The Gilded Lilies

There is a place beyond the mountains
Past the rippling hills of green
Far west of the sandy desert
Where only the birds have seen

Such beauty that is beyond compare
Of woodland stream or sanded beach
And even the great blue lake
Cannot hope to pass its reach

For there beyond the mountains
Past the rippling emerald hills
Lies west of the arid desert
The meadow with gold and silver

So rich and abundant with luxury
Grown in the form of small blossoms
With dainty, thin, soft things for petals
Worth more than a thousand sums

For hours upon end one could gaze at the sight
Of so many of nature's rich hues
But the most precious view above all
Is a glimpse of the dawn off the dew

Perhaps one day you may travel across
The mountains and hills so lush
And pass beyond the barren desert
To see the golden oasis plush

And thence perchance you may reap the reward
Of making the journey so far
To revel in the glorious sight
That surpasses all others that are

You may truly lie 'mongst the gilded lilies
And smell their sweet scent so pure,
Gaze upon the sapphire sky
To feel no place so secure

As this the land of beauty without any end
As far as it stretches beyond
The horizon far off crowned with gleaming sun
Whose rays no finer king has donned

And there you may sit, you may lie in the grace
Of such fine, charming works of the earth
Forever to stay in such a pleasant state
'Til you are no more sensible to their worth

There is a place beyond the mountains
Past the rippling hills of green
Far west of the sandy desert
Where only the birds have seen

Such beauty that is beyond compare
Of woodland stream or sanded beach
And even the great blue lake
Cannot hope to pass its reach

Quiet

All she needs is a moment of quiet,

a moment of silence to collect her thoughts.

Just a minute or two to close her eyes,

and empty her mind of the daily clutter

that so often litters the floor of reason.

This is the best part of her day,

when the sun begins to dip below the horizon

and the clouds are tinted pink like cotton candy

and the sky is streaked with light lilac

on top of a dark cerulean canvas

and the birds twitter quietly to their young

to sleep, to rest, for the great gold light

is leaving the sky, and the silver eye of night

will rapidly succeed its daytime counterpart.

This is the great part of her day,

when she can sit out on her porch under 

the dusky glow of eventide and enjoy the chirpings

and sweet music of the crickets and katydids

hiding in her rosebushes and great oak tree leaves

the color of a richly hued emerald with delicate veins

running across a fuzzy landscape of soft, single, upright

blades of grass so prolific as an ancient forest.

This is the calm part of her day,

when the stars sprinkle out of the raven sky,

arrayed around the moon like attendants

waiting on their great lady- Diane, Phoebe, Artemis-

whose sure aim has not yet proven false

across the centuries, nay, even nigh on four millennia,

whose bow has yet to be broken.

This is the reflective part of her day,

when she takes a moment as nature's nightly performance

goes on to play out as it is wont to do,

and ponders on her most inner thoughts, those which,

if looked at and made known to another, would seem

to be naught but the things of fancy, the inventions of whim,

but to her are deemed the most prized above all.

All she needs is a moment of quiet.

Come, Abide

Here, come, and I will keep you steady.
Reach out, and I will take your hand.
Grasp my wrist; I will not let you fall.
Do not fear, for I will with you stand.

Along a winding path we walk,
but we are not alone.
There are sharp thorns and tangled branches,
but our guide knows the way.
You may trip among the low-laying brambles,
but I won't let you be left behind.

Here, come, and I will keep you steady.
Reach out, and I will take your hand.
Grasp my wrist; I will not let you fall.
Do not fear, for I will with you stand.

Perhaps you may lose sight of the end,
but here, a compass to point you back.
Yes, you will stumble often through the foliage,
but there is a soothing balm to heal your wounds.
It may be that you wish to surrender to hopelessness,
but remember that you have an unlimited support.

Here, come, and I will keep you steady.
Reach out, and I will take your hand.
Grasp my wrist; I will not let you fall.
Do not fear, for I will with you stand.

You may now rest easy,
for our destination is nigh at hand.
Press forward faithfully,
for now you cannot waver.
Abide with me now,
for the prize is close within hand's breadth.

Here, come, and I will keep you steady.
Reach out, and I will take your hand.
Grasp my wrist; I will not let you fall.
Do not fear, for I will with you stand.

Runaway Umbrella

Oh dear- it is windy,
and the rain falls
like shimmering sheets
of silver plating,
hammering obnoxiously
on the ladybug red
of my umbrella,
almost causing my step
to falter numerous times,
and land me in
the sloshing gutter,
a thin soup of thick mud
and refuse draining down
its subterranean pipes,
soon to meet back with
its motherland, the ocean
(this I learned from my
childhood friend Nemo,
and thus know it to be true),
whence it may swirl in eddies
large and small, perhaps to
amuse itself by confounding
a small fishing boat
or large cruise ship
with the currents it is
capable of creating that
may yet prove stronger
than a structure of wood
and metal and man-made brawn.
A playful gust wrests
my foul weather friend
from my iron grip with
invisible fingers like wrenches,
and I am immediately drenched
in the precipitation's
endless onslaught of drops
like bullets, small and piercing,
with the stinging nip of
icy chills that travel up
and down my spinal cord,
causing a tremendous headache
and numb, clammy feet.
Racing after my now-dripping
promise of a slightly drier head,
my hands are a poor substitute
for the job best prescribed
to the one custom-made
for this kind of work,
and are soon cold as my
frozen feet encased in their
sodden water-proof
brown leather boots.
I make a mental note to
not buy this brand again.
Borne upwards by a mischievous
gale, the polished wood handle
is just beyond my wrinkled,
prune-like fingertips,
seeming to tease with vindictiveness,
unrelenting and ruthless
int his game of keep-away.

