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Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Shades and Snow

Colors have no need for praise,
They seldom hold to subtlety.
They cannot hold eternity.
A suited tenure could be glaze.
Upon a surface they gently graze.

The thicket hollow with its ash,
A quiet hue of restful art,
So that trees can’t be told apart,
The darkness does to hide a gash,
Enchanting with its somber flash.

All things romantic tend to be black,
Best camouflage for small mistakes,
Ignoring what existence makes.
It also hides what good they lack,
Not knowing when the light comes back.

The trees are shadows for the snow,
Silhouettes who outlast their theme,
Dark lines that withstand a dream.
As limbs are covered with silky glow,
Their shaking sleeps. The night is slow.



Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

PS: I took the picture too [:

Two-Toned Sunset

Hello everyone! So this weekend I was very busy with the holidays and was too busy (read: too lazy) to write a poem this week. So here is a poem I wrote a while back when I woke up from a nap in my dorm and watched the mid November sunset. I haven't written much about sunsets, so I found this poem in particular rather interesting.

Enjoy!

-CD

Two-toned Sunset

The sky exhales a sleepy tan,
As the sun by now has grown wan.
I am but a witness few,
To what a fall sunset can do.
It lingers on the tops of trees,
Like blue cotton, like blue seas.

Like an isle started anew,
Half is sandy, and half is blue,
The atmosphere a salty breeze,
Inceptive like a giver’s knees.
Far before a “will” or “can,”
Far before just any man.

A new world forming, my eye sees,
Just as light withdraws and flees.
The ocean darkens, the colors span,
Until the water does its plan.
This world’s colors are just two:
Black like the trees, blue like you.

Unpublished Material, ©2010 by Cali Digre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.

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

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