ars poetic 4

632 words Ars Poetica part 4
Soul, Wilt thou toss again?
Ah little Rose – how easy
Snow beneath whose chilly softness
Has periods of shutting
To an insulted sky
Ribbons of the year –
Too trackless for a Tomb –
As innocent as June –
Beyond which summer hesitates,
Creation after this
Encamping on a thousand dawns
When a Lover is a Beggar
The smallest housewife in the grass
Swept my searching eyes – the last –
I will singing go –
I will give him all the Daisies
Convenient to the longing
A Clock stopped –
Afraid of Joy,
I cling to nowhere til I fall –
To see this Curious Friend –
A Dying Tiger – moaned for Drink—
The Amber Quantity –
Just a Drop—
I, of a finer Famine
Gored through and through with Death, to be
Assasin of a Bird
The Rowdy of the Meadow –
And a Green Chill upon the Heat
What a Cell!
The grave my little cottage is,
Except that it deprived of thee --
The foliage of the mind
But growing like a hurricane
In some odd fashion of its own,
Homesick, for steadfast Honey –
For an Eternity –
It held a Human Soul
Still own thee – still thou art
And our new hands
Just to make Bliss
In her mysterious Drawers—
Of Riches – as unconscious
Upon the slowest Night –
In its unfading flowers
Whose adequate supply
Is bliss then, such Abyss
And let Him hear it drip
A quality of loss
The Racket shamed me so –
How public – like a Frog –
Fruitlesser to fling
A summer briefer than the first
Endured, unhelped – unknown
In itself a quiet thing
Awakened by maid and man
A grace without a friend
A bowing intercourse
nature knows well
We do not mourn for traveler, or sailor,
Tis to another sea—
Should they be at home
Could mortal lip divine
By its bisecting
The color of the sun
No ruddy fires on the hearth
Veiling the purple, and the plumes
And of the butterfly
Intent upon its career
Bloom eternally!
And just as tenderly
Go blossom to the bees I said
Wisdom is stale – to me
Civilization – spurns – the Leopard
Do they wear “new shoes” in “Eden”?
Would you like summer? Taste of ours.
In cups of artificial Drowse
From possibility
What twigs we held by
Earth at the best
The Frost was never seen --
With us, ‘tis Harvest all the year
The garden gets the only shot
The mushroom, it is him!
The truth,
Is bald,
And cold –
The scientist of faith
Of individual voice
Too near to God – to pray—
Life – just – or death—
Ransomed from years
Slow gold – but everlasting—
That awful stranger consciousness
Unknown – for all the times we met –
Accomplished in surprise
A merciful mistake
A secret told
It heartier than we
A little madness in the spring
Pink – small – and punctual
Can stand so close and look so bold
To show her throat
The wily – subterranean Inn
Tis dimmer than a lace
A vagabond for genesis
It only sweeter grows
the mind is smooth – no emotion—
without a syllable
but just the smiles of stare
is plenty! Is enough!
How intricate the dust!
And spacious as before
Myself and it, in majesty
Be it but a little
An honest tear
Maddest heart that god created
Or an assaulting guess
To clarify the sight
That such a realm could be
I keep one ray
To offer brave assistance
Not knowing when the dawn will come
He trod upon the trees
Like an adversity
As casual as rain
I am convinced was this
Despair –
As difficult
And held in our bosom
How ruthless are the gentle
It feels a shame to be alive
It seems so straight to lie away
To justify – despair
The filed a scarlet gown
Within my reach
I softly plucking
Just felt the world go by!

BROOKE BURNS