RE: RE: The Poet

Lavender
the scent of her,
buds of purple flower
graced her sylvan bower.

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RE: RE: RE: The Poet

Sonnet Parts 1&2
She smelled faintly of royal purple hue
bathed thoughtfully in moonlit shades of pale –
I cannot pass a lavender bloom, frail
and fine, and not recall what I mean to you.

You swore no love more perfect could be sown,
the petals of your soul bloomed but for me.
I understand fully how this can be.
Are your feelings not lovely as my own?

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past, present, future think

writ large in lavender ink the
holocaust survivor surmised "pink
triangulation measures the distance
from passive silence to mass resistance"



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RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: The Poet - MykuSestina Envoi

Words or jeweled paint depict imagined realms
where poets write myku, their souls rising
to scent lavender, loving mykuart.

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RE: RE: The Poet

Poetry - the story of life
Poet - weaver of the tale
ink flowing through -
joys and sorrows
of each today and tomorrow!

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RE: RE: RE: The Poet

Sonnet Parts 3&4
Love and nothing else ends in joyful tears
and sacrificial love may be most true.
Wild-flowering beauties are free & few,
are hope & hurt to all a man endears.

Romance unlost is worth a thousand dreams.
A love sublime can be just what it seems.

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RE: The Poet

I have writ
Such a poem,
But of Lavender?
Only home ...

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RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: The Poet - MykuSestina Verse 6

Burgundy, bay, jade were the shades of paint,
composed tinted colors of his myku,
she wrote verses of him in lavender
ink, saw him in her visions roaming realms
captured him on parchment, he was crossing
the room to touch her face- his muse, his art.

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RE: RE: The Poet

calliope, mnemosyne, urania
choose your muse greek or
exile in babylon, mesopotamia
chochmah, shekinah, sephirot

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RE: RE: The Poet

... safe in
Lavender's breath
The Spirit may decline
Life's dangerous dialogue

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RE: RE: RE: RE: The Poet - MykuSestina Verse 5

Peering through clouds, the lens of his myku
opened his mind to voyage arcane realms,
he saw her poring over graceful art,
within the book of myku perusing;
conveyed to her, he scented lavender,
at an easel he traced her form in paint.

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The Poet

He practiced poetry as a fine art,
sketching outlines on paper with word paint,
the colors of words were of his choosing;
he dabbled in sestinas and myku,
transporting his readers to foreign realms,
castles afloat on clouds of lavender.

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RE: The Poet

The poet words ring true
Inspired by Calliope's hand
Full of emotions through
Echoing through the land!

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RE: RE: The Poet

Branches stripped to their naked truth,
Down to basics for the Winter,
The cold pinches the pulp of my tooth,
As my eyes strain for the painful splinter.

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RE: RE: RE: The Poet - MykuSestina Verse 4

In jewel encrusted dreams of other realms,
golden cat of silken fur caressing,
brocaded chairs in rooms of gilded paint,
breeze borne, the subtle scent of lavender,
ancient tomes inked with traceries of art,
on each page, transcendent web of myku.

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RE: The Poet

The mood of her poem- sweet lavender
aromas of flowers focused her art
in her mind, she flew to imagined realms
captured each scene with rivers of word paint
she loved to share her visions, writing myku
where verse joined in poetic fusing

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Lavender Art

With words I have to paint.
Envisioning new realms.
Words flow without choosing,
Capturing the lavender.
Images seen like art
For a challenge myku.

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RE: The Poet

he stripped the leaves
in winter down to plain
truth, nothing much to
look at but alive within

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RE: RE: RE: The Poet

The idea of death
Has ceased to exist
Supplanted by reality
Letting go someday...bliss

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RE: RE: The Poet - Sestina Verse 3

She was tired of writer's block and fussing,
restored balance- lit candles, lavender,
looked on mykuworld for her friends' myku-
impressions of heaven and earth in art,
she dipped her brush into the mykupaint,
to travel winding roads, imagined realms.

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from W H Auden's Paysage Moralise, a sestina

[envoi]
It is our sorrow. Shall it melt? Then water
Would gush, flush, green these mountains and these valleys,
And we rebuild our cities, not dream of islands.

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slowly turning blue

got the blues
from my head to my shoes
nothing to hang on to
nothing to lose

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RE: RE: RE: RE: The Poet

I cannot let go,
there's nothing to go to.
just hanging by my fingertips
and slowly turning blue.

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Death, thou shalt die!

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou thinkst thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

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