pearls

A New Casting Call

Posted in tercet by maggie on 2018/05/30

In blood, with inviolable fasting
we recall our common bound casting
on the bed of our lady youngest

to renew as the moon in her waking
our breath, its word here remaking
secret water circles among us.

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Afterthought 1550—Minus One, Minus Another

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2017/01/14

Time was known more by
what we didn't do
than by what we did.
It's the absent things we know,
minus one, minus another. 

We withheld pieces of ourselves,
expecting to do without.
We focused on the words not said,
leaving the others to catch up. 
We made love with the lights on,
ignoring the gods who call from dark.
All those tears we never had to cry,
minus one, minus another. 

We won't see everyone home,
we won't mark everything done,
we won't mention every casualty,
we won't spend every last cent.
Minus one, minus another,
minus one, minus another,
minus one, minus another,
we will be at our best 
with all we weren't. 

Afterthought 1258—Is the Word

Posted in nothing special, sestet by maggie on 2016/09/17

Is the word you wish to hear
one that you yourself can't say
without it beating up your throat
as cries from lovers you betray
kill the word's sound in your ear
to leave you only ill you wrote?

Is the word you wish to know
one that you yourself can't see
as living in the hearts you damned,
replacing love with flattery
of hustlers using you as though
they in turn weren't being scammed?

Is the word you wish to keep
one you yourself consider dead,
barely thought of now and then
as if a brief guest to your bed?
All your words sell on the cheap—
you'll never find true words again.

Protected: Afterthought 1024—Breakthrough

Posted in nothing special, sapphics by maggie on 2016/06/01

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Afterthought 901—Sonnet -1

Posted in nothing special, sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2016/02/12

This won't be how my word will be reborn 
like yours, all echo, pieces we'll forget, 
as randomly arranged as when we met 
like moonlight let loose on that autumn's morn. 

Like those, no doubt these too will earn your scorn — 
these touches you won't want, dreams you won't let 
act real, as real as poetry, yet . . . yet 
I'll hope this page won't get discarded torn. 

So let's just happen crossing paths again, 
a drink or two, perhaps enjoy a dance 
together, nothing one need bother keep. 
As you yourself have said, my talk is cheap — 
lines strung together from mere circumstance, 
a poem or two here, every now and then.


 
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Afterthought 255—Supplicant’s Villanelle

Posted in villanelle by maggie on 2015/06/14
 

Let Discipline, my teacher, work my skill.
Insanity, ride through chaotic skies
to tame this creature, bend her to my Will.

Collaboration primped her pride until
it hadn't more than cause to criticize.

Let Discipline, my teacher, work my skill
to judge me justly.  Have my Freedom's drill
each rigid rule she lays down memorize.

To tame this creature, bend her to my Will,
her Inspiration's cistern to refill,
may words once loved be those now to despise.

Let Discipline, my teacher, work my skill
to holy Craft devoid of random ill
or selfish end.  Pray dead as living rise
to tame this creature, bend her to my Will.

The wildest wind turns breath standing most still
inside her throat, her tourniquet's reprise.
Let Discipline, my teacher, work my skill
to tame this creature, bend her to my will.


Afterthought 252—On Taking the Cake

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2015/06/11
 
Icing?  Now he is carving out cakes?
And icing them with fantastic shapes?
His creations disappear into crumbs
of edible decorations, of good times
smeared into mixed colors on plates
that fed laughter, fun, sweet tastes,
brief memories that go dim and fade
before a next birthday'll celebrate.

No snapshot or journal can recall
love he gives to it, his good will.

You should write a poem, I say again.
Poems last longer.  Cakes are done
only to eat once, no matter how good
they taste or how fantastically made.
A good metaphor can do what icing does
over and over and over.  A poem has
no shelf life.  He replies he's heard
all that's both had and eaten's a word.

Protected: Afterthought 248—An Educated Guess

Posted in nothing special, quintain by maggie on 2015/06/10

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Protected: Afterthought 212—Into Summer’s Light

Posted in sonnet cycle by maggie on 2015/04/23

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