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.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
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Unpublished Material, ©2010 Cali Digre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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