|
|  |
|
A Continuation of my Poetic Thoughts
|
|
|
Cherry Cavendish
The smell of Cherry Cavendish perfumes the air,
And I am four years old again,
Cradled lovingly in the arms of my grandfather.
The Savoy pipe peeking out from his pocket, he nuzzles my face with his,
And I giggle as five o'clock shadow - his "whiskers" tickle my cheek.
I inhale deeply against skin that is smooth, despite the rough stubble.
Strong hands hoist me into the air,
As eyes, laughing behind half-frame glasses,
Meet mine and shine with adoration.
The smell of Cherry Cavendish fills the air,
And I am five years old again,
Seated attentively at the feet of my grandfather.
Enraptured by the rings of pipe smoke lazing in the air,
I listen to the gentle puffs exhaled by this giant of a man.
Tall as an oak, strong as a mountain, ancient and endless as the sky.
A titan in coveralls and leather boots, hard and brown and old,
Worn to the soul from too much use,
Gazing serenely at the bounty of his garden.
The smell of Cherry Cavendish fills the air,
And I am six years old again,
Sitting amidst cheerful curtains in a sun-filled kitchen,
Watching him address his watermelon with a knife and fork
With the precision of a surgeon as seeds and juice dribble down my chin.
Sprinkling the pink flesh of the fruit with salt and pepper,
He regards this curious little alien creature seated with him,
The green rind clutched in my teeth, and he smiles,
Enjoying the moment far longer than it's duration.
The smell of Cherry Cavendish lingers the air,
And I am seven years old again.
I watch him, my endless giant, now bedridden,
Staring longingly, wistfully, through the window to his garden,
Long neglected, and choked with crabgrass and angry weeds.
"No tomatoes this year, Trouble," he says, one side of his face hanging slack
"But the apples will come, like always. Not much for me to do there."
He forces the smile stolen from him by the stroke,
Searching my face and eyes for understanding.
Scented candles chase the smell of Cherry Cavendish from the air,
And I do not know if I am eight or eighty.
I look to the body lying stiffly in the casket,
Garbed in suit and tie, hands folded neatly across the chest,
Head resting motionless on satin pillows that don't suit him,
And I realize that days filled with whiskers and watermelons,
Of leather boots and earth-stained coveralls,
Of Savoy pipes, and of Cherry Cavendish are gone.
Tears well in this child's eyes as the understanding, at long last, comes.
|
|
|
On Art
The pursuit of Art, is exactly that: a pursuit.
As Sir Pellinore coursed the Questing Beast,
So to do we follow hard on the heels of something as elusive,
And with as much futility.
Art is not that which is born of it;
It is not the sculpture coaxed from clay,
Nor is it the concerto given life and voice
By the instrument it plays upon;
Art is the journey,
The pursuit itself defines it.
Its very nature belies completion,
For no work of the Artist's hand is ever truly deemed finished.
No vision is ever fully realized; no thought perfected.
Though all the suffering, the sorrow and dedication,
The work of our lifetime amounts to little,
Save perhaps some paled and poor allusion to Beauty.
To Pain.
To Truth.
To Madness.
In Quixotic delusion do we tilt at Giants garbed in the guise of Windmills
Evading greatness, the prelude to mediocrity and stagnation.
Trying, fruitlessly, ceaselessly, tirelessly to capture reality obscured by illusion.
Our quest is endless...but still, we quest.
That is Art. Resignation
By my hand is my resignation to you tendered,
And through my lips this ardent pledge is made
Although my soul gives not what mouth and hand have rendered
Your fragile heart shall never know the lies that I have laid.
With courtly bow at bended knee to every fleeting whim
As if your exhaling breath does spur me to your side
Within, love's light like distant stars burn both cold and dim,
Imprisoned in this steely self is where disdain for you resides.
My eyes give hate no silent voice by which I am undone,
Nor the language of my body betray what lurks beneath,
No ill words find their way to you from this honeyed, silvered toungue.
No hint of my contempt for you, to you will I bequeath.
I wonder in this silent place, within your shadow's shade
If you will ever know my heart and the resentment harboured there
I wonder will you look to see what this poisoned love has made
And if you saw the hate that seethes below, I wonder if you'd care.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| |
