Wind

I have captured
the sunlight,
put it in a tiny box,
labelled it for storage
with the stars
and beauty
and love.
The candlelight is named,
each flower
has been picked
to recreate its being.
I have seen the ocean,
tightly bound its waves.
Now, I need to ask,
who has caught the wind
blowing through trees?


Poem by Tracie Cleaver, copyright 1981 & 2001.

The Model

drops her robe
drapes herself
with light and shadow
making shapes
from the space around her
body
her contours
are broken down
cubes and cylinders
her torso an inverted cone

as the shifting
of her foot
might disrupt
the careful measuring of her
angles
stillness becomes a performance
for muscles floating on air

movement is crystallized
she is translated into brush strokes
flesh turns to marble.


Poem by Tracie Cleaver, copyright 1989 & 2001.

La-Brea

Black bottomless pool of bubbly tar,
overlaid with multicolored mask
of oil, your mire was once a reservoir
where strange fearsome creatures came to bask
upon your shores in summer's ancient heat,
or idle in the shade of eucalyptus trees,
when, thirsting for your blobs of dark deceit,
they ventured in your simulated sea.
Through lush ferns the cries resounded, unheard
by human ear, as wolf and saber-tooth
commingled chalky bones with prehistoric bird
and sloth to bear sole witness to their truth;
for here those great lost species lived and died—
their brief existence all but nullified.


Poem by Shirley Rod, copyright 1980's & 2001.

Bordered background courtesy of




Contact me
gwnsea@yahoo.com
Gwendolen's Sea