More of Moira's (©) Poetry!

True is the heart in its first virgin dreaming
Sweet is the song that comes from the thrush
Bright is the moon in its faraway gleaming
White is the stardust that angel maids brush


"Unseen" by Britt Martin

Joysong- 2/13/02
All the blood within my veins,
Every nerve that can feel pain,
Every bone, like cold ice, aches
With joy and every tendon wakes.

My lungs expand with joy breathed in,
My heart expands, and beating, sends
The blood that sings down every limb
And thrums with joy I can’t hold in.

If I could sing the joy I feel
The sound would grace the body, heal
Each revealed and hidden pain,
And healing, bring a wound again.

If I could dance, my feet would fly
Like hawk’s high wings in azure sky,
My fingers spread, my hair blown straight
By wind’s sweet breath and heaven’s weight.



Elegy- 2/14/02
To those that see this stone: Don’t mourn,
Nor think on bones beneath the sod,
But rather, see the spirit borne
On high to praise her Lord and God.



Skeleton Leaves- 2/14/02
I watch my feet as on they walk,
I watch the grass go flitting by.
I see the blades of amber grass
Waving in the winds that sigh.

I see the object of their gloom
Before my toes. The earth then grieves
To see these things that I pick up-
The summer’s death in skeleton leaves.



Phrases- 2/20/02
The branches of trees in dance cavorting
The leaves of trees in whispers consorting.

Such joyful things and sweet are these,
Such secret things, such wise old trees!


"Night Street" by John Pitre

Trenchcoat 2/25/02
She’s kicking cans and tiny stones
With feet so cold, numb to the bone.
She’s wrapped in a black trenchcoat
Beneath the street lamp’s wicked gloat.
Chill winds blow her hair in her face,
She ignores and keeps her pace.
With no future and no past
She’s caught in time and will not last.



Featherbrain 3/1/02
Every thought flies from my mind
Like a bird escaping a cage.
It must be a mourning dove,
For it sings no happy songs.
If it shows itself
Its wings will be clipped
And prevent it from further flight.
It remains hidden
To protect itself,
Yet finds no joy in this:
For its only purpose
Is to be inspiration for others.
Hiding,
It defeats its own purpose,
And so,
Wastes away
To fragments that only show themselves
In dreams.



Clockstoppers 3/5/02
She raises a hand,
And time stops.
The second hand is silent,
No breath is heard.
The birds freeze in midair,
The wind holds a branch
In perpetual imbalance.
No sound,
No movement,
But her.
And then,
She gets her work done.



Each Edge’s End 3/12/02
Each edge’s end
cuts.


By Claire Salvatori

Arbor Sleep 3/22/02
She had a friend whose veins ran green,
Who stretched his arms into the sky.
She leaned against his rough, hard skin
And sat down with a sigh.

“I wish that you were human, friend.”
She wiped a tear away.
“Your branches will not hold me close
As arms of soft flesh may.

“You see, I feel I’m all alone
With none to hear me cry,
‘Cept you, and your arms are only made
To reach into the sky.

“You never leave me when I sob,
You always greet me here,
You always listen close to me
And shed a sticky tear.

“Dear heart, I wish a man you’d be
To speak in solemn tongue,
But reticent to talk are you
To one so very young.”

She signed again, and closed her eyes
And leaned her head far back
To rest upon his wooden trunk
And sleep in dreaming black.

And as she slept and dreamt of spring,
The tree, it shrank in size,
Til it became a man of flesh
In a stranger’s guise.

His friend awoke to find a space
Where once had stood her tree,
And before her, standing straight,
A man she scarce could see.

The darkness hid his handsome face
And a dark green cloak his shape,
Yet he held out a warm, brown hand,
From forth his thick, rough cape.

“I’ve come, my friend, as you asked me,
I’ve come to hold you tight.”
And she took his hand of flesh and blood
And smiled in the night.

He sat down on the very place
His roots had held for years,
And she leaned back and slept while in
His arms, devoid of tears.

But when the cock called up the morn
And sweet sun raised her head,
The man was gone, the tree stood tall,
And the girl lay cold and dead.



Fifth Period 9/5/02
Stomach-rumbling class;
Half worksheet, half talk;
Clock-watching, bell-waiting,
Meal-wanting students--
What did we learn?



Transient Season 9/5/02
warmth is there, and breeze
And green, but ice is in
thos leaves that want to burst
into frost and releast me
From the green gates into the wilds
of autumn.



Third Period 9/9/02
red on white on gray on the person in front o fme
Nape-of-neck-staring out of boredom of exponents and fractions
Chalk clicking on brown slate that looks like a chocolate Neco
And my shoulders hurt.


"Moonlight" by Alphonse Osbert

Untitled 9/10/02
I rise upon wings of night-breeze
And over the fencerows I fly,
Toward the mountain, round its blinking tower
And o'er its trees of darkness,
Owls' questions in my ears,
As I ask myself.



Shrine 9/10/02
Amongst the columns of the dead
The colliseum servants move
Brushing stones; marble trees
Standing, branchless
As silent witnesses
To life.



Fish 9/16/02
I am brim-full of infinity,
LIke a fish swimming in endless waters,
Sharing its being with that of the liquid life surrounding it.
I am overflowing with being
My life shining like the lighthouse beam
From every pore.
I am made of water,
Of life and creativity.
To be a fish and swim eternally in these waters!
Smelling of salt-wind and sea-spray,
Moving through waves of azure happiness,
To drown with joy in the water of life!


"Le Passeu d'Eau" by Jan Toorop

Untitled 9/18/02
In each word,
A library of blood and fire,
Of sweet dew-draped shadows
Of life and breath.
In each poem,
A universe of meaning.



Give Me Ink 9/18/02
I rub my fingerprints
Over the ridges of my nails.
My hands are cold and fidgetting--
I have no pen in them!
I mold ink like clay
Into sculptures of thought and mood.
The letter-shapes symbolize
Sounds ymbolize
Thoughts of
Images.
But until I own more ink,
I rub my fingernails
With cold thumbs.



Out Mrs. Bazner's Window 9/18/02
The courtyard is a hole,
Joseph's cistern in the desert.
Could I walk on the roofs,
I would dive into it
Like the high school swimming pool.
I would paddle through its thick air
And dance on its tremblin leaves,
And my knees might never touch the mud.
But do I wish it?



Studio's Center 9/18/02
On my toes
Extended legs and body
Arms a finial over my head,
A vertical line,
A pillar.
I balance
For a mere second
In a perfect sousou.



Poem to the Dancer 9/18/02
You are your art.
You are dignified,
Head held high like the swan's.
Percision is a delight!
To train yourself to enter the intensity
Involved in each framed, limitless
Movement--
It is peace,
It is élan.
When you dance,
You feel no one can speak it,
And no one can.
So these words just remind you
To enjoy endlessly.


"Dream" by Juan Brull

Real Power 9/19/02
The power of a tongue, 
Like a hell-hot sword-- 
Without bones but breaking them 
Like a snake or a poniard, 
Stronger than the strongest man on earth. 
Like an army of darkness,
Released from the portcullis of the lips
To exact vengeance and violence
On an unsuspecting populace.
Do you covet power? 
Then sharpen your tongue! 




Untitled 9/19/02
My name is Janus:
Here I stand i' the door,
Framed in light.
Come ye in or stand ye there?