Shades of Blue

September 28, 2008 at 8:13 am (Poetry) (, )

With my ragged grief alive,
In Burton blue moonlight,
I fall,
Sullen and wounded
Beneath your weight,
And weep inside silently,
Interested not at all in your soul
     or mine.

A picture forms behind my eyes,
Pulled from tedious rusted mind full of memories.

          Vanilla candles burn
               dripping white rivulets
                    onto cold, mauve veined marble.
          The sky flies by our white gauze curtains
               in gentle shades of blue,
                    And I smile at the memory of you.

Today the sky is gray.
In the stunted sunlight
You are a wild and wonderful beast
Standing beneath the storm
In a pool of lust too strong to curb or deny.

You are a silhouette of power
With shimmering lion’s aura,
Encircling blonde mane
All disheveled,
Male and proud.
Your Martin filled with shades of blue.

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Sweet Charlie, Long Gone

January 21, 2008 at 1:40 am (Poetry) (, , , , )

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The sea…

The foam kissed my bare feet as I ran…

In my memory, I play always at the edge

And laugh as I hold my sundress down in the wind

And laugh as I hold wet cloth away from bare skin…

    Once as the sound of a melancholy violin

        drifted from a bungalow at dusk

 it nailed me in place;

            

So sad, it seemed to bleed onto the sunset colored sand,

riding atop the steady tumble of waves.

and yes, the music was in the foam that licked my toes

and yes, I thought the man morose

to play such a sad song

             when the world of the ocean was at his feet as well as mine…

I found out later he was as handsome close

As he was mesmerizing from afar

                                        and quite charming.

I had a weakness for black hair and dark eyes even then.

I thought I would never find anyone else so worldly

Never anyone so refined…

as he gracefully played his aged violin,

As he carefully played me.

I played the innocent,

played the piano,

played him.

I remember thinking we played well together; our music, our games…

He said we came together well, smiling as he said it.

So shameless and debonair,

                       sweet Charlie, long gone.

 

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Sentimental Heart

December 28, 2007 at 9:08 am (Poetry) (, , , )

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Safe

Her heart is locked away,

Untouched by passion’s thorn,

Never again to walk on winged feet.

Hollow anxious breezes sway

Where,

Once upon a time,

She danced,

On a beautiful autumn day,

In the arms of Prince Charming

His chosen Fairy Princess;

Their future love a mere kiss away.

Regret

Tugs at her spirit

No more often than every day.

Her mind is scorched by memories

Of love, like Handel’s Messiah,

Written by God,

Translated by angels,

So mankind might comprehend

Such perfectly balanced obsession.

A lifetime gone awry,

Would she take love back?

Play the fool,

One more time to try?

Where her happiness lived

Behind brown eyes

In his perception of their lives,

Her heart is locked away

Untouched,

Safe and sound,

Never again to cry out in pleasure

Or in pain.

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Student of the Past

November 13, 2007 at 4:57 pm (Poetry) (, , )

 

Near water’s edge,
the delicate sound of thousands of shells

dancing on turning tide
make the sound

of most delicate wind chimes

ringing like tiny bells, fairies at play.
routinely cast on shore,

on shore to be collected

as treasure.

      She didn’t doubt she knew more about him than the woman he married. They had been old and secret friends for far too long. His wife would never think to ask him about the collection of small seashells in an intricately decorated wooden box nestled in the bottom of his armoire. There were several tiny conk shells in his collection that took a magnifying glass to see if you expected to see more detail than a simple dot. Probably his wife would never know the shells existed. She would never hear the excited explanation of the type and size of a shark when he found a shark’s tooth there on the white beach sand. It was his favorite place; his skin well tanned by summer’s end. Would his young wife ever bother to ask what was in the leather bound book that held the drawings and descriptions of new things that he stumbled onto in his travels? She could still picture the pages covered in drawings and in his left slanted script in blue ink on parchment. No doubt the young girl only saw dollar signs and he was blindly in love.
      He was handsome, rich, and well endowed and these attributes were all a woman like that would care about. He’d put a three karat diamond on the girl’s hand, not because of its worth, but because she was so much like the living ghost of the sweetheart from his youth. He couldn’t help but lust and give. He’d had too much money for too long to remember how much power it held over most people. Other people cared about what seemed too superficial to matter to him: people like his young wife and things based around looks and money. It would be only a matter of time before those rose colored glasses would fall from his face, and his heart would be broken again.
        She sat beside the water and listened to what he said she would hear; the delicate sound of seashells in the turning tide. It was the sound of thousands of small fairy’s bells striking each other as they played. The salt of the sea spray blended with the tears she cried for him.

© 2007 C. Harter Amos

 

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It Can’t Be True

October 24, 2007 at 6:12 pm (Poetry) (, , )

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I lay my head in hand
and went blank with tears that slid slowly down to burgundy sheets.

Somewhere near, in my memories,
The fog lay its chords down like fingers
On the neck of a good guitar.
Feel it cool and smooth in my hand
Worn in familiar ways like a friend,
The lone survivor of the war.

So much of my life is nothing more than a simplistic soundtrack
stretching backward in lost faded pictures
and home movies that ended up in someone else’s trash.
I know…You keep your memories in your heart
and hope you memorized the lines well enough to recite them
with truth and conviction, no additions or subtractions
without outside addictions or distractions.

Where will I go when I raise my head?
There, in someone else’s town,
I’ll learn to forget
And echo children’s smiles until the morning comes
Without fog and the music is mine again.
I’ll sing your song, remember your smile
Under the full moon of a new year come to stay.

© 2007 C. Harter Amos

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