Saturday, January 26, 2008

Poetry; Rose in the Desert

I was at a lecture the other day related to the internet. The speaker asked what can we find on the net, and mentioned this, that, and the other thing, and lots of really bad poetry. Reminded me of my own poetry which I mostly wrote as catharsis over a few years. The emotional stress eventually dried up, and I realized that I had said everything I wanted to say, and so far the muse hasn't returned, though I keep meaning to see if I can entice her back.

Anyway, I thought that as long as I have a blog, which is an exercise in vanity anyway, why not post some of what I consider my better poems. I don't think it can lower the level of poetry out there. ;-).

So here is the first one:


© 18 August 1996; by Mary Amanda Axford; all rights reserved

Dark is the night, and frigid cold.
Yet the air is pure and opens the senses.
Faint scents drift on the wind.
The dry taste of dust is upon the tongue.
No color save the blue-white dance
of endless stars sprawled lazily
across the night sky.
No sounds save the faint noise
of life that flourishes even here
in the desert, life skittering
or sliding across the gritty sand.
The vigil has been kept the whole
of the night, the mind going deep
as each clear pure breath is drawn.
Eyes closed, the wind touches
the face, and each molecule drawn
in as breath connects the dreamer
to the whole. Each star is a friend,
a beacon; each grain of sand a universe;
each breeze a touch of hope.
The vigil draws near its close.
Black night turns indigo, the wind
blows its coldest.
The sky turns delicate, then blazes
blues, golds, orange hues.
Moment by moment the view
becomes more clear, details
and colors sketch themselves in the light.
Before the dreamer is the object of the quest;
one single sweet and perfect rose,
velvet against the sand.
The dreamer draws in breath,
a tear falling on the cheek.
Gazing on the rose,
touching lightly its glory and
smelling the faint scent,
the sorrows and joys, heartbreaks
and loves too much to bear
drop away into the sand.
Always remembered, and again
tomorrow perhaps too heavy to hold.
Yet the rose brings to the dreamer
the harmony of the universal core;
the peace outside of time.
Drawing in the sweet scent once more,
the dreamer turns away,
renewed, to share the burdens
of life one more day, to bear the memory
of the peace within the heart.

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