30

I've noticed that the days are becoming shorter fairly rapidly here. Granted, the sun is still out at 10:30, it used to not really go completely down. Midnight here resembled about 9 pm back home. This poem doesn't have a moral.

The dark could but converge.
It hung at a fixed point,
Incorrigible to urge.

How stubborn was it one
Evening. The clouds floated
On the darkest cusp, a joint
That was quickly demoted.

For the days are shorter.
And as for the sun,
I’m not sure if we can afford her.

Poem Sixteen?

I think this is poem sixteen? The last poem was two in one, so I guess this is technically the sixteenth.

This poem is entirely in six word phrases and lines, to commemorate the SIXteenth poem and because six word phrases are supposedly the most aesthetically pleasing or something. Seriously, look it up. Entire books have been written like thus. I don't quite understand why.

I always seem to neglect summer. I write extensively for spring and fall and winter, but summer for me is the middle child. In it I'm either waiting for fall or missing spring. But I've decided to give it the attention it deserves. One thing I've always found about summer is that it is the shortest season and it goes all out, in heat and sunshine and daylight hours, but then it slips into fall very quickly. That's why I wrote this poem.

Moral: quantity does not always surpass quality.

Oh summer, your boundaries so defined:
Don’t you know how to live?
Does pacing matter in your mind?
I think that is not so.
You run only for the go,
Until you have nothing to give.

But I suppose that is allure.
If not now, then not again.
If not killing, then the cure.
Black and white, now and then.

Snow on a Glove on a Chairlift

Hello all-
So I'm on spring break now. Woohoo! I've been skiing lots and so have passed quality time on chairlifts. Yay... Chairlifts.

More mountains than glances
Breath-numbered trees,
Infinite chances
On how it will freeze

On a slope. The snow
Could be frost or near
My face. What I don't know
Is why this flake is here.

It melts on my glove
As if maybe to say
Even if it'd love
To have a longer stay,

This flake had happened
To fall on this hand.
So even in a flap, End
Takes the final stand.

Unpublished material, ©2011 Cali Digre

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

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