Here's a new poem I wrote. The tense shift in the poem is intentional, so please don't harangue me for it. Even if you do, though, I think I'll be pleased you bothered to read a poem of this length in the first place. It's kind of my "spring" poem, and I tried to deliver a bit of what goes on for me during this time of year. Enjoy.
The summer blasts, now springs the spray,
And winter’s wickedness outclashed
Is violently from puddles splashed
By busy boots that, gray on gray,
March in the gravel, throw away
The seasons who, themselves abashed
Batter the roofs, and windows knock,
And shutters shake as the winds walk.
Within their walls, the mighty hosts
Of these high structures stalk the shelves
Smooth out the leaves, and fit themselves
With artifice. Like native ghosts,
Unspotted, odes and idylls coast
Into my frame of thought. I delve,
Blindfolded, as they start to talk,
And through them, with my fingers, walk.
Strange, unfamiliar paths I take:
A word like “green” could seem to me
So cropped in possibility
By circumstance. Of such I make
And rearrange my mind, to shake
The lamps of architecture free,
And though they fall, they hit a block
Of steel, and then away they walk.
I would cry out, if I could know
The tongue they feign. I understand
Too basically, and my command
Cannot resolve the blooms that blow,
The hues that on their petals glow,
The shades that coat them, or the hands
That grafted them to a sole stock,
While all about, the muses walked,
And whistled him a fairy tune,
And stirred his sensibility,
And set his composition free
With measures and with meters strewn,
One foot before the next, immune
To misalignment—so I see
A species, wrists and ankles locked
Through the dry halls of memory walks.
An apparition of disease:
I see faint hints of pleasure, there,
His crude and ragged facial hair
Falls through his shackles to his knees—
But pleasure it must be! He sees
Some wise intention in my stare?
We stood still, as the envious clocks
Their same dull round were set to walk.
For such they did—the evening dipped,
The building’s patrons stepped around
The spot I stood on, till the sound
Of emptiness into me slipped—
My colleague sauntered to his crypt,
As I did. Busts of old renown
Bowed to me, and the seas of chalk
Settled, as through the doors I walked.