stone, wispy fog 5
and an old man walking slow.
You asked him, Come si chiama
quella chiesa là? Smiling he replied,
A me è il Duomo. We all gazed
through that mighty fog huddled 10
in jackets, strangers standing.
II.
Nebbia, Ricardo had said.
Come sempre nellinverno.
I stood looking at a school
house without edges. 15
The fog entered through
the glass window pane. On the bed
Eddie licked her paws. My suitcas
It snowed again.
I could taste it in the air.
It was like dreaming,
as when Mother sang:
lullabies of winter,
a blackbird on the snow,
the rivers motion frozen
and fish still swimming on.
She said it was a phantom land.
All shapes were reflection,
borrowed by frost and chill
while rainbows dance in fog
and the wind whispers sunsets.
Mother smelled of rosemary
she called it Severn Sea, spreading
in earth-bound canopies
hung on my walls.
Father drinks deeply of the smell.
He forgets too, sometimes.
He washes away the smell of salt,
tucks sister and I to bed
with a wordless prayer.
Sister doesnt remember
And This is How We Say Goodbye by belgarath, literature
Literature
And This is How We Say Goodbye
Without a sun to gauge the progress spent
across a waning and cerulean sky,
no shifting satellite of reflected beauty
with changing phases as grains of sand
of the desert endless and forever
barren of even a tempting fruit,
a thorn within the needles
threaded without eyes, the swelling
red of pricked solace and tears -
A fresh breeze can blow the infinite
grains of sand, irresolute, without
weight, and carry them away
to the schism of red and blue detached
by that untraceable boundary.
How nearer they land, to be
in the unchanged place of departure,
within the painted brown withered
by streaks of spreading crims
The Vampyr's Song - draft 1 by belgarath, literature
Literature
The Vampyr's Song - draft 1
Canto I
In the dusk, whereupon the moon rises 1
to cast shadows off from an April day –
shadows that pass across stone roads, cobbled
back when that ancient empire stood
upon the seven hills, and flow'd across 5
the Tiber's banks, to lands remote, to lands
soon conquered by the Holy Roman truth –
but these were now old shadows, left intact
by roving gazes, history, the hope
preserved in memories – the past to fall 10
with time, its slow decay, its loving kiss.
As night increases and stars ascend, the moon
yet waxing full, before St. Paul's there comes
two ladies walking by. Their clicking heels
echo against the ston
Light streams without windowpanes
filling a room's gray walls, its single
bed, sink, toilet, the door half of space,
half of bars, and the sentinel of their shadows.
He holds up a hand, it is not
like the light, illuminating white
dust, nor the absence of color
behind long strips of steel,
but brown – brown like the earth.
There's none of that here.
No blowing sands to dry away tears,
forming rivulets of horizons
with a sun that blushes and bows
to the hills, the houses, his sweet
caravansary. No longer his.
No longer. Where his friends
drank of meeting horizons,
then stood and fought for their own.
As skies shed skin in light of evening's wane
across the streak of men, and lights humming
in black and halos of descending rain,
the lines of men draw course in their seeming -
those suits of memories, flowers faded,
red cheeks yet dry in April's weeping gaze -
past gates of angels fallen and erased,
they that attend to where all living stays.
Lines fold around the oak, bagpipes then play
no words to spend beneath that mystery
of faded moonshine bathed in seas of gray,
and uncertainty of the melody.
Amidst the sound of birds they go their own.
No flowers, but two coins to take him home.
Unwanted Love from a Squirrel by belgarath, literature
Literature
Unwanted Love from a Squirrel
Along the forested green of winding way
there beset my path the notion of a tail
enrapt in fur from base to banded tip.
What pause might I take in moment's haste
with the tiny fury's two paws on my leg,
and his eyes permeating my charity?
"But sir," I exclaim, "I have no nuts for you!"
Its squeaks rang shrill as up my pants it tore
to nestle its fur around my shirt's collar
and abided there with its furry tail in my ear.
I felt its nose brush upon my cheek.
My hands sought and found no stable grip.
Down my back it lit and to my pocket stole
"Those nuts are not for you!" I raged.
When it jumped free I grabbed its tail and kicked
I
The desert lapsed
indulgent of monsoons blooming
prickly pears, thorns
upon thorns,
apsidal angles of Jupiter
and chuparosa lately open.
The sagebrush leveled
painting the hardened clay
from natural red to scents of blown pollen.
Three whooping cranes flock
beneath their belfry voices
racing the sun, its further
precession. A cumulus
hugs their breeze.
II
Yesterday I wore a cloud to the window,
held it in, laughed as it tried to rise.
Yesterday I wrapped it round me
like a Roman, held with a safety pin,
then crowned myself with l
Current Residence: Somewhere Favourite genre of music: Pretty much anything but rap! Operating System: XP Pro, OS X Favourite cartoon character: Animaniacs, Sam and Max, Freakazoid, hell yeah! Personal Quote: True art justifies itself.
Wow, I haven't been here in a while. And I'm studying in Ferrara, Italy at present. Yup, that's all I feel like saying because I'm sure there's somebody out there listening...