While cherry blossoms whisper in a far-away place,
Shadowed forms hesitate - stop - resume their pace.


Mayhap there's lightness and brightness abroad
But here all jump back at the black raven's caw.


Clouds shade the sun - likewise their thoughts,
Do they move to a purpose or is it for naught?


Each step a deep breath, each breath a reward;
The journey is frightful, unmapped nor explored.


Stark, dangerous night where no place is home;
Where all move together, together alone.

I love the imagery and form, especially the spaces between the spaces of pause and thought. I feel, however, the last line is cliche' somehow. And, like a weed, taints the beauty of the bloom by drawing nutrients from its soil-rich foundation. Do you understand?

Yes. The last line lacked metaphor.

Thank you. The weeding has begun.

Isn't it time someone thought of a new topic for a poem?

What is the topic of this poem?

Angst

Perhaps you're projecting. But you're welcome to view it that way.

If I was projecting it would be about hockey.

I like.

Thank you.

So not.

I love this, Accolada. I can actually hear the poem. Hear you breathing.

Thank you, TOMBOY. I'd love to write in this vein forever.



I think you might like this: (Read it out loud.)

The Skater of Ghost Lake
By William Rose Benet


Ghost Lake's a dark lake, a deep lake and cold:
Ice black as ebony, frostily scrolled;
Far in its shadows a faint sound whirs;
Steep stand the sentineled deep, dark firs.

A brisk sound, a swift sound, a ring-tinkle-ring;
Flit-flit,--a shadow with a stoop and a swing,
Flies from the shadow through the crackling cold.
Ghost Lake's a deep lake, a dark lake and old!

Leaning and leaning with a stride and a stride,
hands locked behind him, scarf blowing wide,
Jeremy Randall skates, skates late,
Star for a candle, moon for a mate.

Black is the clear glass now that he glides,
Crisp is the whisper of long lean strides,
Swift is his swaying--but pricked ears hark.
None comes to Ghost lake late after dark!

Cecily only--yes it is she!
Stealing to Ghost Lake, tree after tree,
Kneeling in snow by the still lake side,
Rising with feet winged, gleaming, to glide.

Dust of the ice swirls. Here is his hand.
Brilliant his eyes burn. Now, as was planned,
Arm across arm twined, laced to his side,
Out on the dark lake lightly they glide.

Dance of the dim moon, a rhythmical reel,
A swaying, a swift tune--skurr of the steel;
Moon for a candle, maid for a mate,
Jeremy Randall skates, skates late.

Black as if lacquered the wide lake lies;
Breath as a frost-fume, eyes seek eyes;
Souls are a sword edge tasting the cold.
Ghost Lake's a deep lake, a dark lake and old!

Far in the shadows hear faintly begin
Like a string pluck-plucked of a violin,
Muffled in mist on the lake's far bound,
Swifter and swifter, a low singing sound!

Far in the shadows and faint on the verge
Of blue cloudy moonlight, see it emerge,
Flit-flit,--a phantom, with a stoop and a swing . . .
Ah, it's a night bird burdened of wing!

Pressed close to Jeremy, laced to his side,
Cecily Culver, dizzy you glide.
Jeremy Randall sweepingly veers
Out on the dark ice far from the piers.

"Jeremy!" "Sweetheart?" "What do you fear?"
"Nothing my darling,--nothing is here!"
"Jeremy!" "Sweetheart?" "What do you flee?"
"Something--I know not; something I see!"

Swayed to a swift stride, brisker of pace,
Leaning and leaning, they race and they race;
Ever that whirring, that crisp sound thin
Like a string pluck-plucked of a violin;

Ever that swifter and low singing sound
Sweeping behind them, winding them round;
Gasp of their breath now that chill flakes fret;
Ice black as ebony--blacker--like jet!

Ice shooting fangs forth--sudden--like spears;
Crackling of lightning--a roar in their ears!
Shadowy, a phantom swerves off its prey . . .
No, it's a night bird flit-flits away!

Low-winging moth-owl, home to your sleep!
Ghost Lake's a still lake, a cold lake and deep.
Faint in its shadows a far sound whirs.
Black stand the ranks of its sentineled firs.

Oh, it's top!

PS I always read poetry out loud. What's the point otherwise.

AttaBOY. If I didn't like you already, I'd like you.

Oh, Accolada!
<breathes>
O'Malley's, tonight!

By the way, please write in this vein. Like, now and again. And now.

Anytime but 1pm. I'm busy then. I'm always busy then.

For once, leave Int and Gabbe at that hour, and have a soda with your shorty here.

Oh, Int and Gabbe entertain themselves these days.

You, me, Ahavati, Spot and Sgt. Hulka. Best gang ever.
We must.

I'm afraid.

good stuff

Oh yeah, I left out Gretchen and Enigma. Persons* of Honor.

*I live with an Equalist*.

*Feminist is denigrating.

And all the powers to be...

Won't poor mosheshmeal feel left out.

Mosheshmeal's a given...at least where Tomboy's concerned.

We're fixin' ta git in truble.

I am everywhere. You can't escape me. When you stare into Accolada's eyes in O'Malleys, sipping your bubbly on the rocks with peyote, I will be watching. From within.

Int, you beloved creep!


Nope, if I'm vetoed outta GQ, so is he out of this nameless assembly of h0tt ch1x.

I'm honored to be included with such an illustrious assembly.

I should write more.

Duh.

YES! Until then, you should BUMP more.

I miss TOMBOY.