Spiders creep and dance in the air
as gracefully as ballerinas --
eight legs holding onto a thread
for a pirouette. Spinning
an attractive web of welcome,
insects cling to the lies
and shapely lines
as the dancer floats
in their direction.
White light from above
is a beacon of hope
for the free fliers.
Filled with optimistic warmth,
this bottled sunshine beckons
innocent things to play near it.
Like schoolchildren at recess,
a buzzing cloud races throughout
the bright field --
until the grim reality zaps in.
The dancers glide over
to their free meal
made up of once-free
Waiting like a lioness stalking its prey,
storm clouds creep in the air, taking their spot.
Cruel and vicious, they swiftly steal the day.
Psychotic, they have no fear of being caught
kidnapping the sunshine and having their way
with the bright gazelle in the sky. They clot
up its grazing fields with a darkened delight,
so it can't run away -- being killed by night.
My psyche causes me to see the red sea
as a tropical paradise: my body
succumbing to the transgressions of time.
I am bitter-sweet. My eyes refuse to accept
the parting of my utopia -- even
as it bleeds past my vision. Drenched
in ignorance, I smile at my world.
Wisdom smiles at me as a wisp of almost-caught
memory teases with a fiery breath,
visualizing reality for a moment before its unwholesome
trinity made of itself, the sun, and time
drain my subconscious of anything real,
my mind drifting off into a world,
where air and smoke are making love. They conceive the breath that fills
and escapes from my mouth; they recreate
my self, cooling my flaming words
of disbelief. Time cradles me in her arms
as she rocks me to sleep: eyes
which once bore a flicker of reality
Every cold winter night
when my shivers shiver,
jumping like the flames
that make my body feel
as if it's on a beach,
my eyes explore walls
on her oil-canvas portrait
is my last duchess.
She stares back with youth-
full eyes, which -what can i say?-
bring warmth (even crackling flames
could not bring) into my heart.
She smiles as I recall, with crystal
memories, meeting a kingly man
who (I must say with my ego
roaring proudly) proclaimed interest
in her queenly beauty.
He asks philosophical questions:
"Why is her sunlit
smile like Mona Lisa's,
not extending to her ears?"
"How is she so beautiful,
even with that pimpled stain
graced on her cheek?"
I -with childlike words- simply
answer that her Mona Lisa
my heart's temperature;
if it were to extend
to her perky ears,
my heart would be scattered
over the land. Scavengers
would sniff it out and taste
my rich love for The Duchess.
As for the stain dancing on her cheek,
let's just say she's not a goddess;
however, her imperfections
are not locked away
(key thrown away,
rotting like the cheese
in the garbage) in a box.
Still, if that box existed,
I'd treasure it.
No one else has had eyes;
they only have mockingbird mouths,
debating with -I must say a skill
I never mastered- words of disgrace.
"Her hair splits like divorce:
shameful in the eyes
of the children. Her cheek
is blotched with acne
more hideous than a dead animal
rotting in the sun.
I laugh and simply explain,
"...As for the stain gracing her cheek,
let's just say she's no Aphrodite;
however, her imperfections
shine with the brilliance
of a sunlit ocean."
Now, I recall her swimming
with Neptune, and even
though her movements are like a seahorse,
her beauty glistens like the water
she glides in.
This was written for an exercise in which you take a pre-existing poem and write it in your own words. I chose Robert Browning's poem, "My Last Duchess," hence the title of my poem.
Clawed hands wave like leaves
rustling with the wind; a finger
branches out into gray lands:
rough as rock, yet cracking under pressure.
The body howls with pain
as its part decides to take a midnight
stroll through the streets.
Boys whimper like puppies in cages
when the Bogeyman skulks onto the wall;
Batman is smiling at the bed's end,
but nighttime is kryptonite to the Night.
Meanwhile, girls toss Ann like a rag
as she flops under the pressure
of facing the monsters drifting through the street.
The excruciating howls spread
like scavengers that sniffed out decay.
Shredded fingertips creep
by sleeping bloodhounds.
The children defeat the beasts
while dreaming of bright colors:
"No shadows allowed!"