La Bella Principessa

La Bella Principessa

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Young_Girl_in_Profile_in_Renaissance_Dress

Solemnly you sit
in the golden glow of sunlight reflecting on a yellow wall,
your demeanor calm . ..
yet your turmoil within
is like the battle of dragons,
black smoke of their breath rising up behind your eyes;
your day is caught up in memories
of yesterday's youth . .  
a dream you had of being a girl . .. 
before your marriage,
which, so quickly ripped your carefree days 
into shreds . . . while you were reborn
as a matron . . . though your face,
still smooth as a baby, 
is painted to cover the shadows and the pallor 
of your restlessness and ennui . . 
and your eyes as clear 
as the biggest star on a moonless night . . .
reflect nothing . . .
your tender lips have no longer the strength to lift
into a curve of delight . . . and those peals of laughter,
that once resounded in the valleys of the girls . . .
do not echo on the stone walls of the matrimonial domicile . .
is there a hint of a tear in those golden eyes?
yet you look as if you were about to call your kitten to you . . 
to run and play. . .
and sing with your friends in the garden . . .
trailing your fingers lazily in that fountain, there,
with the moss spotted faun cavorting in the water,
you have always wondered what doorway you could open
to find that world of fauns, and fairies, unicorns and roses . . .
flowers you can find in your own gardens,
but not the kind that never wilt . . . nor droop and drop their petals . .. 
that wither away
into scarlet crusts of blood . . .
spent in their dying moments . . .
your clear eyes glance like water 
on the hot face of the painter . . . 
as he patiently rubs a wayward stroke of his pencil . .. 
he looks into your soul . . . an open door . .. 
a draft blows through with  a vengeance . .
and for a moment you shudder as if a thing with scales
and claws is walking on your skin . ..
leaving tattoos, like drops of blood,
and you sigh. . .
just slightly,
a mere ripple in the oceans of a larger day . . .
and here, the painter says he has enough . . .
so you quickly slip away through a darkened doorway . . .
never looking at the drawing of you . . .

Versailles, France

An Offering from Henry . . .

Bucolic fields in France

From: MY SOUL REFLECTIONS IN SUSPENSION . . .
By Henry Ireland
(FaceBook)


A day to want to decipher the mysteries
 printed on the acanthus leaves
 on the rails of the glow
 in the metaphors of the dream.

One more day to go in search of some horizon
 and go to the next station of the happenings.

One more day to live without fear.

What is this absence nostalgic feel
that your home is always elsewhere,
wherever you are not!. !

Wherever seas kiss
white sand beaches that are fixed on the traveler's soul!. !
Wherever the clouds are hung
verses erect a memory!. !
Wherever the battlements of the high towers
will echo sounding deep!. !
Wherever green fields
with the stain of lichen months of the year!. !
Wherever dawn cities are
you always walking towards cavity of time!. !
There!.
Here I am writing dreams expatriates. !
Dreams!. !
Only dreams of glass in the windows of a sunset
I write not to be understood but only to be felt!

Clouds in Strasbourg

Dreams

at the home of my youth . . . I stand
in memory's place . . . 
gazing through time
a window sill sits crusted with age,
objects scattered
yet holding their place,
spiderweb trails lead to faded smudges
following dreams of unreasoned memories . . 
handwriting on a weathered strip of paper .. . 
where decades of lying in the sun . . .  the fly specks
shadow the poignant words
of yesterday . . .
and here in the dusk
a family is born . .  each day
a descendent of the other . . .
flowing like a river from the valley
to the desert . . .
where the dry rains never fell . . .
and dreams were left by the side of the road
to wither into strings of loss . . .
shadows on paper . ..
faces once young . . .
where did they go
why are they gone?
a faded rose, ashy and gray . .
a crooked row of cracked porcelain vases
filled with the smell of old house ..  ..
deserted . .  despised
the sunlight spills through half closed shutters . . .
specks of dust, flashes of light
lazily floating, twisting and fluttering
like the heartbeats of
planets or wayward stars,
stumbling through the unknown . .
suns to the unknowable . . .
detritus drifting around my ankles
reaching out tentacles of sorrow
and questions of what could have been . .
if only . ..
and then there is
tomorrow . . . 

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Poetry . . . sheer poetry . . .
beauty ringing like a bell throughout
the music . . . creative and expressive
each song a different life-form . .
each heartbeat . . . each voice . ..
each melody a treasure . ..
a focus, a dream, a faded piece of yesterday,
flowing through my brain
like knowledge attained
as hope
and memories,
my dreams for yours . . .
sharing my place
beneath the umbrella . . .
holding your trembling hand
blind as you are
you guide me beneath
the all seeing star . . .
and the music slides down my back
like water drifting off my umbrella . .
voyaging through the muddy rivulets . . .
on my road . . .

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Weeds . . .

