Cosmic Space
Tuesday, 22-Sep-98 22:37:14 

Golden fires moan out tonight
while lonely fireflies flit
in fearful spheres
and pint-size lights
seem to pierce and prick
feelings alive 
waxing in irritation
left me tipsy to an earth
two-stepping age-old silence
which binded me into fandango-flings
under a chinaberry tree.

Queen of the meadow
lay gentle mysticism 
sculpted by a mackerel sky
as cyanine blue eyes crooned 
the tainted lullaby
and sleep won over
and settled in a way
the precarious music stabbed
a secpar of my glassy sea.

Author - Sarah Picklesimer Wilson
Copyright © 1998


Harlequin Hill
Wednesday, 23-Sep-98 21:25:53 

She was the mountain with heart aflame. 
A forest green that cradled momentary lives 
with majestical peaks and short-lived looks, 
feckless souls tried to claim her, a feral land. 

Coral skies tamed fire opal stepstones 
as transitory sickles cut her passion away. 
A mountain in all her grace 
let mortal man have his way. 

Human spirits laughed without prominence 
as hills resounded; rising they called her bluff. 
Transients that knew nothing of the fire inside, 
but before long, this peak would open eyes. 

Ephemeral esprits tried to rename her after them, 
and built domiciles on her headstones. 
And when they dubbed themselves masters 
she made them bow to her. 

Drumbeats inside turned to a rumbling roar, 
and bloodstone quakes gyrated powerful. 
The masters stood pale and quiet, a setback 
this harlequin opal dogstoned with tombstones. 

Brilliant the plasma in her veins ruled kunzite sparks 
and masters she referred to as dripstones 
pled a bargain with her, but she was the mountain, relentless, 
And conquered mere mortals with marks the breeze had blown. 

Stalactite secret in her bed whispered as lodestones marbled 
they were not the first and certainly would'nt be the last 
to build domiciles and try to claim and rename her 
for mounds forest green kept veils to blast cat eye’s to the unknown. 

Only, elevated were their thoughts mere mortals were masters. 
She was the mountain with heart aflame. 
A mountain in all her grace 
would never again let mortal man have his way. 

Author - Sarah Picklesimer Wilson
Copyright © 1998


Still Life
Wednesday, 30-Sep-98 13:54:08 

October’s back, and all the earth turns out with rapture.
Solferino crests bow in birth
as ocher leaves my mind to capture
cornflower skies that laugh with mirth. 

Myriads of October have come and gone 
as scenes born from the hill’s womb
trip over silence from a noisy world withdrawn,
and rivaling colors against bold grasses bloom. 

Few eyes embrace short-lived moments sheen,
and gaze past Fall’s golden-spun cobweb of dreams.
Surely, da Vinci’s sight suckled fields fading verdant green
while nature allures leave’s dances to turn with grins and beams.

This painter must have realized sometimes life can be so futile,
and greenness portrays the days gone by leftover colors of desire. 
Hopes once empassioned remind me October’s back, colorfully brutal,
and chores remain even as the Indian hemp nods at fields on fire. 

Slowly, turning away still life remains a wondrous matting,
Persian red intricately woven with flowered designs
becomes October, as each year turns patting 
damask stalks patterns - no places for doubt lines.

Sometimes, golden-spun at length and upon completion
older eyes remain 
wide-open to bright life; a venetian
opening multicolor picturesque and not so plain.

Author - Sarah Picklesimer Wilson
Copyright © 1998


Blooming
Thursday, 24-Sep-98 19:27:15

Majolica earths hold burnt crimson lakes of mums, 
and shriveled heads drop Indian red barn colors 
as my son leaves in the wrong direction and still comes 
across a knot held deep within my trunk, cold muller. 

Clumsy my world recovers a sense of balance that spoors hums 
frostbiten by risen smoke tree’s glow in early morn left dimmer, 
and madder orange whisps rise up against people duller. 
Even as lost smells eat faded blooms, and songs long past shimmer 
sanguine cheeks that smile to dance with everyone, fall now multicolor. 

My son needles with frozen lawns left blunt to dance alone, 
and memories saw-toothed dismiss his ice-age ways that caw 
as cold bands pigeon track footprints across feelings unknown 
growing into a nimbus that protects its own; the silent unwritten law. 

Yes, swan-necked eyes dance with everyone that beats their drums, 
and my snowbird son walks the plank of loneliness only to follow me. 
Melting steps nod as my son leaves in the right direction and comes 
when icy clouds thaw and pigeons caw and he dances under a smoke 
tree. 

Cacaphony spreads harmony against madder orange skies 
quieting this moment as roses silently climb rare shadows of dawn, 
and new songs falter across a knot held deep within my trunk and sighs. 
My snowbird son now unfrozen is blooming, and I whisper, “Carry on.” 

Author - Sarah Picklesimer Wilson
Copyright © 1998