Saga Paterfamiliad

   

Of Iain, Beowulfsson, in his fifteenth year

The Great Remote in unmatched splendour lay

In beauty on the crystal Table of Life.

And were it lost, t’would cause unending strife.

Its buttons glow in rainbow hue,

Magnificent Power shining through.

But lo! The great Dog, canine Beast,

With evil black tail, a sinister whip,

Hath sent the Remote on ill-fated trip!

Their grief resounds through the Great Hall

As for the Remote its denizens call.

Accusation rings through the kitchen,

War cries rebound from the walls,

Soon is sent flying the first red rubber Ball.

Screaming for blood, it rockets through the air

And collides in cruel power

With the Great Patriarch’s glower

Accusation rings through the kitchen,

War cries rebound from the walls.

Fire flames in his eyes, air fills his lungs,

And his roar, like avenging Thunder,

Seems to shatter the very ether.

Accusation rings through the kitchen,

War cries rebound from the walls.

Then the Pater, the Champion, eyes like the deadly hawk,

Espies the Great Remote upon the barren floor of rock,

Its dreadful power gleaming.

He takes it up, a priceless Gem.

The royal household gathers, awe shining in their eyes,

To see the screen of ineffable magic blaring into life

By virtue of the Great Remote.

Reclining there, the kingly Hero on his Throne of Rest,

Having thus concluded battle, chooses entertainments best.

They all sit down together, admiration in their gaze,

When their Father declares: This day has ended Dread.

Therefore and for all, it is time for bed!

Occasionally a young Bard arises unexpectedly. So it is with Iain,  14-year-old son of a most Gentle Reader. Thanks to both reader and son for sharing this humorous, and epic, poem! Please be sure to let him know what you think by voting (cool/not cool) AND leaving a comment. Thank you!

Guest Poet!

(Author: Samantha Gluck)

I made the devil himself stutter on his words

Made his words slip for a moment,

A fateful moment.

Made his beautiful smile catch --

Falter for a split second

A fallen second.

I left him, yes

Alone and

Wistful.

Gone.

I admire the form of this, the imagery, the simultaneous sense of triumph and sympathy.

Special thanks to Samantha Gluck, a.k.a. @TexasCopyWriter, @MedTopicWriter, the first half of @SamAndAmySpeak, Owner and Executive Dream Weaver, All Media Freelance, LLC,  and Editor-in-Chief, Freelance Writing Dreams. Despite her credentials as a writer, she has been shy about admitting her poetic ability. This is her second guest post (see also "I Promise," on the Guest Poets, Ghost Poets page.) I am proud that Samantha has chosen to "come out" as a poet on WaterPhoenix—SCOOP!

Songs of Motherhood

I.

Comes a dimming on the green leaves in spring;
They pause, mid-whisper.
Comes a child ’cross the green meadow of forest;
Animals scent the air, intent.
Comes a rain in the green morning of day;
Still, all things watch—
Child and cloud.

Bare feet, bare arms
Embrace the light of day;
Leviathans, weightless,
Caress honey-colored locks—
In a breath are light, air and infant one.

Then washed indoors,
A yet sweet-breathed bairn
Is lullayed to easy dreams of rainbows
By Nature tapping soft at window panes,
Asking Innocence to come again and play.

Affection As Prayer

There is a question in your hands:
though their touch on my skin
slides smooth and gentle,
I feel them tug at the hem of my heart,
         anxious, needing, hopeful.
They remind me of a little boy
who kisses the part of my arm he can reach
because of how much he wants my love,
the mercy of acceptance,
forbearance to frown at imperfections
         (the forgiveness of sin.)

Resonance

The scent of you 

  is still on my fingertips, 

  in my hair 

  It hangs around me softly, 

  like a comfortable old shirt 

  patient enough to let me wear it still. 

The image of you 

  is still on my mind, 

  in my eyes 

  it’s said a thing of beauty 

  is a joy for ever and ever and 

  (I think it was Keats) 

The touch of you 

  lingers on my skin, 

  in my heart 

  Will it hurt if you go?

  Suppose so—I suppose,
  But you’d always have been worth it. 

Track & Field: Note To Self

I repeated these ideas to myself in a variety of ways for a variety of reasons this week. It's posted in honor of the Los Angeles Marathoners running this Sunday; it would be my mantra were I running.

What do you say to yourself when you're facing high hurdles?

Take The Hint

Pearly blue above,

It’s seventy-two degrees—
Still you are inside.

Dappled shade below—
Birds sing ridiculously,
Beckon you to join them.

re: the unopened present

shake it and hear only waiting silence
open it and find it empty but for
ten words spoken into it so small
and simple a thing it takes no space at
all in a light paper box full of wish
hope long and will that i also carry
compact though uncontained

(How can a heart full of empty weigh so much?)

Paratrooper

Wake in winter dark

With dawn still an hour away—

Sunrise, on the road.

Hit the ground running—

Well, hit the ground, anyway.

It’s Monday again...

Favored Universe: How shall we live?

(after M. Arnold, with thanks to RBE)

So Love, let us be true
to one another,
not at some remove
from the great and gasping
tides of earth and time,


but here at their shores,
on the wet sand
with foam about our knees
and weeds clinging to our ankles,
swaying in our own ebb and flow.


Let us not flee
the warring madness,
but, as God and Goddess
in the midst of clashing armies,
make love so beautiful
that they are amazed to stillness
and all their hearts fill
with longing and peace.


Then, rather than only
the inescapability of conclusions,
we shall find how we begin
by choosing
again and again.

