Christina Kay TowerShe is a editor for The Washington Square Review | |
As you enter the ante chamber that leads to the Jasmine gardens, sanctuary
of the lyrical verse, you are embraced by the scents of jasmine mingled
with clove and other exotic spices. The low pulsing sound of some gothic-
jungle rhythm throbs in the background. The dancing shadows from dozens
of candles play across the walls. One wall is filled with books of every
kind. The other walls are hung with Monet's "Nympheas Seas." O'Keefe's "Red Poppy," and Michelangelo's "Creation." The nooks and niches between the books, are filled with dozens of small art works. Carvings, of dragons, unicorns, angels, gemstones, and other small treasures. There is a black leather sofa and chair to recline in and read, or for any other pleasures you may wish. Glass doors open into the Midnight Jasmine Garden, here the jasmine are always in bloom. Their blossoms are the most luscious at night. To the left is a large stone bath. Water pours out of the hands of Venus, on one end from the cupped palms of David, on the other. The garden is filled with Greek statues, gods and goddesses, their cavorting captured in smooth milky marble. In the middle of the garden is a huge weeping willow. Under it's silky branches, which brush the lush grass, you'll often find CK~Mistress Vixxen~Keeper of the garden. Here she often sits, quietly reading and writing verse, waiting for more intriguing company... | |
The Poet's Jasminum officinaleI need to be you, remembering I am of the Mediterranean family, gift from the azure-eyed goddess, sprung forth, a Pallas. Not to welcome guests on Cowper's spicy shores, nothing so consequential, just love. He will take me in the night, harvest, as were you, my milky star; darkness offering the most intense aromas, plumbed from the silk of day-hesitant petals. He longs for you, your scent, I am indifferent, just another exotic, but could be content, as the breath of angels. CK Tower Insight on poppies and nonsense "So that's what Hell is. I'd never have believed it..." -Jean-Paul Sartre You sit in your swivel chair let your tie slip through fingers as you turn and try to place me inside your vision of the Collective Unconscious. You offer a new view of Creation but what will I do with more of this? Certainly Michelangelo had grander intentions within his Vatican fresco; that space between fingers like the gaps between synapses, almost touching. And yes I see, not a great cloak about Him, but a brain the gift from Creator to child. But you are no artist, so why recreate me with your insight? And what of Sartre? I know his queasiness, often go to bed with it even court it some days. I find no greatness in the discovery of responsibility. That kind of thinking is gray dysphoria. I do not have to read his plots for that. I am acquainted with the color. It is the backdrop for most of my scenes. In this room, this parallel pause here outside reality's pressing gaze the nausea is patient. So I wonder. Is it only my talent for embracing delusion or do you have these feelings too? I thought I saw them bloom once like red poppies in the light of my own narcotic spirit. But you were compelled by an appropriate drought and they withered in the shade of your consciousness to boundaries. What is your insight to me, when dreams are realized as nonsense? CK Tower |
Mistress Vixxen I'm 26 dob 7/11/70 that's right a Cancerian moon child : ) I was born in Santa Barbara CA. I've lived in Michigan since I was one. I'm currently a student at LCC and hope to earn a Masters in Literature. I love horses, used to breed, raise, train and show Arabians. I love to read and collect books. My favorite authors are Sexton, Byron, Anne Rice, Piers Anthony, McCaffery, Tracy Hickman and Margaret Weis. I've had work published in Afterthoughts, Recursive Angel, The Washinton Square Review, Eclectica, The SOAPS and Horse Play.
Poets are like springs,
Words uncoil from deep
Enlightened,
Ushers of Renaissance
|
Tony FentonMy name is Tony Fenton, I live in Dorridge which is just to the South East of Birmingham in England. For all of you culture vultures Stratford is only a few miles to the South from me! I am 36 dob 3/17/60 (a Pisces dreamer!), married with 3 children, 2 cats and a new puppy. I did a degree in Computer Studies and have been working in computing since graduating from university. I have been writing off and on for many years, but only recently having a serious go at writing short stories for magazines and a full length novel called Faultlines. So far I have one article published in a magazine - about one of our cats. My favorite authors are : Steinbeck, Hemingway, McCullers, Irving..... plus many others. |
SIERRA LOVE
Don't fade away, always stay In my eyes - desert mirage, silvery haze In my mind, your eyes so kind Your touch so soft, your kisses that amaze Your beauty I'll remember always My Western dream, ocean love. Don't fade away, always stay In my heart - Pacific blue, Sierra love In my dreams, or so it seems The one I am chasing, laughing the breeze Of air-conditioned lies, so hard to please My Pacific blue, Sierra love. AJF September 1996 |
TIME SWEEPS THE FLOORNight rain trickles down the window As I sit and stare into the dark Looking for hope Finding nothing Fleeting memories Brush at my mind Regrets are too late now. Only Time is left But Time sweeps the floor. by Tony Fenton
|
An extract from Faultlines
Gradually the road climbed out of the groves and away from the unassuming scenery to the higher ground where suddenly the unsurpassed beauty of the land broke out to engulf him. It was like a starburst of crystal pure light from which everything in sight was composed, ethereal to the point of making you cry from the sheer improbability of such a place existing. The further into the interior Jason drove, the more the place had an effect upon him. Each passing mile added both awe and wonder and subtracted something from himself. His standing as a person was diminished as the mountains soared above him, dwarfing all ego and self-esteem. The craziness of his trek faded, finding Cassie started to lose out to the scenery. Halfway along the Tioga Pass Road was Tenaya Lake, the water a perfect mirror to the Yosemite of light, such that there were two skies, if that could ever be. It became hard to tell which way was up, in this country of such beauty he felt as though he had lost his way. It was transitory only in that it constantly changed, nothing was ever lost, merely changed form. He almost drove past her car, parked in a scenic turnout in the softness of Tuolumne Meadows. Backing up, he parked next to her car and wandered down to the river. Cassie was sitting on the riverside, feet dangling in the ice-clear water, staring out blankly across the alpine meadows. Traces of recent tears down each cheek, eyes slightly puffy and red. "You've been crying". The observation just sounded lame and as soon as he had said it he regretted it. Cassie looked up at him, not even surprised that he was here almost as if anything magical could and would happen in this majestic land. "A ranger once said if you only have one day here then go sit down by the river and have a good cry." |
![]() |
Go to: Archive ![]() |
Vittorio-Maria Brandoni This page, last updated: July 7 th 1998 |
Return to the Library![]() |
LinkExchange Member |
Hall | Lounge | My Room | Guest Rooms | Living Room | Kitchen | Rock Garden | My page in Italian |
---|