The patchwork faded from the year,
With more turmoil than it should require,
The blanket whose whole form is mere
Semblances of far and here,
Lies in the coals of a cleansing dire.
It takes its complaints up with the fire.
And as the seams cut the squares all free,
Their ashes vortex through the space.
When all is done it is time for me
To fashion another from the debris
Of all the moments in their grace.
Their blessing is how they erase.
The segments can be any creed,
And vary in their size and hue.
They’re not a want, but more a need,
And to free them vindicates my greed
And lauds me with a chance anew
To show me what a year can do.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Two-Toned Sunset
Hello everyone! So this weekend I was very busy with the holidays and was too busy (read: too lazy) to write a poem this week. So here is a poem I wrote a while back when I woke up from a nap in my dorm and watched the mid November sunset. I haven't written much about sunsets, so I found this poem in particular rather interesting.
Enjoy!
-CD
Two-toned Sunset
The sky exhales a sleepy tan,
As the sun by now has grown wan.
I am but a witness few,
To what a fall sunset can do.
It lingers on the tops of trees,
Like blue cotton, like blue seas.
Like an isle started anew,
Half is sandy, and half is blue,
The atmosphere a salty breeze,
Inceptive like a giver’s knees.
Far before a “will” or “can,”
Far before just any man.
A new world forming, my eye sees,
Just as light withdraws and flees.
The ocean darkens, the colors span,
Until the water does its plan.
This world’s colors are just two:
Black like the trees, blue like you.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 by Cali Digre
Enjoy!
-CD
Two-toned Sunset
The sky exhales a sleepy tan,
As the sun by now has grown wan.
I am but a witness few,
To what a fall sunset can do.
It lingers on the tops of trees,
Like blue cotton, like blue seas.
Like an isle started anew,
Half is sandy, and half is blue,
The atmosphere a salty breeze,
Inceptive like a giver’s knees.
Far before a “will” or “can,”
Far before just any man.
A new world forming, my eye sees,
Just as light withdraws and flees.
The ocean darkens, the colors span,
Until the water does its plan.
This world’s colors are just two:
Black like the trees, blue like you.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 by Cali Digre
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas Eve
Mumbled greetings, fumbling hand,
Shaking only as a motion,
Perhaps none of them understand
Why on earth we do this band
Of formalities. A shallow ocean.
I’m sad to say that every day
Our time is but a muddled cloth
Of noise and poorly kneaded clay,
Converging to a shade of gray.
We squabble over a tasteless broth.
But in an evening what does matter
Is brought forth in a sudden white.
She does not take to heart such flatter
And feels no need to promptly shatter
A thing filled with simple delight.
Our claims can only go so far.
As if we knew none of violence,
We hold each snowflake as a star.
Their sheen makes the night popular.
The world watches her in silence.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 By Cali Digre
Shaking only as a motion,
Perhaps none of them understand
Why on earth we do this band
Of formalities. A shallow ocean.
I’m sad to say that every day
Our time is but a muddled cloth
Of noise and poorly kneaded clay,
Converging to a shade of gray.
We squabble over a tasteless broth.
But in an evening what does matter
Is brought forth in a sudden white.
She does not take to heart such flatter
And feels no need to promptly shatter
A thing filled with simple delight.
Our claims can only go so far.
As if we knew none of violence,
We hold each snowflake as a star.
Their sheen makes the night popular.
The world watches her in silence.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 By Cali Digre
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Ornament
A tree grew in our house one year.
It smelled of timelessness and wood.
With hands too small, that handled with fear
The golds and reds and glassy stars,
I pointed that I wanted one here,
To hang lightly on a piney hood,
To hang so that my grasp was near.
The needles left me sticky scars.
I made a green pot that day at school,
And stuck large craft stones on its rim.
In my fingers, its touch was cool,
A whole class work’s entanglement with glue.
Accomplishment. Though I was a fool
To think it could hang as a spring hymn
Given its mass. A newly learned rule.
I readjusted, and tried anew.
The fragile ones were at the top.
They mirrored my pawing with their shine.
At some point I would hear a “STOP!”
And I’d recoil in quiet shame.
Once one like a silk web chose to drop
And in its descent I caught what was mine,
Repeated, like a reflective crop,
Blinking, breathing, all the same.
We brought a tree back home today.
I’m trusted with the fragile ones.
I still like to keep them far away,
Because they’re always turning pages.
But one that I will always let stay
Is too heavy for a branch’s sons.
I weigh it in my palm to say:
“The girl on the tree never ages.”
Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre
It smelled of timelessness and wood.
With hands too small, that handled with fear
The golds and reds and glassy stars,
I pointed that I wanted one here,
To hang lightly on a piney hood,
To hang so that my grasp was near.
The needles left me sticky scars.
I made a green pot that day at school,
And stuck large craft stones on its rim.
In my fingers, its touch was cool,
A whole class work’s entanglement with glue.
Accomplishment. Though I was a fool
To think it could hang as a spring hymn
Given its mass. A newly learned rule.
I readjusted, and tried anew.
The fragile ones were at the top.
They mirrored my pawing with their shine.
At some point I would hear a “STOP!”
And I’d recoil in quiet shame.
Once one like a silk web chose to drop
And in its descent I caught what was mine,
Repeated, like a reflective crop,
Blinking, breathing, all the same.
We brought a tree back home today.
I’m trusted with the fragile ones.
I still like to keep them far away,
Because they’re always turning pages.
But one that I will always let stay
Is too heavy for a branch’s sons.
I weigh it in my palm to say:
“The girl on the tree never ages.”
Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre
Friday, December 17, 2010
No Snow for Hanover
As if she were the final puzzle piece
In a jigsaw of unrelated snow,
She waits for the tapestry to be completed,
For the incompleteness to cease.
The final image she cannot know.
Pieces have their holism defeated.
But as she bides for her chance in white,
To be at last the fated semblance,
The time passes, and her existence seems lost.
It seems unfair to not delight
And to not inspire any remembrance
In the labyrinth of early frost.
So she takes pride as the single brown,
The patch that snow has yet to touch.
In the sea of white, she is an island,
In a crowd of smiles, she is a frown.
In the bounteous little, she is much.
There is much to rejoice as dry land.
She feels esteem for dissidence,
For defying the normalcy of winter.
She is the single patch of warm.
And I can say with confidence,
That I could merely be her splinter:
In this world of ice, I’m free from harm.
I’m the life in an ambiance of sleep.
I am the soft in surrounding sleeting.
I am matte in the middle of glare.
They must leave, but I can keep,
I have no obligation for fleeting.
I watch the pieces move towards fair.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre
In a jigsaw of unrelated snow,
She waits for the tapestry to be completed,
For the incompleteness to cease.
The final image she cannot know.
Pieces have their holism defeated.
But as she bides for her chance in white,
To be at last the fated semblance,
The time passes, and her existence seems lost.
It seems unfair to not delight
And to not inspire any remembrance
In the labyrinth of early frost.
So she takes pride as the single brown,
The patch that snow has yet to touch.
In the sea of white, she is an island,
In a crowd of smiles, she is a frown.
In the bounteous little, she is much.
There is much to rejoice as dry land.
She feels esteem for dissidence,
For defying the normalcy of winter.
She is the single patch of warm.
And I can say with confidence,
That I could merely be her splinter:
In this world of ice, I’m free from harm.
I’m the life in an ambiance of sleep.
I am the soft in surrounding sleeting.
I am matte in the middle of glare.
They must leave, but I can keep,
I have no obligation for fleeting.
I watch the pieces move towards fair.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
New Snow Villanelle
Oh, endless white, like she were starting new!
And even when the sunset marks the end.
The fanning outwards under silky blue.
The endless rain of feathers lost in hue,
When soft whispers of wind cause them to bend,
Oh, endless white like she were starting new!
It would not be enough to have but few,
And many more to earth the time will send,
The fanning outwards under silky blue.
They are too soft for touch, too tough for chew
But blessed with heart, and blessed by grounds to mend.
Oh, endless white, like she were starting new!
Erasing graft lines would be hard to do.
This snowy sketch would not be good to wend,
The fanning outwards under silky blue.
Against the monochrome I can’t find you,
As if your color was all you could lend.
Oh endless white, like she were starting new!
The fanning outwards under silky blue
Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre
And even when the sunset marks the end.
The fanning outwards under silky blue.
The endless rain of feathers lost in hue,
When soft whispers of wind cause them to bend,
Oh, endless white like she were starting new!
It would not be enough to have but few,
And many more to earth the time will send,
The fanning outwards under silky blue.
They are too soft for touch, too tough for chew
But blessed with heart, and blessed by grounds to mend.
Oh, endless white, like she were starting new!
Erasing graft lines would be hard to do.
This snowy sketch would not be good to wend,
The fanning outwards under silky blue.
Against the monochrome I can’t find you,
As if your color was all you could lend.
