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Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Parables of Dawn: Part II

So as promised, I am posting the second part of the dawn poem that I wrote the morning after I graduated from high school. Partly because I like continuity, partly because it's finally sunny here again, partly because I feel in no mood to stretch my creative tendrils. I posted the other one exactly a month ago, which I swear was not particularly planned. Enjoy!


Gentle sheets cut short my view
Of anything beyond the swing.
The murk obstructs whatever pleasant thing
May occur in the frivolities of dawn today.
The blankets lie dependently too,
Weighing down the trees with gray.

Disowned songs wander in the mist,
Looking for their owners, birds and the like.
The grass scowls from how my feet spike
Its lanugo without any real thought.
I’m sure it could archive its twist
And how against my weight it fought.

The milky film stretched before my eyes
Is not infallible like it seems
As the color settles to cleaner creams
Until the foreground is augmented.
The sheet drops til it lightly lies
Above where the grass has relented.

The grass fondly absorbs the curtain
Until no thread of it remains,
And each grass blade fully contains
A drop of moisture, the soothing dew.
The grass is happy, I am certain,
And I admire the unmuted view.

Haze is never one to linger
And when it leaves, it leaves in good:
The grass is quenched where I had stood.
The pureness glistens on each blade.
The lawn stretches its every finger
Towards the sun that morning made.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

CRAZY WEEK

So... finals are just around the corner and I have been up to my throat in work. Friday will be an easier day to post, so I will probably post two poems to atone for this. But for now, here is a poem I wrote in the summer the morning after I graduated. I had been up all night so I figured I might as well watch the sunrise. That precipitated two poems. This is the first one. Maybe I'll post part two later. Enjoy!

~CD


Parables of Dawn (Part I) (June 9, 2010)

The truth is gold, but not in touch,
For all the leaves are painted such.
Their beauty is not such a thing
That calls for trite perfection.
Rather, in the clear reflection,
Perfect sight of all their flaws,
Thought-birds ‘round my iris fling,
Mumbling all about the laws.

And yet the sun illuminates
These concrete little flutter-fates,
So that I see their cellulose
In all their mold and wear.
I ask, “What leaves did once hang there
Before the breeze whisked them apart,
In conduct less than grandiose,
With little whim, and little heart?”

What matters is not where they lie
But how they do bask in the sky,
Whirling by the eyes of Gold.
Their shadows crawl along the grass,
Though they themselves don’t ever pass
In a different, alien shape.
Their inverses never hold
Much more than a breezy cape.

As my eyes flutter in perplex
To make sense of all these subjects,
All that shifts here is their pose.
The leaves retain their stiff aplomb,
But darkness quivers on my palm,
As I stir little on the lawn.
In this vantage that I chose,
I learn lessons from the dawn.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Sick

So I've been sick for the past couple days, which has inspired this poem. The second poem is a cute pseudo-sonnet I wrote in tenth grade when I was also sick. Feeling like crap= creativity flowing? Works for me.
~CD

Senses

A winter palate subtle
For keener eyes to like,
The bland loss in the muddle,
I love when colors spike.

Immunity from gnashing sounds
When decibels appear
May give my satisfaction grounds,
But white noise charms no ear.

Exhaust fumes on busy streets
Cannot be vilified,
Nor notes of softer glacial fleets
Be more sanctified.

Utilitarians can’t see
Adventure is a game.
Differences, but to me
Every food the same.

Desaturate the landscape,
No detail makes it slow.
The sun can’t burn my nape,
But I can’t feel the snow.

“Sense” is a droned noun,
Where “emphasis” had stood.
The bad in my life is toned down,
But then, so is the good.


Bugs in My Body (12/18/07)

There’s a mosquito in my brain.
There’s a beehive in my lung.
Each are buzzing without refrain
And when I swallowed, they stung.
There’s a dragonfly soaring in my nose,
There are beetles in my ears.
Each are chewing me from head to toes
And clapping their wings as jeers.
These insects are pestering me night and day
And ‘til then I wait for my cold to go away.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

HOW COULD I FORGET

Hello all! I was having so much fun until fifty minutes ago (Friday) that I forgot to write/ post a poem! My apologies; I'll come up with something incredibly special for Tuesday. Anyways, here is a poem I wrote in the summer about some lady I saw waiting in line at a pizza place. Hooray for shallots.


The Shallot Woman

The patio apart with glass,
A waned figure bends in the air,
Her wafer arms and thinning hair,
Her face gaunt from a toxic gas.

The gangrene strikes her legs with care,
As they stretch dimly in the shade
Of the thick branches. There she bade
The waiter leave the bottle there.

A starving hope, conformity
Does pry her body in this shape.
When bound by peers, and bound by tape
She yearns pseudo-proclivity.

The layers painted on her eyes
Are peeled back with introspect.
The tinted lenses all reflect
Her future, past, and present guise.

At what inception? It’s been lost,
The process slow like stretching roots.
The plant bears shiny, flushing fruits
That bloom wild at the tender’s cost.

And yet she knows how hard she fought!
As sheen slides down her waxy cheeks,
She does not know that what she seeks
Has long dissolved, replaced with naught.

The toil of peeling every skin
That she compounded on her soul
Is digging in a finite hole,
With no elusive prize within.

