a breath of fresh air
tickles still-waters
a lone swan's quill
let fall, takes flight
  carpe  diem ―
nigh weightless,
buoyantly skitters
across the water,
laissez faire;
barely dimpling
the shallow peace
on a lake in the wood

a wild feather's
mindless pirouettes
emanate from
the steeping silence
lapping  its
superficial  refection  

the true nature
of wildness,
unspoken freedom,
an untamed
wilder – ness
skims the skinny waters
seeking their own level;
leaving no trace
of  ever being  containable
 
like a breath of fresh air
reinvigorates
unconquerable souls
touching in the
conscious moment ―
a gentle passing breeze
arousing a rogue gust


Jesse Stillwater

01    June   2018

The waves moving in and out like a goddess stroking the sand
The clouds rolling across the sky with ease
The bright sun warming us up for the cold water
The beach is my favorite place
Especially when the red and purple is painted across the sky like a visual lullaby
When the air turns crisp
When sky fades into darkness
And you can see the refection of stars shining off the gentle water ⭐

Just lately, 'learned,' (what a double entendre that is!), a long time resident and story teller in the empire of creatives who coexist with each other in two dimensions, in deep isolation and simultaneously
in a camaraderie of bonded bones of mutuality, of deep, affectionate
camaraderie admiration for another human, who struggles and desires to please the world by putting worthy words before us to
be felt, not just read in our bosoms, but-placed deeper still, in our very souls.

As is my custom, I oft forget what was written by me, and awoke feeling guilty that I never gave him "His" own poem. So I looked him up on the HP site, and lo and behold!
this tribute came up first...but cease not here, seize this man's living testimonies to the beauty of life and family.  

I wrote this, upon refection, for us, a year ago...
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2024

For Spygrandson:  A Man
Who Looks in the Mirror, & Sees a Potholder of Simple Design…

~ for spygrandson ~
with deep affection


https://hellopoetry.com/spysgrandson/

<>

I am en~titled
by him,
commissioned by his exacting wording
of this poem’s titular naming,
all my previous attempts are failures,
over designed, too artistic
for his modest self~reckoning &
bearded demeanor,
they demanded
denial with
request for
simplicity of an unflowery
reckoning,
a clean shave,
so to speak…


a potholder of simple design,
a modest picture self-drawn,
but his stories are
sorties tall,
he draws you in, worthy draftsman sketches
of words, tales short, poems complete,
tales so sweet, of characters uniquely complete,
and you think,
they cannot be fictional?

and you know they’re no such thing,
ok, maybe,
some taller and a few perhaps dreamed,
the big characters of those
giants of simple men,
whose deeds were not mythical,
ok, almost mythical…

but truth of the humans of the hammered and nailed tough skin,
who built homesteads in the
plain, in mountains, by rivers that snaked,
unmapped,
except on their hearts and feet

the humans,
that made up
the raw & naked bond holders of
these United States:
bonded by character to the soil and
its curvaceous dancing topography
from
& of the center of our country,
but with eyes keen enough
to stretch from
coast to coast,
to see to shining seas

yes, true,
the grandson be he
to/of an almost mythical man,
and so took thus
his penned name,
the grandfather, a real person
of whom stories are yet told,
for no one can be sure
that & of what deeds
this spy did,
on hostile, unfamiliar,
continents,
but the photographic proofs,
I have seen…

His blood thickened by many infusions,
a cross cultural experiment,
happily not unique,
just **** rare

but enough of this;
read him,
let his
tongue take you to
the unfamiliar,
a literary Ansel Adams,
who never saw the plain(s) men & women,
unworthy of being forgotten but
forever being
celebrated

ask him for a potpourri of his short stories
of war, the bonds that men forge in combat,
tween the dead that still live on and
the living,
who have unreadable dead spots within,
they carry their dying glances,
their dying wishes,
and who are honored by him
in his continuing recollections

with walking stick in hand,
even if going outside
to “just” measure the snowy depths,
he leave markers and trailers,
for us to recall how to weep,
from love and pain,
from following generations of his
beautiful blonde
children who are poster models for
the traditional all american imagery,
but thriving within,
with  his
wanderlust, his mixed fiery visions,
and acting, singing out dramas
befitting their inherited
visions…

<>
here
I cease,
here
I weep,
at the impoverished words
scrivened in haste,
through tears of pleasure
intended to give honor
to this man,
who cedes me the pleasure of his existence,
and enhances my world
when he asks me,
unwittingly commissions!
a poem,
about
the human character,
who see himself unusually!
“as a potholder with a simple design”
and as usual,

I fail miserable…
maybe,
nick the outer edge of a bullseye target,
because the important words that he deserves,
I have not yet mentioned:

honor, loving kindness and friend.

perhaps he is correct,
but doesn’t grasp
that without simple men like him
to hold the *** upright and firm,
we all would be lesser or
even lost.


maybe,
now I am one
with
done

For they are shrouded
All the places a face seen,
Now draped over
To hide that face,
It wants my
Reflection,
Image,
Darkness
Surrounds it, hands held out,
Wanting the light,
To escape the darkness
Refection on a darkened day,
Like a black pool,
Wanting to drown my soul within,
"I cover the mirrors"
Windows boarded
Never to
Reflect
Light
Features
Not wanting to be seen
For in that reflective pool
It wants to drown me
Swallow my soul, suffocate me *within..

