Poems by averilbones
To pause, and take long breath,
like breeze stilled in dappled bower,
is pleasure too oft forgone.
Oh you, whose mysteries deep and wide I plumb,
rise with trailing fingers rippling silk,
and bring to life my veins which feel so numb,
that I may drink of sweet creation's milk.
Leave me not to linger shadow-cowed
blind to inspiration's coloured hues.
I will not waste a moment, I have vowed,
but that that which you offer without cue.
Broad mother, with your understanding eye,
bring forth a birdcall to disturb my sleep;
and with delight I'll listen to your cry,
and take your words within to ponder deep.
I only pray all I can offer up
will fill a little Mother Nature's cup.
In winter, the long-limbed rays of sun skin crystle trees,
headlights masquerade behind frosted glass,
and in cooled valleys the voices of birds are muted,
somehow furled against wind's icy bite.
Early morning, I sit in my night-frigid car for long moments,
listening to the nervous purring of her still-chilld intestines,
and watching the high golden sun-line on the hills,
as far from dripping honey-warmth on me as summertime.
And the coldness of the air is not the wind-chill of Earth's breath,
nor is the pinch of frozen water, or the shiver in my fingertips;
but the hunger of the dirth of space, chilled Pluto's grasping at life,
the blinding dark that resides outside the hearth of my home.
While the tiner-arc of Mercury sizzles in eternal summer sun,
Europa's icy crust sips solar rays with unrelenting glacial thirst,
taking that little sun that would warm my toes this morning
and bring waiting jonquils to fragrant surface bloom.
New Year's grace in place
of any excuse for abuse;
and the dragon renamed flagon,
and deep tattoos but a ruse,
a foil, a slippery slope of oil,
so none might see I am alone.
Apathy hangs dark over decision,
excusing all sloth, blurring road vision,
giving full lie to great works in progress,
never completed, and soon lost in morass.
"It's too late!" they say, fat-tub-shaped reclining,
pick up the remote, further defining
their eyescreens, blue-green and reflected,
watching the world's grisly business, dejected.
Outside, the screaming comes, heard, unabated,
sounds deftly muted, cruel listeners elated.
False laughter echoes through homes all around
and children grow up without touching the ground.
Violence is reeking from Earth's every pore,
hooks gutting her gullet, beak chocking up gore.
Bloodiness spills with the growth of dark ages,
and historians smirk adding death to their pages.
Biographical sketch: I am a 27-year-old woman living in Sydney,
Australia and working in the publishing industry.
Sensory by Averil Bones
Reason: It's got my work in it.
Recommendations for writers:
Be true to the feelings that sweep you away, and do not try to