It's 70 degrees today

I'm waiting for office hours at the moment, and decided to write a poem while I waited.

Vernal November

A warm hand protecting a cold one
From the thaw. Calm breath and real water
Dissolve the leaves into soft pillows.
Nestled like a sock under bed sheets:
Forgotten, yet safe.
Converged browns, awoken from decay
To have one look back
And pause,
Take a second last breath.

Red is good for stitching,
For the sunset,
For the grass,
For the asphalt.
The bravery in sleeping.

POEM!

I just proved to myself that I can't be away from poetry for too long... While on the way to Cornell with the skating team I wrote this poem about birch trees by the highway. I like birch trees. I also got back into the swing of rhyming. It's nice to go back to things sometime, though you may see a lot of free verse in the future..


The Last Birch


Protrudes like a bleached bone
Out of emaciated soil,
A semblance of decay, a highlight
Of how November makes one alone.
She shivers at the frosted coil,
She shivers at the frosted night.

Her leaves escaped a week ago. They were right to flee
With the vitality, the grass, the flat green,
The violence of a changing scene,
The forest tracing a skeletal sea.

Where are her companions now? Oh, yes.
They splinter from the ground up, like trauma
Seizing hold of a child. But I digress.
A tree cannot feel drama.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

List Poem Exercise

This was an exercise due in class for today. I wasn't a huge fan of it, but I've been so busy that I decided to post it. We were supposed to use repetition effectively. I decided I liked to write about fall.


The leaves sleeping on the pine branches,
The leaves resting their ardent oranges and reds,
The leaves reaching their fingers to one another,
The leaves tumbling when the wind tickles them.

The breezes meandering through the thicket, like
A creek suspended by needles. The breezes picking up
The fire from the grass, joyfully, to celebrate the end
Of an epoch only captured by green. The breezes
Interlocking, changing course with
The breezes that never caress the ground.

This matted earth, partially wrangled from wear,
This matted earth, nearly soiled from the stale,
This matted earth, completely close to the past seasons.

What was August? Could anyone remember?
What was the heat like? Is the lawn still bleached?
What was of the solstice storm? What architecture was lost?

This deconstruction is natural. Time for us to observe
This deconstruction and acknowledge the skeletons
This deconstruction makes of everything. Forever,
This deconstruction will be prompt, it will be needed.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

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

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.

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