Avalon

(Just a piece from my college poetry workshop.  I was in the middle of Mists of Avalon at the time)

The Isle of Avalon has withdrawn
Forever into mists
That can never again
Be called down to reveal
A place where enchantment
And the impossibility of a hidden world
Become reality, where
The moon opened a magical realm
In which the future was glimpsed
In a mirrorlike pool.

Avalon.

A world one could pass through
Without ever setting foot
On her shores...

But they tell me it was never real,
Only a creation of simpler times
When people believed in
Dragons,
Elves,
And a kingdom that arose
Out of the hands of a sorceress,
A time when people
Believed that unwary travelers
Could stumble into a fairy kingdom
Without even realizing they had strayed.

Yet even through the practicality
Of our analytical minds,
A longing for the magic
Of those primitive times remains.
Something in our subconscious stirs,
Subtle as starlight on a river,
Allowing the enchantment to live.
It can never totally vanish
Into the mists as Avalon did...

But wait!
Avalon is not entirely lost!
It can never truly fade away
As long as its enchantment lies
In the misty minds of poets,
Waiting,
Waiting to be discovered,
And rediscovered.

One Verse That Poe Forgot

Hear the clanging copper bells
      Moo-cow bells!
A pastureful of bovines their jangling foretells!
     Through the misty air of night
     How they ring when moo-bulls fight!
       And the clinking-clanking notes
           All out of tune,
       What a "moo-ving" ditty floats
Among the calves that romp in swampy moats
           Beneath the moon.
     Oh, from out the flowerng dells
What a rush of playful noise cacaphonously wells
               Loud as hell,
               Sounds real swell!
      On the wanderers how they tell,
      Wherein what ditch they may have fell
    By the bashing and the crashing
          Of the bells, bells, bells---
        Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
           Bells, bells, bells---
To the bonking and the clonking of the bells!

Winter in Lock Haven

Dead trees stand
Rigid along the street below,
Black sentries of the winter mists,
Saluting a hidden sun.
Rows of cars, cold as the air,
Huddle together in the parking lot
Beneath an indifferent sky of gray.

The wind moans loneliness
Outside my window,
Longing for the companionship
I have been too long without.
The winter sun tries to peek
Its blurry eye
Through a curtain of frozen uncertainty,
Gazing coldly at the world below
Before silently slipping away.

Emotionless clouds drift,
Too empty even to weave a blanket of snow
To cover the harshness of death,
The bare loneliness
Of a season made too long by
Solitude.

Broken ice floats downn the river
Like sharp pieces
Of memories.
My world without you
Has been a blank canvas
Of dismal browns and grays.

Will the coming Spring
Thaw this icy discontent,
Or will that promise, too,
Drift away like a solitary ice floe?

The 21st Century Woman's Reply to the Modern Romeo

(In the style of Sir Walter Raleigh's "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd")

If true love were but jewels and gold,
If pretty words a heart could hold,
I'd gladly share the dreams you wove,
And you would be my one true love.

While still our love is in its Spring,
And we find joy in everything,
It's easy to ignore the fact
That Cupid's cards are against us stacked.

You pledge long nights of kisses fair,
Days driving in sweet country air,
Romantic meals by candlelight,
And diamonds on my fingers bright.

The roads we travel soon grow rough,
And passion's heat chills soon enough.
We may tire of each other's touch,
And one can eat out just so much.

Life deals her hard knocks when she will;
Misfortune comes, and gone's the thrill,
And when these storms should come to us,
Then all our fun would turn to fuss.

For promises are like a cloud
That may grow quick and thunder loud,
But when those clouds result in showers,
They're gone, forgot, within an hour.

But if life's storms would leave us be,
And never troubles would we see,
Then truly push might come to shove,
And I'd agree to be your love.

The Modern Romeo to His Latest Crush

(This poem is a parody of "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love," by Christopher Marlowe. I also wrote a response in the style of "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd," by Sir Walter Raleigh, which I will post in a later note.)

Come lie with me and be my girl,
And I will set your heart a-whirl.
My gifts will all your fancies please,
And we will live a life of ease.

Come ride with me in my sports car;
We'll see the sights both near and far,
And as the wind blows through your hair,
The fast lane's joys we two will share.

And when the clock tells us we should,
We'll satisfy our need for food,
In tearooms fine, in cafes stark,
In mall food courts, or in the park.

When every bliss-filled day is done,
We'll sit and watch the setting sun.
Then while the quiet, cold moon glows,
I'll warm your blood with kisses slow.

The secret ways of love I know,
And all these pleasures I will show
To you, and I'd give you the world
If you'd agree to be my girl.

And when at last, dear, you say yes,
Your love for me at last confess,
Then on your finger there shall be
A diamond ring for all to see.

Life is too long to spend alone,
Without someone to call my own,
And now that push has come to shove,
I beg you to be my true love.

Villanelle to Ireland

The dream that for me will forever endure
Lies in words whispered sweetly by poets long gone:
"O return one more time to Ireland's green shore."

'Twas a vision of night that firsst opened that door
With a welcome on Gaelic; then my heart seemed to don
The dream that for me will forever endure.

And when next day I woke, I felt Eiru's allure,
By the songs of the Sidh my heart homeward was drawn:
"O return one more time to Ireland's green shore."

I, confused, asked my heart, "Have I been there before?"
And I felt my soul echo, like an ancient Bodhran,
The dream that for me will forever endure.

So I fed my night's vision Irish verse and folklore,
And more real was the knowing in that land I belonged.
"O return one more time to Ireland's green shore."

From the Lake Isle of Innisfree, Yeats more and more
Calls for me to fulfill the dream I dwell upon,
The dream that for me will forever endure:
"O return one more time to Ireland's green shore."

Acceptance

Call me not rose.

Although my heart cries to hear
Such a compliment,
Although ancient bards
Declared that flower noble
And deemed their lovely ladies
Worthy of that name,

Call me not rose.

Other women—beautiful women—
May be compared to the rose,
But I,
I am not one
Men would so honor.
I am more likely compared to
The lowly dandelion—

Who sees its worth?

Not a romantic, love-inspiring flower
Like the capricious rose,
The dandelion is a symbol
Of strength, resilience,
A will to strong to surrender.

Uproot a rose bush and see,
It is gone forever.
Petrarch, can you brag so
About your noble rose?

Your lady’s cheek may wear
The damasked red-and-white
Of that gentle bloom,
But the ever-bold glow of the dandelion flower
Needs no woman’s cheek
To survive, but in its own existence
Represents eternity—
A more appropriate symbol of ever-lasting love
Than the fragile rose,
Whose beauty does not linger.

No, call me not rose,
For though I envy
The beauty and romance of that flower,
To give me that name
Would be false flattery—
What love is built on that?
I would rather be remembered
For a spirit of strength and constancy,
One who wields a stubborn will to survive.
No, see not in this lady
The qualities of the fickle rose;
See in her the qualities
Of the noble—yes I said
Noble—
Golden dandelion.

Now what do I do?

So here I am in yet one more blogging site, and I have no clue what I am to do.  Does anyone really care what I think?  Um, don't answer that.  How do I get people to follow me?  Do I pay them?  Threaten them?  Send them chocolates?