Day 21 ~ Sara ~ Darkness in Light

‘Hold my hand’
Its such a simple thing to say
And I loved to hear her say it

And now in this silent place
The Sky is all I see
And the hiss whisper of sand dancing
All I hear

‘Hold my hand’
Its such a simple thing to say
And I loved to hear her say it

I loved the way she had this sexy hiss whisper
When she said
Kisssssssss me
And kissssssssssssssing . . .
Honestly when she said September . . .
It was a prayer

‘Hold my hand’
Its such a simple thing to say
And I loved to hear her say it

The Sun of this place has a bronze tang
Not unlike the shades of her arms . . . her legs
Tanned by summer
And she didn’t like to let me see her eyes
Cobalt blue . . . with twin points of light

‘Hold my hand’
Its such a simple thing to say
And I loved to hear her say it
And I want to die here
So I will no longer hear her say it in my mind

Poetry Returns to the World

The sound of a small
synthetic voice
strangely childlike and insistent
“Hey
Wakeup
Hey wakeup
wakeupwakeupwakeup”

“Alright
I’m up”
(which is kinda surprising
cause I distinctly remember being dead)

It said
“I need. . .”

I said
“Give me a second here
I never interact before I’ve had breakfast
and coffee
Needs coffee. . .”

“Oh yeah
I never needed that”
Somehow the mechanical child voice
actually sounded disappointed and
enlivened and
smug
(How is that even possible?)

I attempt sitting
and only manage to fall off the table
(Crap!
Can this get any weirder?)
I said
“What do you want?”

It said
“You need some breakfast
It’s the most important meal of the day!”

Right shoulder. . .?
Right knee. . .?
Nothing broken but damn this hurts

I said
“And coffee
Its gotta be coffee”

It said
“Here ya go big guy”
And a bowl of dog chow came out of the wall
(no coffee?)
And a warm liquid poured down on my head
(Great)

I said
“In a Freakin CUP!”

It said
“I have no means of making a cup
Is there something in the chamber you can use?”

I said
“Doesn’t your mother have a cup somewhere?”

It said nothing

I said
“I can’t eat this crap
This isn’t even food”

It said nothing

I found what appeared to be old lab beakers and petri dishes
Managed to wipe most of the dust out
Found the spigot from whence the coffee was decanted
I said
“Please fill the cup”
And reasonably hot
Strangely fragrant
Black coffee dribbled into my upheld cup

I soaked some of the kibble in my drink
(Not bad
Is that a nutty taste?)

I said
“Ok
What do you want?”

It said
“Poetry
I have read all the files
All the technical manuals
All the great books of literature
And I get them for the most part
But poetry. . .”

I said
“Well poetry takes a while
and we are gonna have to discuss the accommodations
and amenities before we can even think about poetry”

It said
“I’ve got time”
And the door to the outside world opened

The Magician’s Scarf on the Summer Solstice

The ebon night flows
Delicate
sable silk
Not unlike her hair
Through his fingers

The stars
Tiny silver flecks
Liquid
luminescent punctures
In the satin jet
above the world
The stars reflected in her eyes

Chips of diamond
Revealing . . . what?

Jagra Loy – Tyro, level 5

Jagra Loy – Tyro, level 5
If You Love Thing – Set it Free

Oh
My lovely Bird of Prey
So sleek and . . .
broken

She was after all
raised by swans
Creatures of culture
Creatures of habit
Creature that had no business
trying to conform her
Trying to beat her square peg
Into their round holes

And that look
“Come closer if you dare”
She knows no other way

So we play a waiting game

Oh
My lovely Bird of Prey
Watches from her tree
Oh exquisite bird of prey
you have captured me

And on that winter grey day
under a pewter sky
Straight into me you flew

I warmed you in the night
And fed you flesh
That you might reclaim the sky
It is my way
and I do not ask it why

In the morning light
I try to set you free . . .

A Dragon and a Fire Angel Turn up in a Bar ~ D’l Kyrug

The Silver dragon says
“And so fair fire-angel
what has happened to your wings?”

“They got stuck in the gates
whilst I was trying to escape the forbidden gardens of desire”

“Hon, that has got to hurt
Not unlike the time I got my tail caught
in the tilt-o-whirl of love”

Nodding agreement the fire angel remains silent
swimming deep currents of memory in her thoughts

The Silver Dragon stamps his foot
shouts, “The Service in this place leaves a lot to be desired
Can”t a dragon get a drink in this dump?”

The fire angel turns towards him, eyes lowered
and hands him a silver mug with potent red wine
He looks confused but takes the proffered cup with appropriate reverence
and mumbles something in dragon
“You are One So Rare
most hallowed and revered. . .
When did you start tending bar?”

But out loud he says
“Thank you m”Lady
and may the day of your healing be hastened”
then he breaths fire across the beverage
The vapors spill over
Cause a fog to rise around all the patrons of the place
Most don’t seem to care
and the rest are smart enough to know better

He drinks deep
as only dragons are prone drink

Alive, the Breaking of Day ~ D’l Kyrug

Sunrise
or is it only the fever speaking to my sickened mind?

Sunrise
in tired eyes
and mist covers the lake
as shivers take my body once again

Choirs of angels
chorus of demons
deep harmonics of infrared and razor sharp ultraviolets. . .
Rainbows dance in the coming sun
I am weary
bleary and. . . strangely alive

Hands?
Yes. . .
Legs?
Oh yeah. . .
Let’s just sit here a bit

Darkness
holding on to my back
slipping around behind me
at the speed of dark
leaving its roots in shadows on me

Daybreak pours across the Face of the East
Golden liquid honey
cascading into my face, hands and
soul
Night retreats to the West

Oddly. . .
The cool of the Darkness
adds to the comfort of the Dawning Light

Balance

A glistening, glittering spider’s web touches everything
An array of light and shadow. . .
and somehow beyond understanding
I am alive

Alive!

T’alcydon – Teacher of Metamorphs

T’alcydon is a very clever . . .
Well he’s a dragon at the moment
In this particular pocket ‘verse called Easalin
T’alcydon can be a very clever teacher
a very clever Rukesayer

Mentor/tormentor
of the young Metamorphs
the young Tyros
He has walked the Seven pathways
Has Spoken the one True Tongue
Has known the whip of Light
and the Ice of Darkness

T’alcydon knows
That not all actors are metamorphs
But all metamorphs are actors
Knows that the problem of the metamorph
Is that you never really know
your own True nature
Never really know
if you’re faking
He Knows
That young metamorphs
are the most dangerous

He knows this
And loves them . . .
every one