Oh endless white, like she were starting new!
The fanning outwards under silky blue
Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre
Friday, December 10, 2010
Past
The things that I most fear in life
Are the things I’m less apt to understand.
The things that I know less about,
The things that I could never know.
Things you can hold in your hand,
But in my own would give me strife.
Things I could exist without
But in whose knowledge I tremble so.
The paradox so unpleasant
About which I quiver on recall,
Is how by knowing more of you
The more frightened I become.
I wish you had no past at all,
I wish you only had a present.
I wish I were your inception, too,
I wish I were your only sum.
Like some selfish leech, I adhere
To your current with such need.
I depend on your looking in front,
And so I hate what lies behind.
Albeit I see my own greed,
And how it waxes all in fear,
I forgo tact, and just say blunt:
“I wish your past weren’t so kind.”
When I go back home, far removed,
Though “home” is really just a word,
For I’m a tourist in my stead,
I don’t know how you’re going back.
You’re going home, so I’ve heard,
The meaning of it all disproved
By my own. For in my head
I envy all the things I lack.
Are the things I’m less apt to understand.
The things that I know less about,
The things that I could never know.
Things you can hold in your hand,
But in my own would give me strife.
Things I could exist without
But in whose knowledge I tremble so.
The paradox so unpleasant
About which I quiver on recall,
Is how by knowing more of you
The more frightened I become.
I wish you had no past at all,
I wish you only had a present.
I wish I were your inception, too,
I wish I were your only sum.
Like some selfish leech, I adhere
To your current with such need.
I depend on your looking in front,
And so I hate what lies behind.
Albeit I see my own greed,
And how it waxes all in fear,
I forgo tact, and just say blunt:
“I wish your past weren’t so kind.”
When I go back home, far removed,
Though “home” is really just a word,
For I’m a tourist in my stead,
I don’t know how you’re going back.
You’re going home, so I’ve heard,
The meaning of it all disproved
By my own. For in my head
I envy all the things I lack.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Road Trip
Why can’t I quite look past
The first line of darkened trees?
The lighting on the road sufficient,
I can see all of it quite omniscient.
But what I cannot see with ease
Is what I know is built to last.
The road gives way to stronger woods,
As if it knows that they were first.
But yet the lamps that map the route
Drown out the nature in a bout
Of harshness. This is the worst
Of our “wants,” our “haves,” our “could”’s.
I’m never one to hate any light,
For showing any path is fair.
But to have existence so intrude
I find perhaps to be too crude.
I wish I couldn’t see here, but there.
I wish the forest were more bright.
Perhaps my favorite thing about cars
Is how they are likely to be stopped
Without notice. So I look left
To quickly marvel at her deft
Work. With the high beams dropped,
I can look freely at the stars.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre
The first line of darkened trees?
The lighting on the road sufficient,
I can see all of it quite omniscient.
But what I cannot see with ease
Is what I know is built to last.
The road gives way to stronger woods,
As if it knows that they were first.
But yet the lamps that map the route
Drown out the nature in a bout
Of harshness. This is the worst
Of our “wants,” our “haves,” our “could”’s.
I’m never one to hate any light,
For showing any path is fair.
But to have existence so intrude
I find perhaps to be too crude.
I wish I couldn’t see here, but there.
I wish the forest were more bright.
Perhaps my favorite thing about cars
Is how they are likely to be stopped
Without notice. So I look left
To quickly marvel at her deft
Work. With the high beams dropped,
I can look freely at the stars.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
SPECIAL DOUBLE POST!!!
Hello! So I'm going to be traveling this weekend, so I will probably be not writing a poem for Friday. Rather, I wrote a poem today to have the conclusion of November, and I'm going to post a poem I wrote the first day of November. Enjoy!
- Cali
first
gray socks on gray clouds,
breaking in their windy boots.
pines break in their taupe-y shrouds,
buildings wear their sunday suits.
hello, November. i missed You.
today’s patchwork fading fast,
decay, delay, and purple skin,
rawness maybe one to last,
thicker layers far too thin.
what, November, don’t turn blue.
quiet save the idle breeze,
dry without the subtle snow,
warmth can travel all with ease,
far better than i could know.
don’t, November, leave me through.
soft is tacky, viscous, taxed,
and yet it all seems fine to keep,
as nature leaves itself relaxed,
i also wouldn’t mind to sleep.
You, November, You can too.
depart
goodbye, grays, browns, mutes,
goodbye November, Your time past.
