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The Young Glory II
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Stanley Gemmell
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Jul 16, 2008 17:01 PDT
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The Young Glory Second Canto
Arrow, the push through verdant green
Slowed the frenzy and first swirl
Now become horizon
Unbroken line, yet another spectrum
Though this one's much refined.
The muscles are cooled, their toil monotous
Alternating flexes and rest, seeking forest verge.
More careful now, brushing creepers past the eyes
Organizing the mind into continuous consequence
The light diffuse and breathing life into turf
Her saddening eyes reflecting what it means to live.
Still, her proud breast heaves
Softly net-veined with remembered kisses
She smolders scans the skies
Notes avian patterns describing various
Locations for abundant grains
And compares these to memorized glyphs
Of magical resource.
Face grown more lean with the weather
Unconsciously drawn more closely about
Her seemingly fragile shoulders:
Tall the muse of the sibilant whisper
Horse hoof dressed with coiled snake.
Melodious gratifier, huntress of sundials,
Glorious regime of awakening color.
She carries orchids twined about her fragrant arms
Whose vivid reds and orange crissed with wavy prawn
Colored veins are like her thoughts
Precariously recovered from strange brinks.
Refocused, her prat rubbed in rhythm by her steed
Continuously blinking her eyes away from haze
Precognition forces attendance upon the prairie
Which she will cross and then the mountains
Half asleep and half electric until she touches versant
And the long climb begin.
She is cooling. Lava turning to obsidian
Purpose evened edge to words
Plans shaving splinters
Plane to edge of wood
Organized rows
Necessary to feed her people
Young beak regorging younger
Until the proud capillaries of her earth again expand.
Her passing renews the trees and grass
The lakes and rivers and dryads
While her enigma deepens with deeps
And crystals they shall never know
Godlike and self possessed by surviving
Furious trench of ocean's undertow
Toward which someday she will return.
But now mother ocean's salt is hidden behind her eyes.
Betters to drink the bottles she's preserved
Not for feast of red-golden bull, sweet hive honey
And black paint from blood, occasional smile.
Dreams come true she reminds
Patient supercollisions in her sex
Fragrant pink orchid.
So those she meets lower their eyes
Strange radiance her face had known
Circle of the tyrants, survived to reap
The jewel's gleam.
Dreams come true she reminds
Hunter's bloodied face in memory
Of a land of darkness and a sea in fog,
Tall walls glorious bathed city in sacred lights
Behind her coincidences she could command
With a word. While he sleeps, precious infant
In her arms, until again she wakes, another smile.
It is a new day, untamed death stalks the unprotected
Family. She must never allow herself too far away.
Her love has deepened, she concedes
Bathes herself in familiar mists
Reckoning the mountains not impossible to pass
At this time of year, well chosen harvest
Not for her ruts, programmed to consume.
The ourobouros near her hoof protects.
The days and nights enjoyed as orison
Single sheaf in an ocean of wheat
Maginificent, golden divinity.
Her thought trained upon hypocrisy
When her ignorant authorities
Not realizing they fed upon their enemies dead
Think themselves unpoisoned (even as unicorns flock to her).
They wonder why her face is blank upon
The education they offer --one who
Has seen first-hand much more.
She is the fiery arrow of the golden dawn
She is the elf-song of the ancient tribe
Tall, sad and wise with regal posture
Who will never know defeat
Whose silvered laugh is drumbeat
And her slender tread yields secret knowledge
To those listening, threading mountains
She is wild maned mustang and serpent
Wed with harmony, beyond men's laws.
At last her panthers at her feet
Crossed distances unimaginable
She shall dream for dreams come true
She thinks as she steepens her tea
Far from battles and successions.
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STANLEY GEMMELL
6/18/08
Temple2 http://www.angelfire.com/il/surlsone
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