I'm Really Bad with Titles

I hate adding titles, so this is a poem about spring. Like that narrows it down at all...

Who lit up the green flame?
Who invigorated the grass, the trees?
Who never gave up on spring’s game
Even when she gave not a breeze?
Who clung to her verdant name
As if their faith would bear no shame?

Who watered all the colors today?
Why are the blues brighter, the whites
Crisper than the words they say?
Why do the leaves hold daytime lights?
I’ve but forgotten what is “gray.”
The hue is banned when it is May.

Who reversed the film of fall?
The buds emerge like nothing’s wrong.
A winter’s reign can seem so small
When broken by a vernal song.
And yet the cold I can’t recall
Can be remembered with a squall.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

storm clouds

So it's been both storming and beautiful here, so I figured it'd be appropriate to post this poem about a spring thunderstorm I wrote last May. Yay storms. Yay.... walking in the rain.

storm clouds

whatever Verdant in our mists
tonight lies prey to grips severe
and splinters borne out from fists
of a thunderhead austere.
the air is trembling in fear.

the hairs rise straight on backs of Grass
and the blades sharpen and hum a tune,
synonymous with the pitch of glass
clamoring in the choir of june,
far too loud to spy the moon.

white flowers are born from Sickly skies
and bloom downwards in a spiral of mirth.
the pearls as petals fall in guise
to give false richness to the earth
as clouds draw close to cinch and girth.

in curtains too wet to be couth
this much i learn from heavy scenes,
for this is thunderstorm time’s truth:
since the wind does carry the Leaves it gleans,
violence is attracted to Greens.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Late Winter Sky

The wanton climate clipped its fist
To make its way in between
A season’s undernourished sheen
And a new time. A gentle mist
Undoes every icy cyst.

Though not shedding beryl blood
The mountain leaves say “Amethyst!
Our fall colors must still enlist
Patronage.” And so they flood
And mingle with the frost’s scud.

Pure, primary, blue glaze,
Quieter than a spring bud,
Evaporated thawing mud,
Moving towards a verdant phase,
I remain when my eye stays.

And though my life is far from green,
I feel like this deserves some praise,
A progress flourish, Polonaise.
I’ve never seen a sky this clean
In any March I’ve ever seen.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre