villanelle

Below the last layer of consciousness

There is a part of you that’s hurting too,
More often hushed, a lingering presence;
A throe right before each day starts anew.

When the oneiric realm fades from view,
Yet before your mind starts its resistance
There is a part of you that’s hurting too.

The aftermath of our souls’ rendezvous
Aches in the harsh truth of our distance;
A throe right before each day starts anew.

I, the fool, let this pang paint my walls blue,
And though you don’t wallow in penitence
There is a part of you that’s hurting too.

This is not something I could get used to;
Sheer agony defined by persistence;
A throe right before each day starts anew

So curse your mind! – and its hullabaloo
Hushing your soul’s craving deliverance.
There is a part of you that’s hurting too;
A throe right before each day starts anew.

- M.A. Tempels © 2017

adulter (a villanelle)

Note: this is my first attempt at the highly structured form of poetry known as the villanelle. If any of you are experienced with villanelle or even basic meter I will gladly take constructive criticism as this is an area I would like to improve.

————————–

Clean up the glasses, houses have gone dark,
their wives will sleep the dreaded night to dust.
And yet, smoke still fills their empty hearts.

The devils sow and seed their evil art.
And the men enamoured forget they must
clean up the glasses, houses have gone dark.

Prospero’s storm will rock their heavy cart
then make room for Miranda’s naive trust.
And yet, smoke still fills their empty hearts.

And children locked away will scream their lark.
“Please father, mother will make quite a fuss,
clean up the glasses, houses have gone dark.”

Their mothers fear at sight of godless spark,
and yes, men try: control their greed and lust.
And yet, smoke still fills their empty hearts.

And finally the voices end the arc,
minds of men will burn with hedonist rust.
“Clean up the glasses, houses have gone dark”,
and yet, smoke still fills their empty hearts.

The time has come that some things must be said.
The new year’s in. The seasons scurry by.
I start to tire of ‘i lik the bred.’

All other forms of poetry are fled.
It’s ABCB, ABCB – why?
The time has come that some things must be said.

Innumerable variations read –
The calf, the cats, the goats and the Radchaai –
I start to tire of 'i lik the bred.’

I understand; it gets into your head
And, cowed, you think in iambs – as do I.
The time has come that some things must be said.

The bredlik ruled as king, and we were led.
But spring returns, and now the king must die.
We start to tire of 'i lik the bred’

The moon may shine. Still, cows must go to bed.
It will not be too hard to say goodbye –
The time has come that such things must be said.
I start to tire of 'i lik the bred.’

going home

no matter where I go, where I roam
all the far-away places I have been
I’m always going home

I find myself alone before the night, before the gloam
surrounded by these fields of the desert’s fleeting green
no matter where I go, where I roam

these words I write feel they will be my tome
and in the end they will wash me clean
I’m always going home

I find myself alone as I roam
and I will rise above the world’s din
no matter where I go, where I roam

and I woke up naked and alone
but the world continues in its uncaring mien
I’m always going home

I hold on to these things as intangible as foam
and although I am at this point in between
no matter where I go, where I roam
I’m always going home.

i’m convinced humans are made of stardust—
the wonders of the cosmos trapped in the soul.
as the blood in our veins turns to rust


and all that seems left is a void, we must
not let the bleakness take its toll
for i know humans are made of stardust.


some people, they will become unfocused,
lose the bit of brilliance as they get old
and the blood in their veins turns to rust.


but you, my wonder-child, will not. i trust
you’ll catch that tendril of light and take hold,
for you know that you are made of stardust,


and you’ll not let that part of you be hushed.
we all have a part in life and your role
is not only to be iron blood left to rust.


oh darling, when the world seems a bit rushed
and everything in you spins out of control,
remember, still, we are forged from stardust
even as our blood will one day become rust.

—  child of the cosmos (a.m.s)
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Hands like yours, like mine | a villanelle |
A Villanelle I wrote during my poetry class. It is a poem I wrote for my mum in her voice; the voice of a mother who watches her little girl grow up. It’s an...

A Villanelle, by Bobbie May Corleys

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“Lonely Artists” by Kaye Spivey, and a bit about Villanelles.