Your indecisive palette refutes
what i should make of how fast
the time went. nostalgic mange.
between oranges and whites, Your tawnies still
capture the simplicity we should adore.
Your nights can have frost, or even no chill,
Your fluctuations will be here no more.
perpetual cold will seem so strange.
as You sigh softly this afternoon,
Your bare bleakness reminds me of moods,
of how perhaps Your ending soon
will fasten to me different broods.
but Your return You can arrange.
for Your nature is to leave,
and come back when the trees are bare.
it never has done me good to grieve
when i still see You standing there.
thank You for this quiet change.
- Cali
first
gray socks on gray clouds,
breaking in their windy boots.
pines break in their taupe-y shrouds,
buildings wear their sunday suits.
hello, November. i missed You.
today’s patchwork fading fast,
decay, delay, and purple skin,
rawness maybe one to last,
thicker layers far too thin.
what, November, don’t turn blue.
quiet save the idle breeze,
dry without the subtle snow,
warmth can travel all with ease,
far better than i could know.
don’t, November, leave me through.
soft is tacky, viscous, taxed,
and yet it all seems fine to keep,
as nature leaves itself relaxed,
i also wouldn’t mind to sleep.
You, November, You can too.
depart
goodbye, grays, browns, mutes,
goodbye November, Your time past.
Your indecisive palette refutes
what i should make of how fast
the time went. nostalgic mange.
between oranges and whites, Your tawnies still
capture the simplicity we should adore.
Your nights can have frost, or even no chill,
Your fluctuations will be here no more.
perpetual cold will seem so strange.
as You sigh softly this afternoon,
Your bare bleakness reminds me of moods,
of how perhaps Your ending soon
will fasten to me different broods.
but Your return You can arrange.
for Your nature is to leave,
and come back when the trees are bare.
it never has done me good to grieve
when i still see You standing there.
thank You for this quiet change.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Architect
Balanced on pine and oak and cedar.
Silent the night, silent the air.
Silent the breathing, the wind, the bird feeder.
Silent everything. Silent there.
It could be the flour on my hair
As I dust frosting on the yard.
The stillness left in every pair
Of snow white eyes left dry and hard.
I could exhale upon this card
And give ears to this quiet night
But I am but this moment’s bard,
And in my work I take delight.
Yet not in long the wind will fight
The stillness and the trees will move.
The dusting will at last take flight
But I shall never disapprove.
My work is meant to but remove
The tiredness of pressing day,
A fleeting gift for all that you’ve
Been wanting in your want to stay.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre
Silent the night, silent the air.
Silent the breathing, the wind, the bird feeder.
Silent everything. Silent there.
It could be the flour on my hair
As I dust frosting on the yard.
The stillness left in every pair
Of snow white eyes left dry and hard.
I could exhale upon this card
And give ears to this quiet night
But I am but this moment’s bard,
And in my work I take delight.
Yet not in long the wind will fight
The stillness and the trees will move.
The dusting will at last take flight
But I shall never disapprove.
My work is meant to but remove
The tiredness of pressing day,
A fleeting gift for all that you’ve
Been wanting in your want to stay.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Thirty-Five Degrees
The drizzle sideways from the bluster
Playing triangles with the ground.
Long ago this lost its luster
It only serves to maim and fluster
The colors that this autumn found.
Mutes are all left in a cluster
Trodden that they make no sound
When stepped upon. I cannot muster
The logic that this went around.
And as the precipitation fatter
Finds its way to swirl the street
It escalates from pitter-patter
As the frosts inquires, “What’s the matter?
Since when do ice and water meet?”
The rain slides quickly down the ladder,
And punches frost so as to greet.
The crystal fades, the earth grows sadder
And it at last gives way to feet.
Fickle temperature oscillates
Gives way to water, then to ice,
It beguiles them both with hopeful fates
But in the end it denigrates.
As if for fun that would suffice.
As if they both were given gates
That they could never traverse twice,
As if capricious weather hates
Them both for not quite being nice.
And though I say I would despise
The paradox in freezing rain,
I cannot help but realize
That though it brings the frost demise,
It also can fall prey to pain.
The promises, the whispered lies,
The coaxing that the breeze can feign,
I see it all before my eyes,
But they are blinded save their gain.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre
Playing triangles with the ground.
Long ago this lost its luster
It only serves to maim and fluster
The colors that this autumn found.
Mutes are all left in a cluster
Trodden that they make no sound
When stepped upon. I cannot muster
The logic that this went around.
