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Note: This is actually a performance piece I’d written for a poetry slam event when I worked at Boomtown. It’s a lot more fun if you read it out loud and gasp sensuously.
Untitled
Mark ye the moon, shining full and bright over our brows,
Waiting for Sir Sun to take her into his embrace.
Mark ye her glorious radiance.
Pray curtsey and give honor as once did we,
And her kith of old.
Then retire with me into that leaf-shrouded lair
To watch her children;
Sweet beams, dance on the water.
Hark, do you not feel the caress of her sister's lips?
Turn toward the night, and her chilly breath!
Until the dawn... sweet good dawn...
Mark ye, good kindred, the luminous presence above!
Purple Pen
My purple pen
Oh, how I loved you, pen!
The glitter in your ink
Were stars on my sheets
To spell out symphonies of words
Locked into my poetry.
Now, you are lost
Never to be found,
And I have to use the
Yellow pen,
Whose gleam can’t show against the white.
I hate that pen,
For you were the only one for me,
O Purple Pen.
I should never have loaned you out!