Find the hummingbird

The butterfly bushes,
in my small yard,
have captivated a multitude . .
where the purple flowers cluster
and dangle temptingly,
dancing slightly in the breeze . . .
warmed in the golden sun and
emitting an enticing scent of honeyed sweetness . .
bees gather, diving deeply into the heady stuff . . .
focused on their business . ..  they never notice
my camera as it poises over each unique individual . . .
some new and fluffy with yellow pollen . .
others shiny and black . . .
and the furry ones, that look like little teddy bears .  .
tumble and bumble along on their frail glassy wings . .
The small butterflies, like fluffy orange kittens . . . play and frolic
amongst this abundance . . . big eyes reflect
back at me . . . a certain winsomeness . . .
and a little dreaminess in the sunshine . . .
The humming birds seem to think
that this is their sanctuary . . .
and often hover before my face

to look into my eyes. . .
never though, when I have my camera . . sadly . .
and I always explain to them .  .  .
that I am just here to observe . . . never to disrupt
this small Eden . . .
and though my neighbors may decry my "weeds"
I see
a beautiful garden . . .

 

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Tell Me Something New . . .

Once, long ago,
I laid on my back
in the tall grasses,
completely invisible
to anyone looking for me . .
I watched the darkening sky
and the star-flies,
little groups of insects. . .
or fairies,
swooping through the dusk,
like stray embers flashing upward
from that great bonfire
in the setting sun . . .
I called them to me,
by name and they came,
without hesitation
entering the crystal goblet
I had ready . . .
where I treasured
this captive magic . . .
their thin wings beating
hopelessly
against the invisible glass . . .

the green leaves
of the willow tree
tasted the dust
at her roots and
I would watch the branches
sweep the banks
of a little brook
leaving cryptic forms and markings,
messages to the musical water . .

tell me something new . . . something
you have never told me before
a dream,
a story,
a wish . . .

I will tell you
about that endless day when
the willow tree passed away. . .
this one had an airy spirit
and a tender heart
though she would join us
in our frivolities . . .
her strength and stability
was like that of a goddess . . .
and her graceful lines
were expressed as beauty . . .
the birds found rest in her shiny tresses . . .
she was shelter
from long ago hot summers. . .
her limber branches
creating a green breeze
and lacy shadows . . .

 . . .this terrible windy day
she hurled herself to the dirt . . .
roots pointing to the skies . . .
her bones broken and disarrayed . . .
her trunk horizontal and still . .

all the other children were
in fear of the powerful storm . . .
yet I found a certain exhilarating glee
in the strength
of this invisible moving force. . .
I wanted to be out in the wind. . .
being lifted by strong arms
and tossed into the air . . .
my heart felt so light
and I knew that I could spread my wings
and fly forever . ..

but I was commissioned
to watch my siblings . ..
all crying in a row .  .  .
like naked, hungry little birds . . .
eyes wide in dread . . .
mouths round, black and bottomless . . .
piercing the air with loud wails . . .

sadly, I just laughed at them . . .
I lacked sympathy, then, . . .
there they were .  .  .
trapped in their misery . .
exposed in their frailties . . .
I never understood their fear . . .
except that the willow-tree fell . . .
and would not rise up again .  .

her long branches
tangled in a lumpy heap and
slowly beginning to wilt . . .
while the birds circled overhead
calling . . . calling . . .

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A diversity of music genres . .. beautiful and captivating . . . I have been listening for days . . .
 

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Weaving through space, sinuous and dreamy,
leading me through the back roads of my memories . ..
my dreams flying through the wind . .
and my hopes of peace and understanding . . .
bloom like a white rose in the darkness . . .
a pale fragrance,
by morning covered in fragile dew . . .
like pearls . . . reflecting the eye of the beholder ...

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Translator . . .

Dear Readers,

I have added Google Translator as a new widget on the sidebar. . . Give it a try and let me know what the results are, if you wish. Remember that these on-line translators are very imperfect and can translate word for word but not the intent and meaning . . . that is hard for people to do let alone an electronic brain.

Poetry is difficult to understand under the best of circumstances . . . and will probably be more difficult through the translator . . . but with so many people from different countries coming to visit, I thought it might be helpful. 

Hugs to all,

- Barbara

The Meaning of You . . .

Trying to Find My Way Back Home . . .

for so many miles I have walked,
lost beneath a silent moon. . .
the dust of the road,
rising up like long ago memories,
clings to the skin of my soul . .
and following me,

as a cape flapping in the wind,

are the streaming shreds 

of heartache . . .
I sing a tuneless song
to keep me company . . .
and remember 

when I held your hand
as we walked down
unfamiliar streets . . .
our way was paved
in sunshine and melodies
though the skies were black with clouds . . .
my eyes are hungry
for the sight of you . . .

my yesterdays . . . fill my dreams

and tears stain my rocky pillow,

where I lay my head

beneath that sullen moon;

my eyes seek the warmth of

that house upon the hill,

where memories 

have colored in the shadows,

and once

rainbows

spanned the shining river below,

bridges to the heavens,

long faded

and returned to the gods as

mere dusty ephemera . . .

                                                                my keys

                                                                have rusted long ago,

                                                                 rendering

                                                                a blood red stain

                                                                  on my fingertips . . .

