Primal
The secret is to run.
Footsteps become the dull timpani; develop their own subtleties, ‘til each shuddering footfall
Is a crashing orchestral hit.
It will blossom, daubed in hot mud, burned in peat.
Emerging steaming and thatched;
A whimsy; wistful, wiry Thing.
A wisp of it curls and settles on hair.
They'll take that hair, turn it, thread it through exact needles,
With caution, measure.
Care.
No more than this, dip it in shimmering glass, drip it with mercury,
The old poison, full of malice and muscle.
They'll dress it in white and crown it. Better for knowing?
Hand it a scalpel, and a palm to the face to turn the other cheek.
The beast of tar will run,
Under Jupiter's thunder, feet slapping on the tiles of an empty coliseum.
Lurching down a corridor of white marble and fire,
Shedding muck on the walls.
-----------------------
Bequests
This man's life was a series of awkward pauses,
Hesitations,
Remonstrations and muddling.
It was the confused half-smile,
Rising from the leather chair
With a hand extended, but weakly shook.
He sat and watched his Lady's picture
With worried eyes.
A grey man in a brown room.
You, you, you.
The girl with white gloves
Who danced on the clover
And grinned in the sun.
You stroked the elm's bark,
Made good some promises,
And slipped through granite,
Lined up like graves from Flanders.
But these are petty eulogies.
Measuring a life in words
Makes the words far too bitter.
Ah, Flippy, I've got to say I like the first one very much, actually. The first lines of "Primal" are great!
QuoteThe secret is to run.
Footsteps become the dull timpani; develop their own subtleties, ‘til each shuddering footfall
Is a crashing orchestral hit.
Love it! :D The rest of it is also good, but I especially like that first part.
The musical reference is spot on, in my opinion. Hehe.
Don't know what to say other than that. Critizing poems isn't my forte. :)
Bump?