And as the precipitation fatter
Finds its way to swirl the street
It escalates from pitter-patter
As the frosts inquires, “What’s the matter?
Since when do ice and water meet?”
The rain slides quickly down the ladder,
And punches frost so as to greet.
The crystal fades, the earth grows sadder
And it at last gives way to feet.
Fickle temperature oscillates
Gives way to water, then to ice,
It beguiles them both with hopeful fates
But in the end it denigrates.
As if for fun that would suffice.
As if they both were given gates
That they could never traverse twice,
As if capricious weather hates
Them both for not quite being nice.
And though I say I would despise
The paradox in freezing rain,
I cannot help but realize
That though it brings the frost demise,
It also can fall prey to pain.
The promises, the whispered lies,
The coaxing that the breeze can feign,
I see it all before my eyes,
But they are blinded save their gain.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre
Friday, November 19, 2010
Parables of the Wind: Part I
The scratching at my cheeks grows thick
And red summoned on their plain
Does little to protect the raw
That round my presence seems to stick,
Governed by some physics law,
Where the exposed will tend to stain.
The faster gusts, my paces quick,
Though in it I have naught to gain.
She pushes me with her guffaw
To whatever on me she can nick.
She snakes to find a mortal flaw,
She persists on me without refrain.
Oh, her free will has made me sick!
She makes cold rubble out of grain,
She turns the flora into straw,
She satirizes each new chick.
Yet just as the blackbirds need their caw,
From her purpose she won’t abstain.
In this existence did she pick
To plant in nature so much pain?
Did she request to have her jaw?
Yet she is subject to the flick
And scratch of a large, unseen claw.
She dissipates, but I remain.
Unpublished Material, © 2010 Cali Digre
And red summoned on their plain
Does little to protect the raw
That round my presence seems to stick,
Governed by some physics law,
Where the exposed will tend to stain.
The faster gusts, my paces quick,
Though in it I have naught to gain.
She pushes me with her guffaw
To whatever on me she can nick.
She snakes to find a mortal flaw,
She persists on me without refrain.
Oh, her free will has made me sick!
She makes cold rubble out of grain,
She turns the flora into straw,
She satirizes each new chick.
Yet just as the blackbirds need their caw,
From her purpose she won’t abstain.
In this existence did she pick
To plant in nature so much pain?
Did she request to have her jaw?
Yet she is subject to the flick
And scratch of a large, unseen claw.
She dissipates, but I remain.
Unpublished Material, © 2010 Cali Digre
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Late Autumn Leaf
Oh, how she bleeds anticipation
As she autumns on the limbs
Of some long-dormant oak nation,
The last standing in her formation,
The last one left to play wind hymns,
The last one left to lecherous whims.
And yet the wait makes her anemic,
She grows impatient for the fall.
She claims foul play, one left ischemic.
No words are left, yet her phonemic.
But had she missed November’s call?
And when she slips, will that be all?
She had so pined to all withstand
The blusters that dark autumn makes.
She cups the new frost in her hand,
As if it’s there to reprimand,
To weigh her down until she shakes,
A slice or drop is all it takes.
But then, why has this fall been kind?
The vents are gentle, their breathing still.
And when at last she doesn’t mind,
Her path is slowly down inclined.
She sleeps upon the windowsill.
She sleeps wherever the wind will.
Unpublished Material, © 2010 Cali Digre
As she autumns on the limbs
Of some long-dormant oak nation,
The last standing in her formation,
The last one left to play wind hymns,
The last one left to lecherous whims.
And yet the wait makes her anemic,
She grows impatient for the fall.
She claims foul play, one left ischemic.
No words are left, yet her phonemic.
But had she missed November’s call?
And when she slips, will that be all?
She had so pined to all withstand
The blusters that dark autumn makes.
She cups the new frost in her hand,
As if it’s there to reprimand,
To weigh her down until she shakes,
A slice or drop is all it takes.
But then, why has this fall been kind?
The vents are gentle, their breathing still.
And when at last she doesn’t mind,
Her path is slowly down inclined.
She sleeps upon the windowsill.
She sleeps wherever the wind will.
Unpublished Material, © 2010 Cali Digre
Saturday, November 13, 2010
DIRECTION OF THIS BLOG!
Hello all.... So I have finally resurrected this blog because I now have a purpose with which to fill it. I have decided I will be writing my original poetry in cute little posts on a biweekly basis. And maybe some weeks that I have a tad of a writer's block I'll entertain you with other snippits of creativity... whatever that means.
Happy Living!
~CD
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