Her father always thought the best,
but a secret lied behind her perfect façade.
Needle,
thread,
puncture
wounds in-between toes to hide the deeds
that were done. she was delirious in actions
as in the woods she wondered
trails
illusions
thoughts
not of a lucid mind was opened up.
Her father thinking the worst searched
in vain for her beauty. But a castle unknown
came into view, as he wondered in thinking
she had sought shelter in the beleaguered place
"Beauty,
He spoke but not a noise was uttered, nor a breath
could be heard. He lingered in views of stately rooms,
how had this place never been seen.
Truth of thought has a funny way of seeking those
who unwittingly pursue its need. As in to a bleak
and dark room he stood, he lit the light with flame
in hand. A crunch underfoot echoed through out,
cloth,
bone,
skulls
littered the expanse of this room. Gnawing marks
of teeth clenched deep, but others yet
to decay. Like rag dolls used as some form
of twisted play things, fear etched in there
features as death granted them a moment of
relief from what used them as a novelty before
that final laceration ended there breath.
Digust,
Horror,
Fear
as he yearned to leave such a place of
lingering death. When appeared young beauty
Worse for wear, father what are you doing in such
a place? I looked for you as it's been two days.
But then without forewarning its cold
hands clasped around her fathers throat.
Heed my warning as death waits for your father,
for things he wondered upon must never be spoke.
Beauty stepped back, her hand grasping the handle
But it was already sealed, the mirror on the wall did
utter,
proclaim,
announce
that the door was not opening as the key
was but a refection of self. With that she threw her shoe,
Its heal shattered the reflective aura and it bleed reflection
upon the surrounding area. With but an action the fathers
neck was but a twig snapped in haste.
His cry was pitiful and last words expelled "Why,
Beauty ran through the garden roses cutting her
with there thorns, her legs weeping she became faint.
"Awaken,
"arouse,
stimulate
oneself before my patience carves seconds in your
subtle flesh. Startled and not in denial of
What was craved, but nothing could coax her
from this debilitating feeling.
She arose, shivering, sweating, it took this
as unbridled fear. But beauty feared no one
she had done, seen things to coax a next high.

"Do you not morn the falling of your father girl,

"He was nearly of his time,
"We all kiss the thorns the rose never stays fresh long,  

A strange look happened upon his sunken eyes,
You are not like any other I have guested here
at my beckoning before. Due to your fathers sight,
you are a guest of no leaving, a bed is made,
wearing's of your taste are in the wardrobe.

Whispers clung to the walls as face ebbed upon
her hearing dinner is served madam,

"What the hell are you,
"Were those within the walls,
"Hurry up miss he doesn't like waiting,

Upon the long table did vast meals endorse,
eat up, have your fill.
With appetite in her eyes she lusted after such
morsels never had such graced her homeward plate.

"Why do you linger in this place,

"I'm cursed with in these walls, gardens
once I permitted my self importance and
walked beyond the chimes of my gates arch
and now my features  are what your eyes linger on,

Silence decorated the room after that, as neither
did ask any unwarranted words expelling out,
His eyes lingered on here beauty, could she be that
which could undo this curse of vanities misgivings.  

Time passed her sweats had past her cramps
that were like a thousand knifes within her
veins calmed and she made the most of this place.
Walks upon freshly cut hedges, these little
Fixtures of horror jagged glasses that
would slit a wrist with a wrongful gesture now
seemed harmless enough.

But as though opposites did attract and
yearning for company other than self.
She took walks upon the gardens,
In disrepair was one such place and what
seemed like roses was something else.

"What are you doing here,

As her breath hassened, and thoughts consumed
of what could be. But clean she had been for
going on months and days.
But the earge grew as night turned to morning,
she loved him but was this enogh for
the kiss of this old friend was once so sweet.

He knew in his heart he had changed no longer feeding
on the flesh of mortal men, he had mirrored his
thoughts of loves bloom on his heart.
But could one love someone this hideous in features
only this moment would tell.

"Beauty, I have something to mention,

But the house was silent the features on the walls
ascended through out to find the beauty that
meant so much to all that were apart of this house.

Not a single breath was found,
neither by shadow or mouse. Had she left?
No why now, her heart was entwined
with his but he could not feel her essence
no beat was echoing out.

"My beauty, my love,

Moments past as a scent was picked up,
But it was not of life but of decay.
He found her with the needle cracked on the floor,
Her features of
bliss,
horror,
death
was her lover now, and it taken her away.
He saw a note scrunched in her hand,
he read it out in thoughts he was lost,

"My darling beast,

"I have noted your thoughts towards me,
and I lingered on them as I must.
But you are a beast and only for life
did I do as I must.
I was dead inside when you were upon me,
my yearning or horror I hide in lust.
I could not escape you, eye were upon
me even in sleep I was never alone such mistrust.
So now I leave this place a free woman.
not in love, not in fear, in life I was a prisoner
but in death I am a free bird no longer an empty husk,*


He reeled in disbelief at what her words spelt out,
Was he truly that horrifying even to touch.
he held her in his arms, carried her to the gate,
and looked into the distance seeing the sun setting
He raised a hand a cleft her heart out.

"You took this from me world, but I take it back,

He threw her to the dogs that waited eagerly
for flesh, they had not fed on this delicacy
for so long, While she was here no one was to touch.
In heartache he walked to the arch and carried on straight.
His figure was contorted and with one final out spelling
of grief he was consumed in embers then gone to ash.

All who had fallen from grace when he was made
beast returned to normal form. But happiness
was a short miracle , for all were of sin for what
had taken place, behind walls and doors as
all were consumed and the palace of a king
now burnt like the sun set. Only gardens and
ashes were a testament of what was. But love was
never a happy ending when a persons true features
were surfaced, how can you see past that to true love.