--------------------
|             ☆     |
|                     |
|                     |
--------------------

a
single
star
seen
through
my
window

­wh­o
knew
stars
could
be
held
in
a

box?

their
forms
like
wax
melted
in
white
smears
down
their
vase

star­­s
abandon
them

their
moon
eclipsed

beautiful
still
the
sun
whi­c­h
once
sustained
them
is
now
their
sworn
enemy

and
their
cloyi­ng­
scent
fills
only
the
nostrils
of

the

dead



SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc akam
Catherine Jarvis
(C­) 1/31/2016



I have to throw away the flowers
I received on my birthday

They aren't white lillies
but the sunlight coming through
the window highlights them

~~<○>~~

shadows shed by moonlight
through the plants entwined
creating their own patterns
weaving their designs

blues and purples shimmering
the subtle shades of grey
the lovely dearth of color
unmatched by light of day!

they create a tapestry
of mystery on their looms
the woof and warp of dreamers

the shadows of the moon

~~<○>~~


SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 9/11/2016

Having soared above the surly bonds of earth, shared the heavens with eagles and billowed halls of cloud, having witnessed the glorious-ness of the golden light of a setting sun on craggy mountain peaks and the eternity of great oceans.... and on descending through the patterned, green fields to set my craft down in the velvet tones of pristine evening.... I have lived the life of the Gods....
And want for no more.

[email protected]

They touch
With a featherlight, brush of the fingertips.
Their prompt is a mere insinuation....
And their influence offered
As the slightest whisp of a wafting breeze.
But the impact made
Can be utterly monumental
And a driving impetus
To the receptive, creative soul
On a mission!

[email protected]

A poem of Enkidu’s death and his vision of the underworld

Enkidu lay on a woven mat,
his voice a thread, his soul grown flat.
Once lion-limbed, he now grew cold,
his fingers curling like leaves grown old.

“I dreamed,” he said, “and death drew near,
a house of dust, a hall of fear.
The sky went dark, the wind turned red,
and eagle hands pulled me from bed.

They flew me down to doors of stone,
where no light lived, and none walk alone.
The keeper there, with lion’s head,
stripped off my crown and filled me with dread.

He led me in. The gate swung wide.
I saw pale kings laid side by side.
The priests, the warriors, all the same—
no names, no fire, no memory, no flame.

They ate of clay, they drank stale tears,
their days the length of vanished years.
Their wings were ash, their robes were dust,
their thrones long rusted through with rust.

And I—Enkidu—once wild and free,
will lie beneath this withered tree.
Not for the forest, nor Bull we slew,
but for the pride we never knew.”

He turned to Gilgamesh, eyes gone dim:
“My brother—how the gods judged him.
But still I grieve not for my fate,
but that I leave you desolate.”

Then silence claimed the hero’s breath,
and clay returned to claim its death.
Gilgamesh knelt, his cry unbound,
as stars fell dumbly to the ground.

Oh wondrous days of youth's sweet grace,  
When laughter danced across my face.  
Each simple joy, a treasure rare,  
In whispered winds, mystery was there.  

The world was bright, a canvas wide,  
With beauty found on every side.  
In every leaf and starry night,  
That wonder still lives, to my delight.  

So let me grasp those moments dear,  
For in my soul, they still appear.  
With open arms, I will create,
The wonder things had when I was just eight.