"Dover Beach," by Matthew Arnold is a classic—lovely and beyond reproach. It is also discouraging. This is for RJ and D; I hope it is not discouraging.

Go Ahead

Choose seventeen tiles, 

Grout them neatly into place.
Haiku is not hard.

Revision

Nature image, mood, 
Seasonal references—
good haiku is hard.

Pieces In Keys

Pieces in keys have themes and motives,
    predictable transitions.
They modulate themselves toward conclusions
    that satisfy the questions raised.
Pieces in keys function within their ranges
    of forces, textures, movement,
    with vocabulary affixed to an alphabet.
They set up housekeeping, feed the pets,
    pay the bills, make friends with the neighbors.
Pieces in keys have anniversaries.

There are other musics
    not crafted or constructed or conceived;
That grow themselves,
    inventing not only glossary, but also glyph;
That catalyse visible elastic strands
    from fluid transparencies;
That flare spontaneously with a subtle popping sound,
    consuming their own heat and leaving a only residue
    of fine white ash;
That precipitate from vapors and fogs,
    accrete in fantastic impossibilities,
    evanesce into immateriality.

Other musics own nothing
    and sleep under bridges.
They serve no obvious purposes,
    meet their own needs.
Other musics grow quietly up through cracks in the sidewalk
    and spout dream-inspired sermons on street corners.
They keep time in overlapping layers of irregular increments.
Other musics never know what age to act.

How like these other musics is this, between us!—
    anxious of life, reckless of consequence, compelling in urgency,
    and drawing from pieces in keys a self-confuting question:
How does any music know what itself is?

Say, there's something new at the bottom of the posts: a reaction vote! So if you don't have time to leave a comment, or don't know exactly what you'd like to say, you can just click "cool" or "not cool." 

It helps me know what readers want to read when I can see your reaction—thanks!

plank

bound hand
cannot touch
bound foot
cannot step
bound eye
cannot see

away others
decide fate
bound heart
must wait

slender beam
may tilt
courage fail
hope wilt

promise made
faith-brave
gentle word
may yet save

unbind the hand
that cannot touch
unbind the eye
that cannot see
unbind the foot
that cannot step
unbind the heart
that waits on thee

I Promise

I don't know how you missed it. 
I know you remember seeing it,
but I suppose you became distracted
by the others around it.
I wish you would write your own—Ha!
Doubt that'll happen, but maybe...
Promise not to laugh
at my most inept way of writing
poetry.
Ever.

Samantha Gluck shared this Brian in the Comments on "Watch for Falling Girls." Thanks for letting me share it, @TexasCopyWriter!

the arithmetic of damnation (part one)

: a calculating man

Poor fellow creature!

attempting to add up

what was beyond calculation

(and trying to make the balance

sum up in his favor,)

figuring irrational numbers

to infinite digits

(a strange tesselation of loss…)

Mental math was never his forte.

It should have worked out—

but in this too-unbalanced equation

there were missing signs of negativity

and multiplications of error

in the millions column.

One.

It’s thanks to you I’ve played Sir William’s frets,

and gratitude the more I’ve my own tried;

For though my art does want, why so regret

that Art the more by Try’s not amplified?

Forgive then, distant friend, the handicaps

that pressed to dance with words have only limped

graceward with halting measure, and left scraps

of ideas trailing. With enjambments crimped

together, lines will multiply to hay-

stacks where well-ordered rows of shocks should be;

A clumsy first harvest, that chaffs away

the kernels of new-sought ability.

           

(The shoots that do sprout later sha’n’t be weeds:

Such wasted thoughts of new crop are the seeds.)

About Me

In my infancy, my auntie related,

she would wake early in the morning

to the sound of voices coming from my room.

Curious, she came closer,

and peering 'round the door

would see me standing in my crib,

singing and laughing at my fingers.

So I guess I’ve always been this way.

Some Advice

A lot
is nothing
like everything.
A lot
is much;
nothing
is more
like everything.

Like a lot.
Love everything.

Housewarming

The last box is in.
You, overworked for weeks now,

Can feel little beyond exhaustion and relief.

And then, wouldn't you know it?

Seems like a hundred call or stop by;

Many of them bring a friend,
And most only stay for a moment;
It's hard to keep track.

One group got together

And made a silly music video for you, just for fun,

So you have to order in hors d’œuvres and screen it;

They hoot and blast air horns when someone misbehaves.

Should anyone be surprised you’re not serving popcorn?

What a mess they'd make.

And there are gifts.

Here is something beautiful, small:

A jar of fig jam.

It is wrapped in green tissue

And the fingerprints of an artist’s devoted effort.

Not from the easiest person; it is a surprise.

And here: a big box

Full of laughter and encouragement wrapped in iridescent bubbles,

Delivered with a smile by the FedEx guy.

And here: a large envelope neatly stuffed with shared opinions;
Essays on patriotism, politics, and picture shows—

You could frame some of them, they’re that good.

And here, here, and here: Pineapples,
Symbols of welcome and hospitality.
Armagnac? That's a bit of good timing…

Despite the slight but constant and nagging sensation 

That this is not quite finished,

Finally, you set on Sinatra, put your feet up, and let out a deep breath…

Oh—this was on the floor of the entry.

Someone peered through the letter-slot briefly

(But never knocked)

Before poking a crumpled scrap through.

Written on the back of a cinema receipt

Smelling faintly of roses and sandalwood,

The letters, crooked and slightly smudged, say only:

“Bless this place.”

for T.