Character Sketches – No Talent For Certainty

Card-Builder

When I was sentient, I knew a man
Whose hobby was to build things out of cards:
At least I think. For my attention span
Is very short, and doubtful in regards
To any but the widest boulevards
That truth or lone veracity might take
And subject to drive off, without a brake

At any rate: the guy. His steady hand
Was such that I admired, in the way
He could produce, from what his mind had planned,
Facsimiles of Paris or Marseilles,
Combining games of chance and macrame.
A balancing, precarious and wise
Of miracles set up before our eyes.

And What Am I But Hope?

A shadow in the city streets

A cipher of the darkened ways

A tree alone up on a hill

A festival of Shakespeare’s plays

A marvel I can’t understand

A question there’s no answer to

“And what am I but hope?” she asks

This nova, bright, unnoticed

Hitherto

Some hearts sing
If they might hear
The music;
Others sing and dance
From a music that’s all their own

P.J. —

Cute in quotes and pure at leisure,
Swirling mist and public treasure,
Sybelline but full of fancy,
Living love, and necromancy –

Sharing hopes and hiding dolor,
Few may know, but those extol her,
Spreading humor over bruises,
Thoughtful whimsy in her chooses –

Separated by intention,
Need, the sister of invention,
Going where the fates may lead her,
Architect of those who need her –

Never slow but seldom hurried,
Always caring, never worried,
Friends, and always, to the friendless,
Actions random, odd, and trendless –

Cute in quotes and pure in humor,
Swirling mist of truth and rumor,
Sybelline in reticence,
Artistry in every sense.

the changing face

she draws because

the world is not

what it should be

Spent

A character sketch.

She has gradually given bits of herself away — to her children, her friends, and now her grandchildren, each receiving portions of a beauty she had little time to enjoy when she was younger.

Beauty, of course, is made of broken things: days and hours, broken by fatigue; hearts and dreams, broken by the whims of fate and ill-kept promises — but what she spends is never truly spent.

Astrogony

Astrogony she’s studied long:
The origins of worlds and stars —
The heavens greet her with a song
In timeless mystic reservoirs

A dance among celestial climes,
The peace that comes at end of times,
She climbs to heaven on a string,
A girl in love with everything

(“Astrogony” (as·trog·o·ny) – the theory of the origin of stars. – Owen)

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