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Poetry

"Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things." -T.S. Eliot 

Evermore in Four Iambic Heptameter Sonnets 

​By Britain Simons

 

My veins ensue a pulsing hue to blue of gallant night.
A dream so sure to be a thing no supple sleep can cure.
Through pane of charms, stripp’ed unarmed; I fail to halt my flight.
Like prancing light in waves of night she dips her taunting lure.
Naïve, I bite with all my might and skewer this saucy pulp.
From heart to head my flesh sprays red in ambiance so rare.
In shock, I cease to walk on air too thin to even gulp.
Straining toward bright, gorgeous white light, I’m hooked, damaged and bare.
Puppy love knows no drug to turn into this trenchant beast.
Monstrosity consumes the very movement of the sea
And looks above to orbs beyond, ready, as if to feast.
For it haunts me, this one lifelong ravenous guarantee.
Ironically, my exploits speak often to harmony
And whimsical delight, but really I want ecstasy.
(And that daunting, stunning, light.)

The future holds infinite molds, so why not us, my dear?
We’d laugh, breath, fight and weep and savor every flare.
I’d hold you tight through choking tears and squeeze out every fear.
I’d hold you from dusk to dawn, then on, to quiet, cool air.
Like monarch butterflies in the bright, beaming, boundless sky
You’d keep autonomy, but yet so sly, I’d wryly blow
A subtle breeze beneath your wings and joyful tears you’d cry,
But I was just a ‘pillar then, and since you’ve seen me grow.
With you, my soul, I’d ergo gleam stamina ‘nd passion.
Whilst, gentle as a blade of grass brushing past your charming leg,
I’d caress your mature heart to melt in proper fashion.
The night, at once you feel it, evermore you’d ach and beg,
Because, my dear, adventure’s near and love would never cease,
Nor bend, nor alter, just resolve unto our resting peace.

Love’s potential strands weave translucent bands infinitely
Entwined in vast serendipity, through time-bent pursuits.
Words serve hallow in inadequacy compared to thee
Cognitive dissonance of my admiration uproots.
Perhaps in lives past I earned your tender approbation
In sound seam sown moments passed through wish warped fabric.
Perhaps once I earned your vulnerable veneration
Searing appetite only gait could tear from wrenched stomach.
I get so tired of swallowing endless blades and needles
Meant to sculpt and sew the shapes and ties of endearing days.
Shades of sepia, that was all I saw, just frayed ravels
On tips of Persian tapestry. Profuse tears through strained gaze.
The intricacy encompassed all your piercing beauty.
I finally saw, in awe, in supreme vivacity.

I’d wait for you for years my dear, but hope fades brittle thin.
I would breach these damn awful aches through modest courtesy.
How else could I face the love I respect so much within,
But every time you cross my mind I sink into the sea.
Catharsis dreams on bitter things beget a gnawing dread.
Cycled light from daybreak’s might infuse, oh, crawling stings.
Piercing blues in labyrinth skewed caress my churning head.
Numbness pace on passion laced from tips of lovelorn wings
Failing sweeps on diode sheets sink down to senseless breath
Ignited nerves pulsing forward from secret stance unsaid.
When passion flickers a knife provides blissful unseen death.
So why ensue this pointless life with passion all but dead?
Humankind would writhe in envy to marvel you and me,
But all I ask, my love, is that you glint that shiny key.

Brine

By Britain Simons

 

Once too much, oft' forsworn my fickle friend,

Yet thus with spate of ink we meet again.

On mental terms devoid of value penned

Churn’ed voyage bereft in regret lain.

Lungs quaff the airbrushed hue of nightly cue

Sway long drawn thought of densely salted brine.

Suffice to say, in soaking seasoned rue

The brine of time, in gut, compacted fine.

Notions on fringe, wringing muck from mutter. 

Sleep begs sullen twinge for turn to align.

Perception begs from a lofty flutter

But one must wait under weight of thine.

Let feeling dull through relentless fasting.

Let distraction serve interim, not lasting.

A Love Note
By Britain Simons

(Excerpt from Garden of the Gods. A play by Britain)

 

Faculties for love embody the dove

But does the black swan yearn equally true?

In such a state bequeathed by tender love

I curve the chance to make your life anew.

In this moment you hold my focus clear.

You hold my heart, absent of fear, my soul.

In this moment, hearts will open, sincere.

Old rattled shades, boarded windows, take toll.

In an ode of love I pull tender strings

Reminding bruised and shielded hearts to bloom.

Sincere theory, you were not meant for kings,

But a hopeful soul in another room.

My dear, my dove, you’ve learned to curve your love

A day sits waiting for you to make true

All you have struggled to learn the likes of,

All the joy from memories bound to you. 

 

 

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