I am not amused.

Dashing across
the open street now,
my umbrella is just visible
as a speck of vibrant crimson
amidst the drab, blended
neutrals of the city.
At last, tired of its charade,
the whirlwind lets down
my rightful property in a
blessedly low branch of
a budding sapling
just ten feet away.
Grateful, I shake off the
excess water droplets
from the edges, and
continue on my way down
the puddled sidewalk,
with a glimpse of a gleaming
rainbow just peeking out
of the clouds behind me.

Night

There are things
that happen at night,
when all the world is
enshrouded with the cold
ebony cloak of twilight,
and all living things ought to be
at rest, readying for the day
to follow,
but some do not.

There are things that steal away,
steal away in the night.
There are things that scurry and hide,
hide away in the night.
There are things that ought not to be,
yet happen in the night.

There are masked faces
and muffled footsteps
dogging the way of an innocent
making her way home,
late from a long working shift.
There are gloved hands
and disguised persons
feigning friendship and amiability
toward an unsuspecting victim,
naive and pure, soon to be devoured
by the malevolent lusts of whim.

There are things that steal away,
steal away in the night.
There are things that scurry and hide,
hide away in the night.
There are things that ought not to be,
yet happen in the night.

There are true horrors in the night,
preying upon insecurity and doubts,
the shadows that cause the child
to jump, the fledgling to start;
the sounds in the closet,
the footsteps on the street,
the way the moonlight reflects upon
a shiny black something in the
gloomy corner.

There are things that steal away,
steal away in the night.
There are things that scurry and hide,
hide away in the night.
There are things that ought not to be,
yet happen in the night.

But the worst frights
to enter the heart and mind
are those which are real.
Those happenings that can cause
the most sturdy of men and women
to shake and tremble with fear,
revulsion, and pity,
for these are no imaginations of
a childish fiction, but tangible,
discernible, visible,
and the victims
are voiceless.

Busy

She is a river,
sprinting down the mountainside
in rushing rivulets of blue
and silver and white,
never once stopping to rest from
such a swift and hasty dash,
never once pondering
upon the reason for her flight.

A Night to Dance, Part Two

My breath catches in my throat
as I gaze upon this my savior
from complete solitude,
this knight who has defeated
my plaguing companion, loneliness.
Remembering my manners
that had been drilled
into my very being since I was
a little child, I curtsy,
my very frame trembling
like a dried up leaf
on an autumn oak that knows
it must fly away on the wicked wind,
no zephyr, never to return home.

He returns my feeble attempt
at courtesy with a noble bow,
proper in that it does not mock,
as previous others have been,
nor does it steep too low
like a drowning whale,
nor is it only a mere slight incline
of the head.
In every aspect I find it the
most perfect bow this evening.

"How do you do?"
This very sentence sends chills
of delight racing up and down my spine,
and I find my lips returning a gentle
smile, forming the proper response.
He extends his gloved hand to my own
shrouded in white gossamer,
and we begin to waltz to our own music,
here up on the balcony
under the glinting white stars
and radiant moon.
Our steps are smooth and perfectly
synchronized, like some great
clockwork, effortless and fluid,
even graceful. We exchange names
and titles, and discover that we are
one another's equivalent in standing.
Such a lovely, exquisite, faultless example
of a man have I never had the great
privilege to make my acquaintance.

Long after, it seems, the party below
has ended, we are still dancing
under the slowly descending silver disc.
Abruptly, my new idol pauses our step,
looking around in agitation.
I gaze at him inquiringly, rather upset
that my fleeting impression
of friendship has come so soon
to an end.
He glances quickly at me,
seeming to drink in every detail
in such a short span of half a second.

Then, in such quick succession,
I am made aware of several events,
all occurring within
a moment of the other, like a
hummingbird's rapidly flapping wings.
First, a dark shadow on the slated roof
darts to another equally shaded place,
agile as a housecat stalking an ill-fated mouse.
Second, I hear a rustling behind me,
in the curtain, a soft susurration
akin to the whisperings of meadow flowers
under a silent breeze.
Third, a sharp pain explodes upon the
back of my skull, causing the
world around me to shift,
and colors to distort my stumbling vision.
Cold marble welcomes me into
open arms, and I nestle close,
every nerve in my left arm screaming
to run, to shout,
but I cannot function.

Before I close my eyes in sleep,
the shiny boot of my dear
gleams in the darkened sky,
proclaiming the coming of dawn.