The Tortured Artist

With a magnifying glass to his eye
A man with a descending ladder unseen
Watching them all from a cloud in the sky

A tortured artist long ago said goodbye
He paints the morally abhorrent scene
With a magnifying glass to his eye

Nevermore to return, the ladder split spine
He grows mad painting faces so mean
Watching them all from a cloud in the sky

He obsessively captures every outcry
Carefully details malevolent fiends
With a magnifying glass to his eye

The painter’s pallet has slowly gone dry
Regrets resurface of an incautious leave
Watching them all from a cloud in the sky

Yet he shakes in roaring laughter when they die
This artist’s mind is a broken machine
With a magnifying glass to his eye
Watching them all from a cloud in the sky

I am but a dying storm already far from sea
The mountain pass I cannot sedate
When my body falls, will I be free?

The tempest wind whistles, ice rains flurry
My tendril arms twist, writhe to mutate
I’m but a dying storm already far from sea

My fight continues, the prophets decree
Mire armies grow, tripwires detonate
When my body falls, will I be free?

Without my eye, my gusts, my fury
Nevermore will I twist the arm fate
I’m but a dying storm already far from sea

Darkness flows, late hours blurry
Now here I fade, at the end I await
When my body falls, will I be free?

Deep in the night, the cold takes me
Alone, I arrive at the shadow of the gate
I am but a dying storm already far from sea Thus, my body falls, now, am I free?

When we will meet each other in the sky,
Will all these tears not matter anymore;
How will I ever look you in the eye?

What will all this bitter hurt signify
But a wrought hollow life I shall deplore
When we will meet each other in the sky.

When to my regret, I must testify
To have butchered my heart in inner war,
How will I ever look you in the eye?

Will love’s light be able to purify
This corrupted spirit, ruined to its core,
When we will meet each other in the sky?

Then when I do no longer qualify
For the gift of wings; the blessing to soar,
How will I ever look you in the eye?

Here, we may have said our final goodbye,
But one question will haunt me evermore:
When we will meet each other in the sky,
How will I ever look you in the eye?

Will you be there? - M.A. Tempels © 2017

Blue fingers are tied with strings
cutting through flesh while staying intact
now is your time to sing

They whored their prominent kings
while silencing minds so nothing is said
blue fingers are tied with strings

You bite your tongue before swallowing
and make sure to bow your pretty head
now is your time to sing

Luscious lips and broken things
oh, how cruel they are when you object
blue fingers are tied with strings

You’ve lost yourself; your pace and swing
refuse to succumb and thus subject
now is your time to sing

Nevermore will she hide her wings
soar and fly as a final act
blue fingers are tied with strings
now is your time to sing

this faint rain, the sound
of drifting clouds above,
of this world without bound,
 
say: here is where we found
the fragile bloom of love,
watered with gold, crowned,
 
nevermore to fade. around
us, the crying doves
in the misted rain abound.
 
say: here, love, surround
me, take me, full of
the sea and sky and ground.
 
shatter me into newness, around
us here in the waving grass of
our desire, bright and newfound
 
hymns of light drowned
in the sound of love,
this faint rain, the sound
of this world without bound.
—  sirimiri || a.s.w.
How the mighty fall

“Now I am forced to sleep the endless sleep,
I must say goodbye, oak, birch, and willow;
The oldest tree in the forest does weep.“

“My winding roots have traveled far and deep,
Yet time has come to face the axe’s blow
Now I am forced to sleep the endless sleep.”

The old grown forest watches his sap seep
Down the grey of his bark, solemn and slow;
The oldest tree in the forest does weep.

“How I wished my all to be yours to keep;
To sink in the soil and help you to grow
Now I am forced to sleep the endless sleep.”

“Within final thoughts a great fear does creep,
Mankind’s demeanor has my spirits low”,
The oldest tree in the forest does weep.

“How they have come to remorselessly reap;
I see yet another friend has turned foe
Now I am forced to sleep the endless sleep”,
The oldest tree in the forest does weep.

- M.A. Tempels © 2017

What are we?

“What are we?” I think, but I don’t say

Maybe I’m afraid of what the answer will be

“What are we?” I think, but still I stay.


How did we end up this way?

One minute we were friends and now it’s something in-between

“What are we?” I think, but I don’t say.


Will whatever this is ever see the light of day?

My thoughts are not scheduled as we are

“What are we?” I think, but still I stay.


Is this just a game, am I something to play?

Did this originate from love or convenience

“What are we?” I think, but I don’t say.


