Tag: poetry

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Fallen trees are like fallen dragons

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The acorn like an egg sets free the will to grow,
And they uncurl their branching wings,
Spreading wide, fulfilling their being a moment at a time.
They inhabit the deep yet reach for the light up high,
And bark-like scales are gleaming armour
To guard the great spirit of wisdom within.

But then one night the earth is so relaxed, the skies so wilful
That in the midst of dark they bow their crown and slowly,
Bending downwards with a sigh, the great beasts fall
Making the grounds tremble when with a crash
The creatures, accepting, let go of all strife.

When morning comes wearily, grey and burdened,
The rain finds the limbs splayed like bones splintered,
And the drops running down the creatures’ arched back
Are like tears mourning a greater destiny that
Has so found its end.

©jsmorgane (Feb 2014)

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How to Converse with Dragons

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In the vale I chanced to walk
And – as fate would have it –
‘Do you speak Stone?’
The Hornbeam asked,
Sounding somewhat frazzled.
I stopped and stared,
And wondered to myself
How it could be that
Anybody would assume
That somebody speaks Tree.
This somebody, alas, was I
And clearly did I hear
The English Oak that stood nearby
Chuckling in my ear.

I frowned and spoke –
In Tree, it seems –
‘I’m really mighty sorry,
I don’t speak Stone but
I would ask what seems to be your worry.’
‘Haha’, the English Oak replied,
But the Hornbeam grumbled,
‘It is a tiny stone beneath
My root which has me stunted.’
So I bent down to dig a bit,
And found the troubled root,
There underneath a stone lay hid
Which gladly I removed.

‘Kind thanks to you’,
Said English Oak, while
Hornbeam was a-titter
With joy and mirth and
Frolicking his roots hither and thither.

I held the stone fast in my hand,
When I could feel it move.
Then open burst the pebble,
Which had me much amused.
A dragon coiled around my wrist
And snugly took abode
Half up my sleeve, half peeping out
Feeling quite at home.
While I still wondered at the beast,
It turned its shining head and
Regarding me the creature said:
‘You’re good at Stone, I give you that,
But I shall teach you Dragon.’

© jsmorgane (Jan 2014)

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The Marschallin: ‘Sometimes, in the small hours…’

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Your ear like a shell, cream-coloured

And tinged with a flush

Around the smooth edges,

Almost transparent

In the early sun.

 

Your skin like finest sands

With the dawn upon them.

A curling lock of your dark hair,

Lank on your forehead,

Moist with the night.

 

Your neck proudly arched,

Like a harp’s harmonic curve,

Strings echoing a chiming clock.

And when I rest my head on

Your youthful breast

I hear the faint sound of passing time…

 

©jsmorgane