Sultrys Big Thread

ENJOY!!!! Lucky!!!!!

Be safe and have a fantastic time!

Originally posted by sultryevening
The Swan

The swan lay in a field.

Dying

As she hid her head beneath her soiled wings
she wept.

A lone renting note that echoed across the frosted valley,
through the gate and along the river.

The first snow flake of the year landed gently on her soft back,
and a tear dropped to the hard ground upon which she huddled.

The sun tried in vain to warm her poor soul but her heart grew as cold as the icy river.

From the mists at the edge of the fence stepped a fox.
Walking hunger, he yearned for the swan he had tracked for two days.

Steam rose from his dank fur, as he leaned over the broken bird.
The swan did not move
She waited for him to take her
To ease her pain
yet he could not kill.

His heart felt such pity for the swan.
She was love

He could not destroy.
The swan

_____________
The Swan

The swan lay in a field.

Dying

As she hid her head beneath her soiled wings
she wept.

A lone renting note that echoed across the frosted valley,
through the gate and along the river.

The first snow flake of the year landed gently on her soft back,
and a tear dropped to the hard ground upon which she huddled.

The sun tried in vain to warm her poor soul but her heart grew as cold as the icy river.

From the mists at the edge of the fence stepped a fox.
Walking hunger, he yearned for the swan he had tracked for two days.

Steam rose from his dank fur, as he leaned over the broken bird.
The swan did not move
She waited for him to take her
To ease her pain
yet he could not kill.

His heart felt such pity for the swan.
She was love

He could not destroy.
The red death turned and crept away into the fog as silently as it had come.

The swan wept once more
her lamentation on the lips of every beast.

Her love was gone
her circle was broken.

No blood was spilt
yet the swan felt empty

a husk.

Silently, and with on eye on the sunset
she lay her head upon the nest
and died.

Such a sad and pretty picture you paint! Beautiful! And the re-vamped version is even more precious!

It's always good to have even just a little light to guide you on your way! May it never grow dim!

AND, it's always good to see the sultry one!

xoxoxo

Good to see you! Thanks for your poem!

sultzer

since I do not have your email.. I will post this for you here... it was originally for all the hutsters (and CranMal will get his as well...) but it is well that it should be on your thread also, as you have inspired me upon many an occasion.

so thank you. and here you go.



-For the Proetic Gone to Peace-

I will be the first on the doorstep with a stick of wheatgrass in my mouth, the mountain dew on one hand and my laptop in the other.
I will have flowers for her and the rest of you in my car now covered in road wear and dragonflies. Their wings may even glisten.
I will bring my words and my wariness and my philosophy and my love and my beckoning dreaming; of the shaman kind.
Aloft, we shall sally forward sucking chloroform and mineral water to cure our insomnia and other social ills, these things that cause our lack of dream and flexibility.
Sighing, gasping cloth and it would seem that our lives go quietly in between as, during our first few tentative days, we eye each other at close distances wondering at these corporeal ghosts that have touched us before we had the chance to count fingers and who now appear to sudden tangibility, living and breathing as colorful as we had once foreseen.
If a parasite does its deeds out of compassion and for love and because of the things they'd seen, well, let it be called poetry then. Let it be called precognition, the foretold, the a priori of infinitum concluded... the means that brings upon us the end, here at the beginning of all things.

The house windows will fly open as released doves.
Witness the glass as it vibrates under the force of freedom, the air that home may breathe after so long in asphyxiation.
To whomever may take the basement and to whomsoever may discover the attic: it matters not to me for I claim the roof as mine. Consider it my helipad from which I intend to soar at a moments notice, though my hovering skills are still very much under instruction. You may visit upon your leisure, upon your pleasure, within your measured mind.
I have noticed that the grass grows shorter as it approaches the road and wonder upon its care as I sip my spice tea.
Every sunset is surprising anymore as time appears to increase its pace day after day: I believe that by the time I pass the earth will then rotate about the sun at an hourly rate.

Over dinner, wine, and a grasp of the minds we may all finally meet, this odd matrix of mixed psyche. And it shall come to pass that all that has been laid on this table board shall become rasa, in fact as clear and cold as ice, as pure as a single sheet of mica. There will be those who mutter their adorations and adulations under their breath while others will stand atop the chair waving merlot, painting the rest of us with their carelessly given heart's mix. The stains are not permanent but they carry heat, scent and sadness... I will not forget them. There may be calls for speeches as many times as there will be calls for silence upon silence to listen to the wisest of the crickets under the stove. Their orchestrations will perhaps serenade our toast and our solitude in togetherness and our quest for the true poet's commune. Perhaps we will learn.

Capote, Kerouac, Lorca, Kinsbury, Plath, Frost, Angelou, Longfellow, the rest of you... with respect: we have arrived. And we appreciate you having set this table before us, for having built this house within which we have the temerity to live, for having planted the seeds that have allowed us to become the shimmering and fragile willows that we are. May we deepen the canyons you have worn into this green earth, the sediments and layers of your epic floods apparent and readable, tactile and osmotic hieroglyphics. May we begin new trails and trials for others to follow long after we have departed, making sure that the silver was properly polished and that the cobwebs of an age have been swept away.

As we ready for departure after this eternal weekend, the blade shall be brought forth and we must all decide the parts of us that must needs be cut away to store in this forever house, the ones that will bring us back, the ones that will keep us kin with ourselves, each other, the ancestral starlight and the future intrinsic. It will be bloodless but not without pain for it is with humility that all things must be left behind. It is with openness and the bared chest that sacred and holy things must be shared. It is with supplication and thanks that all must bow heads and receive each gift as if it were the last we were to ever receive, or the first of all wonders we have perceived. Without such ritual, without such honor, our brand of proetic love would never exist. All poets bleed, it has been said before, and indeed it is up to the rest of us, the participants and the watchers of such internal/external revelations, yes we must have our chalice at the ready to catch what we may from the air before the earth has sucked its last from the lot.

I shall drink this wine of life, the cup salute of forehead, lips, chest, and the ever closing of eyes savoring all of you upon my tongue, running my mouth and my mind. My tears will mingle with the salt and sweet of it. Tipping back, my mind will escape the hatch and seek others with which to become one, at last finding its lost abilities, May having finally arrived.

Our circle of footsteps will become indelible.
Our ink will smear many pages before our books are closed, one by one, and dusted to shelf in the libraries of mankind.
Who will be the last? Who will be our final guardian?
And will the heavens remember us as who we were, these physical creatures... or will they remember us as the living ethereal, pasting our true selves to a piece of pulped and mercuric wood to be glued, pressed and thrown upon the wind from the highest of heights?

The last that may be seen of us will be the grass arising from our language and our words as the page upon which we have continued to breathe breaks down and mingles once again with the earth wherein we birthed and where, whether in flame or in lane, we have retired so many centuries past.

it is through this, and through each other... we shall live unto the end of the earth. Here, at the beginning of all things, and at the end of all our hands.

may the ink never run dry.

love,

seta

ah jamie, I missed ya, ya PUNK

I hope you and your little lady are doing well and happy and as utopian as it can possibly get in a country where they don't season their food.

:D

seriously though, thank YOU and much love to you, sir.


seta

Originally posted by sultryevening
ill have you know my food is always highly seasoned.

in fact last nights Aubergine Pasanda curry seasoning is still repeating on me now!

alkaseltzer is nasty shit.

go for the cool mint. I used to drink that stuff like it was water.

yeah.

so....

on with the day on that note.

and dammit sultzy, pm me your e-addy