For shallots have no inner piece
Because their hearts have been destroyed
And their independence devoid
To hope acceptance never cease.

And when the soul is locked inside
It suffocates from inward rot.
This tragedy I wish were not:
An injured essence likes to hide.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

A Semi-Divine Driver Watching an Intersection

Hey all-
So this is about as close as I get to blank verse, and even this isn't really blank verse. I wrote this right after taking my AP Econ test last May, because the last thing you really want to have after a test like that is free will :P

-CD

Sometimes when I look off the road,
Pictures paint themselves on the sidewalk
In hues of joy, and apathy, and whatever else is there.
But when I look closer, it is then I see
That it is I with the dirtied palm and chalk,
Smudging and erasing and stomping my foot where
The crevices are. Cracks mean nothing to me;
Just channels for the run-off rainbows, the asphalt’s load.
Driving a while never is something to get excited
Over, particularly when the errand minutely gallops across
My calendar, like what it does every weekday at five.
I get tired of sketching the same characters, the same strolling;
I wonder why I even bother doodling at all. What matters anyway?
For all I know, this façade that is supposed to keep us all alive
Might just be rubbings on rock, ink on silky dross.
Honestly, perhaps whatever hope I’ve been gleaning
Is what my neighbor tossed out when separating the hay.
Hay is quite simple, and that’s why only cattle are delighted
To eat it. But what matters that they’re bovine? What is their meaning?
Sometimes when I look the walkers are like marbles, mindlessly rolling.
But today I saw something different, something I could never draw.
As the red blinked from my eyes to the headlights to the intersection,
It was a smooth red, like what butchers weave,
Pulling strings and knitting out steaks.
Beams paraded across the street, in between Cleveland and Saint
And a school, and there I saw
A little girl, with interlaced golden sinews
Tamed and charmed like baby snakes.
As her gait made little connection
Between concrete and her shoes,
She dragged behind her, across pink paint
A red scooter. The light changes. I leave.
What else could she drag behind her?
In spring, it is that red piece of metal.
In summer, it may be a boy, or any romance.
But come fall, she’ll have trouble pulling along
Anything. Everything will have gone concave,
Like a rusted spoon in a faded stead.
At least by winter she’ll do no hauling,
If things remained how they were,
She’ll be the frail scooter, maybe dead
As destiny and reapers take her to dance.
For far too many things are far too strong,
And Death has no constituents to save,
No matter how hard they push and pedal.
Even Free Will has a higher calling.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Poem About the Son with Knot a Hole Lot of Homophones

So in the spirit of nostalgia, I'm going to post another super super old poem. This is the first (decent) poem I probably ever wrote on my own accord (IE not for school). I wrote this back in the summer of 2006. Because everyone loves a fourteen-year old Cali.

Enjoy!

~CD

To bawl over a ball,
As we haul it down the hall,
We wholly call it holy,
But lo! They call it lowly.
For twelve hours it is ours,
Till a flower subsides to flour.
Till we four just venture fore,
And our sores, oh how they soar!
We see it fall to Sea,
And the light flees like a flea.
And behind the tee of tea,
What can it be? A golden bee!
We say, “hi” as it floats high,
And by and by, a good “Good-bye.”

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

DOUBLE POST!!!

Hey everyone! So in honor of my birthday, I decided to do a double post. The first poem I wrote today, recounting my very first memory. The second poem is a poem that I wrote in Spanish back in the fall of 2007, and probably my favorite poem of my mine ever. I hope you enjoy both of them!!!

~CD



First Memory

Verdant shuffle, fresh from sleep.
Day unplanned save planned caprice,
Free from obligations to keep,
Time obliging only to creep,
Not too old for inner peace,
Every quandary tends to cease
At inception. None are deep

I round the corner, put my fist
On a wall of mirrors, every shade
Reflected as to not resist
My acknowledging them in list.
But soon was a connection made
Between myself, and one thought stayed:
“This is me. I exist.”


Sin Titulo (October 2007)

De primavera hasta enero
Con su viento, cruel y frío
Eres mi alma, franco y sincero;
Eres mi amor, eres mío.

Con otoño y su color atrevido:
Vistas bellas de Dios sencillo,
Amigo querido, para mi has sido.
Eres mi amor, eres mío.

Y en el verano con su calor
Donde podemos ver los tonos del río.
No aventuraré sin tu valor;
Eres mi amor, eres mío.

Pero nunca sabrás cuanto te amo.
Con la mano de Dios yo me guío
Desde esta punta, de mis sueños te llamo:
“Eres mi amor, eres mío.”

De primavera hasta enero
Con su viento, cruel y frío
Eres mi alma, franco y sincero;
Eres mi amor, eres mío.

TRANSLATION:

From spring until January
With its wind, cruel, cold,
You are my soul, frank, sincere,
You are my love, you are mine.

Autumn with its bold colors,
Beautiful sights from a simple god,
A dear friend to me you have been,
You are my love, you are mine.

And in the summer with its heat,
Where we can see the river's tones,
I wouldn't venture without your valor,
You are my love, you are mine.

And you'll never know how much I love you.
With God's hand I guide myself
From this point, from dreams I call you:
"You are my love, you are mine."

From spring until January
With its wind, cruel, cold,
You are my soul, frank and sincere,
You are my love, you are mine.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre