Dusty ol’ Sestina
I’ve decided to dig up some old poems I wrote when I was but a wee lad. The first to start off the dusty endeavor is a Sestina. According to Wikipedia it incorporates retrogradatio cruciata (retrograde cross). How can you not be excited about something that’s organized by retrogradatio cruciata. Any way here we go…
Stream of Consciousness at Midnight (A Sestina made up of Words)
The blue light of the TV set,
reflects off the shoddy decrepit apart-
ment building walls. My restless fingers lay silent
at the sight of the town surnamed Willoughby.
An Eden painted by televised waves, spoken
by the bass tones of a man lost in space.
With the mourning sun the day changes pace
and I meditate on that town till the sun begins to set.
What is my paradise I ask in a soft-spoken
voice and I let my mind meander apart
from consciousness. What is Willoughby
to me? Where will my pain fall silent?
On a beach where feminine sigh lent
itself to pleasure. The hot sand giving all the space
required to soothe every nerve. As I reside in this Willoughby
the sun envelops my sea soaked body next to a set
of friends whose laughter peels apart
the peace of the shore like bottled acoustical resonance spoken
Into a microphone. Post answer I had spoken,
my heart, mind, soul, and spirit are cleansed; silent
by the brook and washed by rain that pulls apart
dissension. I lose my mind in the dark space
of the brain and exit into the light of my own flesh and blood, set
up myself and amiably dwell ‘neath a willow by
moonlight. Brief quandary. Will I be
content on this temporal sphere? Or in unspoken
grief, live in a tepid pool of melancholy. Will I set
best laid plans only to be answered by a silent
calm which echoes throughout the depths of space.
As this stews in my bones a part
of me dies and passes away. Yet apart
from death what is life? A hearse labeled Willoughby
and Sons Funeral Home I fear not. Blank space
will not follow my end. In a God and city often spoken
of, of omnipotence and one not to be silent,
in this Promised Land is my faith set.
My last words spoken, I flip off the TV set
and make space on my bed to be a part
of the sweet silent town of Willoughby.
Copyright 2007, 2010 © by George Scholes Robson V