Drops of boiled beeswax poured into the lap of eventide fixed up the familiar face Soul syphoned as tax with lips forever widely untied yet draped in smatters of lace Bright acrylic lacs whispering old words that formed and dyed a novel paint palate case Dry anticlimax from feeble watercolor tears cried at night end's bitter disgrace Broken into scraps less than what it could and would provide more than all it could erase
Beads of sweat on bottled wine. Taste divine; this goddess form Twirled in satin and leaf gold Curved to hold a broken norm
I saw the postured seating - face forward - chin up - But an empty plate for eating. Flies thrummed buzzing wings - hollowed out - dripping down - Feasting on the heartstrings. Your corpse used as a flower vase - water held - death dwelled - Adorned in maggot petal grace.
Chipped polish on keratin Formed instruments of misery Against the carved ivory candlestick, But played in time and one half Between clicked wooden heels And shuffle scuffed leather toes. Shrieking warped wood boards Bemoaned the restless pacing Until eased by the storm’s drippings Rolled from the oversaturated linen. Youth kept the nightdress white, Precisely creased on double pleat Perfumed in almond and rice starch. The insipidness of immaturity Creeped up the ironed dart lines To satiate the linen’s thirst for spoil, And seeped into the recurring path In a bogged mix of clay and blood. The sludge had smudged the vows Between the ruby and diamond ring. Lightning had taken exception, Or so it would have seemed, To the metal cockerel above the well. It’s striking boldly lit the sodden grass To illuminate a solitary jacquard spat Encased, leather, side button boot. He’d sworn himself inconspicuous once, Yet adorned himself so pretentiously For the eyes of the unwed maidens On the night he was intended to wed. The dusty manor house windows Did not hide the ostentatious footwear From the overwhelmed on looker As she bit her nails cuticle bare. Had he simply fallen, she’d be asleep For the drunkard had overindulged On pints of overtaxed Thames Gin. But he cracked his crown on limestone Before his legs lost the ability to hold His brainless form to full attention. Inebriation settled most heavily In the bones of his shaking wheeze. Had not the split of his mindless skull Incapacitated his conscious movement, His well wished departure would be, To the greatest of detest and chagrin, Replaced by opiate coma numbing As his bride rode Peeler’s prize In a carted cage of lucid lunacy And cursed language of wicked folk. Luck had been her bedfellow, Strength her mightiest gift giver, And determination: her kind muse. No sooner could he groan in ache Than his moaning was quick silenced In the crunch of crumbled spine That met with a barren dark age well. Her hand warmed by the liquid wax, She stopped pacing to reflect with joy At the sickening sound of lifelessness.
The day has too few a sunrise to explore But the innumerous colours are counted In ritual along the distant early skyline anyway. Beyond the principle of merely being, There's the principle of endless sight seeing Fluttering on the delicate iridescent wingtip. Although all sights are born of intrinsic good, Reality requires a respite of recuperation So the sprite may realign it's own energies. Wrapped in nature's most pastoral gifts The sprite feasts on the bounty of true justice: Nourished by the fundamentals of harmony So it may be vibrant in passionate expression. Though delicate to the lowly observing eye, The spirit of the sprite is bodaciously hardy, Fearlessly inspired by the very air it breathes: Time had tested itself, and failed to win battle Against the ethereal protector of land and sea.
A beautifully imperfect creation, Mottled in angst and frustration, Capturing stray drops of sunlight To warm you on the colder nights. The open evening air calls you To gain that moment of solitude Between the sediments of thought Lined and calmed in melodies. You don't absorb or reflect When bathing in the day's light, But refract polychromatic splendour Through your fused shrapnel. Each playing piece considered and Placed within the web of fragments Builds a mosaic of endurance: A tenacious testament of truth, Boldly embraced through fractures And acknowledged reality splinters. The weathered debris of survival Formed you a formidable warrior Encased in your own clast armour: Sharply witted within awareness, Yet dynamically poised, prepared For metamorphic elevation.
Couples s w a y Waltz
Waltz C i r c l e Princesses
Princess C a p t i v a t e Ballrooms
Written in response to an Ampersand Prompt
She lacks symmetry. In the curve of the looking glass She’s obtuse, Deliberate in naivety. Her melody chants emptily Constricting her harmony to base notes: Rooted and diatonic Yet obliquely tuned, off key. She reflects with the clarity That only the distorted can: Off-balance and perfectly malformed. In the eye of creation She’s a falsified sequence Sat between design and serendipity. A constellation unmapped For her rising suns are only set And her moons are drowned In the tides they made. There’s no happenstance here, To her, existence is a gift. The opportunity to remould The kinetic sand in which she swims So it may smooth the surface To form a meretricious shine.
Outstretched legs that could reach the sky, And nails long enough to lose an eye. Curves small and soft, but defined and outlined, Face tight, flawless, and often kind. Pointed toes that swept deftly, precise, And affection that came at a price, Back tickled with golden hair, A body most beautiful bare. Elegant movements, jeté, plié, Childish as very cliché. Parents who raised their child right, With the grace of a mythic sprite. Shame everyone else had loved her too.
I had spent many hours with her, Both young and grown. I had grown beside her kin, With a mother who shared her blood. She was reckless in my mother’s eyes, Wild as the wind that she flew on. A woman who lived by no law, But by principle of her own heart. She near always smiled at me, And she laughed at my cynicisms. We drank several nights away, At the bar, or on the step of a shop door. Like many young, I fled the nest, Spread my wings for lands afar, Leaving them all behind me, But visiting with growing infrequency. On my return there would be happy reunion, Drinks, songs, smokes, smiles, laughs. Gatherings of the now grown and their young, Besides our elders now older once more. But time did fly by quicker, And 15 months seems to blink fast. And soon I am beckoned back, Returning to see her again. My mother, as always, Holding the hands of my family, As a means to hold their souls, their bodies, And their strength, in an upwards fashion. Me, smiling through, as taught, Showing that the living are not afraid. I hold her hair 'twix my fingers, And braid in flowers as we laugh. I roll her smokes, before my own, The legality of them questionable, As she waves between here and there, Jittery with fear of being wedded. I paint over the hollowing skin, Lighten her sunken eyes, With a mixture of tones, pigments, Creams and powders, brushes and sponges. The clocks strikes and the camera clicks, She grins as she is wheeled along, I press the button as she makes vows, Promises to be short lived and kept. We drank, we smoked, we laughed, I sang, for she couldn’t any longer, I walked for her, towing the chair, And navigated with care and fear. Family gathered, united, strong again, Smiling at the simple pictures I captured, Wondering at the beauty of her, Of her soul, of her love. The woman wore purple, As a bride, draped in purple and white, As a mother, through waking night, As my aunt, when hugging me tight. The woman wore purple, And when I saw her last, she wore it still. Though I’ll never see her again, I know the woman wears purple.
The Poet Armistead 