24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
You are a spider boy,
Creeping through small tight spaces
With seemingly more limbs than you ought
Since you haven’t yet adjusted to their expansion
And so spangle them about you
Like shooting stars.
Nobody knows what you know or see
With who knows how many eyes observing
From behind that dark fringe veil
Since you appear to be perfectly mute
As you slink from edge to edge
Effortlessly weaving
The web that binds us.
Every movement with grace
To survive, to shelter
Tirelessly painting with silk
Weaving art
The only thing I was guilty of
Was giving you too much,
Now all that is left of me
Will never be enough.
I stand proudly on the shore, sending out a beacon of light.
A signal to the ships tossed by the sea, encouraging them to fight.
I guide them in the darkness, carefully bringing them home.
Promising them safe harbor, so they no longer need to roam.
When the sea calls to them again, I help them find their way.
When the next journey ends, I’ll lead them back again one day.
What a wicked little beast you are
Scathing glaring glass beady eyes
Slobbering humongous fangs just waiting
Waiting to sink into my flesh
I abhor you and your hairy legs
Yes, I’m scared of spiders
But you, you are a nightmare of epic proportions
I can’t fathom your existence
Whose idea were you anyway, that’s just cruel
And that violin, why just why
Something so elegant on a hideous monstrosity
It is deplorable to think about
Writing about you makes me nauseous
And so I bid thee nasty creature a hasty goodbye
Eternity Now
I don’t know what I want
but I want it now
You never live once
failure is the only option
turn around and say goodbye
to your Euridice
seize the death
Death to your answers
evermore evermore
endless summer
and
blessed night
Last but not least
He finally reached
Amidst the blue sky
Lived a young fly
free from sin’s worl
dribbling in a bin’s worl
All rights reserved copyrighted(c) 2017 Roxann A Harvey
Strange how beautiful when we are diaphanous,
a bit of ripped muslin…”For the Woman Who Danced
With the Ashes of Her Son” from Washita by Patrick Lane
What makes us strange
is the how
and why of a beautiful
we counted on when
we were young and diaphanous
as first light, a bit
of sun enough to sustain us, a scrap of ripped
muslin
blowing in and out of an open bedroom window.
We sipped at each other’s breath
like air plants
and wondered at our nakedness,
how close to the gods
our perfect skin, our lithe limbs,
yet time makes liars of us.
We have grown old, my dear,
but there are times when I am a questing mole,
fierce in my love, loose as anything.[1]
[1] Lane, Patrick. Washita, p. 24.
Cymbals of lightening
chant of thunder
the dance of rain
orchestral thunderstorms
symphony of summer