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.

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Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Spring

Slanted sunlight’s stretched shadow
Chips away white layers. Pines
Don’t forget the fall ago.
Forest trees boast thicker spines.
Brown remains, but yet in slow
Reaches come the vernal vines.
Grow, little optimists, grow.

I can’t speak for everything,
Too much left for certainty.
Tomorrow’s presence may bring
Beaten frost caked on a tree,
Or a sapling’s single wing.
But that is enough for me:
Hope is all I need for spring.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre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

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

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