Ambition to acquire knowledge.
Contemplation to gain understanding.
A fool’s wit to keep reality under construction.
©jsmorgane
2 Comments
Tag: poetry
Starfire: A Druid’s Dream
I sat on the hill in silent reverie,
And only the raven’s talons
Biting into my naked shoulder
Before she took flight
Made me draw my gaze from the golden moon
Riding just above the tree tops.
Following the soft sighing of the raven’s wings
I stood, bathed in moonlight,
And descended to the nether shore.
Among the trees a shadow followed,
Deeper than the forest’s dark,
The bear, my joyous guardian.
A frog joined in the night’s song,
While the full and heavy moon
Sank down behind the trees
To leave the unfathomed skies to the stars.
Now I saw a figure on the shores of the lake before me.
The raven’s sharp eye had found out the spark,
Calling her silently from the hilltop,
Down to the man with the fire.
Now resting on his shoulder, she shared her ken
Bending down to the hidden face.
And there, for a short moment,
I thought I heard the flame in the hand
Murmur to the stars above,
Who whispered wisdom in answer.
But then my toes touched the waiting waters and
My reflection fled in fiery circles across the lake.
The flame kept burning deep within,
And among the stars above was only silent awe.
© jsmorgane (Sept 2012)
Red amongst a lot of Grey
The last thing you notice is taste.
That it’s gone, I mean.
You eat, and that’s hard work anyways,
But you complain about it not tasting as it did
At home. Home, well, a home now.
Then, after years of enduring this food
You realise you just don’t taste anything anymore.
Salt stays the longest. And … spicy, also. But even that goes
And food turns grey.
Also because you can’t see the colours anymore.
Or not so clearly anyways.
Glasses get thicker, then useless,
And after the magnifying glass there are
Just indistinct shapes. Yes, indistinct.
The colours go later. But they, too, fade.
Slowly but surely and by the time you notice
The world around you is edgeless and grey.
So the food tastes grey and the world looks grey.
And on TV everything is a blur.
You would think they’d forgotten how TV works.
But I’m told it is just different, nowadays.
I liked the one presenter, now what’s his name,
You know, the one with the hair, the beard, I mean,
He did this show about things. You know.
Or maybe you don’t, you’re too young to remember
And I’m too old to remember anything clearly.
No, no. Some things are clear. When I was young.
But remembering it in colours, in smells, in tastes,
Becomes difficult. To say nothing of sounds.
That’s been gone for so long I can’t remember
Much at all. Beethoven – loud, proud. Mozart playful.
My piano. Oh, how my fingers flitted over to keys.
This is clear now, and the piano was white,
No matter how often people tell me pianos come in black.
It was white and I wore a red shirt that day…
Red, yes, red is the best colour. I can still see it.
It is not strong but in all the greyness of this silent,
Tasteless world around me red means something.
It means red shirts, and red umbrellas for walks in the rain,
And the table cloth for Christmas, and the sky before nightfall.
A red balloon. Maybe, just maybe, the little girl
Who comes with her father and runs around outside.
Maybe she’ll have one when she comes next time.
Maybe tomorrow. Soon.
© jsmorgane (June 2012)
[vimeo http://vimeo.com/57735480]