                                                                   and our tender kisses,

                                                                   like the airy brush of a feather,

                                                                   have flown away

                                                                    with the sparrow for the winter,

                                                                   leaving but sweet tasting memories

                                                                        and a question on my lips

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Quiet and tender are the melodies . .
they float around me,
sentimental and wistful,
like lost cherubs . . .
dreamy and content . . .
There is beauty in these shadows. . .
a cool and restful place to stay
and listen to the music . . .
for much of a long and weary day . . .
the electric guitar gives strength
and the piano gives peace . .
and there is a sweet balm in these songs
to sooth away the sorrows
and smooth away the rough edges . .
with a breath of the
lovely and divine . . .

White Wolf

The brightest edge of an ancient star,
peering through the mists,
is the color of a million years  . .
a long, long, road traveled,
ending as a point of light
reflected in the eyes
of white wolf . . . 
she stands on the ledge
above a canyon  . .
blackness pooled beneath her . . .
rushing water feeds the night
with sighs and snorts
like a thousand wild horses
racing between the walls,
an echo reverberating into the heavens . . .
she joins the music of the water
and feels a shiver from the listeners,
small, like prey, they feel . . .
an untouched moment, wild. . .
with a lust to run in fear and exhilaration . .
hearts beating . . .
countless hearts are beating . . .
endless eyes shattered in the star's deep gaze . .
a pool of dawning knowledge
becomes a place of drowning
where the chosen one feels the hot breath
and the thrust of the the wolf's tongue,
like a lover's kiss,
for an endless moment
before the end . . .
and in the end . ..  is a beginning . .
for the blood drawn, sinks into the thirsty earth . . .
where an ancient song
lies buried . . . waiting to be released . . .
and on the banks of the wild river . . 
after the echoing cry is stilled,
the child in the old man weeps with wonder . . .
as one small star flickers and dies . .. 

Expiration Date:

Once, on this road,

                                       there was a moment . . .

                                              where

we crossed paths                  
                                         and for some
unknown reason                                                     
      you looked at me
                               and saw
       a bleeding soul . . .                                 
              you heard
a heart song,                  
                                                     an echoing refrain
of yesterday's melody . . .                                         
                                              your fingers, delicate . . .
    fluttering   

white butterflies . . .. .                                     
                             over empty spaces . . . .
I looked at you and saw                               
                           Phoenix rising . . .
passion surrounding                   
                           me in brittle arms of steel,
I breathed on you,                            
     blowing ashes to the searing winds . . .
                                                            flames like roses blooming
    and withering. . .         

                                rising and falling,

                                                                 sizzling beneath pearls

of tears like white wine . . .

The oak tree . . .
                                      has no
memories of this .. ..                                 
   but stands stoic . . .                                                          
                                                      a shelter from the
scorning sun . .   

                                                  and here I pause, 

bewildered . . .

                                                        looking down this old rocky road

waiting . . .   

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I am moved . ..
by this sentimental music,
a wistful dream of yesterday;
yes, there was that day . . .
it dances slowly in my memories,
quietly fading . . . until the rim
of the past
becomes the moment of today .. ..
and here I sit,
my heart melting . . .
under the tender touches
of a piano's voice . . .
and slowly a few tears must fall,
while the beauty of the music
becomes a balm
to heal . .  

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Expiration Date

printed in faded
purple ink

on the lid of this life . . .
pointing obliquely to the end. . .
I cannot make it out
my eyes are too blurry

from the salty brine . . .
it gets harder to see

as the line gets finer,
and the time gets shorter
but my heart shrinks . . .
inward . . .
shellacking its surface
to reflect the burning
rays of pain

and I spread

some calk
to fill in the
puncture wounds

as if they were holes in old houses

needing repair . . .

yet there is nothing left
but this dull pain. . .
I am old enough
to know
that wounds heal,
and the scar left behind
is yet another shield

of protection and knowledge
against the woes of
time . . .
and though
a flower fades and drops
never  to return
there will come a day when
yet another
bloom will grow,

the thorns a little sharper . . .
I know that I have
little to offer you
but my flimsy understanding
of life and time,
like the pale lunar moth
struggling to get to
that glorious moon . . .
brushing against the
topmost leaf where
her delicate scales brush off,
the glue too insubstantial to hold,
she flutters down
into the flame
of reality
and perishes . . .
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Inspired while listening to Ivann:

lying on my back
in the tall golden grass
I am completely invisible
to those doomed to wander on this flat land . . .
here I watch the star-flies,
little flocks of insects or fairies . .
   swooping through the dusk,
like stray embers
   flashing upwards,
from that great bonfire on the horizon . . .
I call them to me
    by name
and they come without hesitation . . .
bringing the music of my soul . . .
                it lingers in the air
like the perfume of the gods . . .
moving like the waves of a restless sea . .
               I am overwhelmed by the ambiance
stroking me like calming fingers . . .
my star-flies  swim back and forth in this
                   raw emotion .. ..
touching my eyelids  . . . which flutter with want . . .
my lips . . . like tender invisible kisses . . .
my body completely relaxed . . .
I swoop upward and outward . . .
with my star-flies . . . into the deep space of Heaven . . .
     and I am truly lost to this world . . .


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