How have I wandered so astray?

When did love become such a burden

“What are we?” I think, but still I stay.


My heart or my mind, who to obey?

Part of me knows I deserve more while the other fears I will end up with far less

“What are we?” I think, but I don’t say

“What are we?” I think, but still I stay.

June 5th, 2017

- - -

I gathered my ingredients, so I shall create a potion
One which calms my senses and brings me to the sky
It makes my whirring mind no longer a commotion.

I devoted myself to the commitment of devotion
Before I can do that, I thirst for immediate motivation
I gathered my ingredients, so I shall create a potion.

From places to places, I have found my true notion
A true calling to my soul, this odd magnetic pull
It makes my whirring mind no longer a commotion.

Speak not further, there is no need to fear emotion
I have a solution that will give you inner peace
I gathered my ingredients, so I shall create a potion.

I have tested it too, and it tastes like the ocean
It’s unlike anything else that I have concocted
It makes my whirring mind no longer a commotion.

Time moves calmly in a slow motion
In merit of my discoveries, and my recipe
I have gathered my ingredients, so I shall create a potion
It makes my whirring mind no longer a commotion.

i sometimes pretend that i’m alone
that solitude is not a prison cell,
that breaking isn’t everything i know

and when ghostly echoes become my own,
imag’ning, at my side, you weep as well,
i sometimes pretend that i’m not alone

when daylight breaks, my blood is on the stone.
you standby, somehow silently, you yell
that breaking isn’t everything i know

my dearest, knowing just how far we’ve grown,
knowing our love has burned through infidels,
i sometimes pretend that i’m not alone

through sitting beheaded upon my throne
with sunken eyes, learned that i too soon fell,
that breaking isn’t everything i know

our lonely sings a sombre baritone,
and funerals are not a place to dwell,
i sometimes pretend that i’m not alone,
that breaking isn’t everything i know

Until the last breath of my lungs

Now that everything has been said and done,
And all my heart’s hope has been depleted,
I know there are truths I cannot outrun.

My full moon’s glow but reflected your sun;
In darkness I remain, uncompleted,
Now that everything has been said and done.

Sometimes I still think of you as ‘the one’;
That I could deserve you, how conceited.
I know there are truths I cannot outrun.

The end did not fit how it had begun;
Some wounds will forever stay untreated
Now that everything has been said and done.

A thread of 'almost’ the fate weavers spun;
A chanceless love, meant to be deleted.
I know there are truths I cannot outrun.

There was simply no way we could have won,
Though love overcomes, we were defeated.
Now that everything has been said and done
I know there are truths I cannot outrun.

- M.A. Tempels © 2017

West they ran, in packs of three, towards the dying Light

Bayed and howled as they went, Iron in their hands

Far behind them stood the Tree, boughs as black as night.


Nine wolves Marched for Duty’s sake, armor shining bright,

Upon their Iron greaves they wore a burning brand,

West they ran, in packs of three, towards the dying Light.


Peril they sought in wild lands, moon watching their Flight,

Showed no Mercy; Iron-strong, Nine wolves made their Stand,

Far behind them stood the Tree, boughs as black as night.


Grins they wore, and death they dealt, far from Luna’s sight,

Sated Iron’s bloody thirst, then were Iron-damned,

West they ran, in packs of three, towards the dying Light.


Nine howls they howled, their last Retort, proof of Iron’s might,

Welcomed death, fair payment due, obeyed Iron’s demand,

Far behind them stood the Tree, boughs as black as night.


Speak their names, three times three, in times of Darkest night,

Nine Iron Wolves will come to aid you in your stand,

West they run, in packs of three, towards the dying Light

Far behind them stands the Tree, boughs as black as night.


- “The Iron Wolves” // Anonymous  

The Things We Do Not See

We do not see the wind.
Only the things
It moves beyond the pane..

Tilt-a-whirl, leaves cascade:
Doused by silvery rain;
We do not see the wind.

The scenery still, unchanged:
For years and years, yet
It moves beyond the pane..

Bits blossom then fade;
Oft moonstruck, canopies sway:
We do not see the wind.

Now the goldfinch
Leaves, the maple apace;
It moves beyond the pane..

Mystery settles in:
Branches creak and wave;
We do not see the wind..
It moves beyond the pane.


s.s.