Poems by UrbanHost
on north born gale the white wing streams,
serpentine in evening sky, wandering
on closing light as dreams in placid sleep,
alive with strange and dear simplicity.
to far wasteland realm of wide and wild reach,
the pallid pinioned storm descends.
the night to earth's device resigns…
from wind, to breath, to gentle sigh, silent,
as distant shifts of sea, and deep, as dark
the boundless ocean lies; in sightless calm
the moorland keeps its living song come worn
to earth past long and blissful flight.
though far of care, cold morpheus tends
with forms of nightly reign and reaps his praise
from palsied host he wards when quiet falls
to quiet over the sea meadow rune,
when sleep, the enemy, the love, takes all
and beds them each on misty moor.
such is the scene to fill faint dreams
of mortal yearning, to stretch the fabric
fantasy of childhood wonder, tattered
by age and reason; such is languid want,
the greed of peace that beats the measured flow
through mind and heart of hardened man.
a brass bang bursts this transient ease
and bleeds the score reposed on morning's wake
when runs the sound, intoned a stoney din
of thunder, ushering the corse bred hour
through pore, on breath still echoing the wrong,
scattering the envied pleasure.
where hides the grace in friars light
and light to shadow's hall retires in shame;
in distance shoaled by ring of weighted wind;
the thin, white line sides the adumbrate sky
and, o're the wasteland, sighs the lone grave note,
the chantra ending ‘flee or die'.
on high the starting squadron soars,
ever on gentle swells of whispered wind
cupped in folds beneath their anserine wings,
ever to reach beyond the rain-dark clouds
that hold the mortal dream. high they sail ,
beyond, in the track of the sun.
broad blade leaves of weeds grow
succulent along the mud lush ditch'
its dirty fist gripping size ten keds,
sweat stained and striped, eyelets
wide staring into the sun.
a single barbed strand dangles
from a drunken post protecting
the ditch from other desperate shoes.
in the park
an inharmonious din of carillon calls children
from tree limb swings and wild kite strings and
mud banked streams long marching to the sea.
children come running after a peddler selling
snow cones from tin box barrows on old spoked
wheels hobbling dusty paths and leaf clothed
streets with steel bells ringing, steel bells
singing to children; each child's smile's fixed
with sweet-iced dreams, harmonized with singing
steel bells. pennies worked for, pennies saved
before summer stumbled into town; are clutched
in white-knucked fists or dirt-wrapped hands or
cuddled in rag bandannas or lint lined pockets
of knee-frayed dungarees; to buy shaved-ice
diamonds hoppered in cool tinned darkness.
under a high arched sun, coppered kids toe
brittle twigs, impatiently, and wait in swarms
surrounding jars of sticky, bright delights and
lick there driveled lips in salty/sweet antic-
ipation. among the numbered throng, a cherub
twice denied, is turned aside, pennies shy of the
cool-tongued joy. and, with a beggar's eye, he haunts
the tree lined trails where couples coo, there in
hope to find some sir, kind and grateful to display
his generosity. and, when enriched, the child
again comes running after the peddler selling
snow cones from a tin box barrow with steel bells
ringing, steel bells singing, ice diamonds.
Biographical sketch: Born early,
Not yet dead.
Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath
Reason: The irony of having your work collected and edited
by an ex-spouse.
Recommendations for writers:
The vision you create.