On the Butterfly’s Blue Wing 3

Here are the “final 5” – the last of the poems developed from our The Butterfly”s Burden-inspired Twitter poetry party last week.

On the Butterfly’s Blue Wing 3

By @llbarkat, @mdgoodyear, @mxings, @SandraHeskaKing, @PoemsPrayers, @lorrie58, @LoveLifeLitGod, @gyoung9751, @memoriaarts, and @thegypsymama; edited by @gyoung9751.

The Buildings Themselves

The buildings themselves
a river of activity; a bedroom,
if you must, refreshing windows
of truth; the cafe
a tumult of dishes and pans.
A white tablecloth, polished
silver, empty wineglasses,
slender asparagus speared on
fine porcelain plates.
Slice and roast them,
sprinkle slivers on a plate.

Slivered silver, silvered slivers,
empty glances to fill empty
glasses. Silences without
wine are
always more dangerous.
Testosterone is the roast
that warms the plate,
slices silence
like dangerous wine.
I knew where the door
opened, but no more.

Whispers of Grace

Whispers of grace gently
brush against the curtain; the
faraway comes on the edge
of the curtain, pushed by
gentle breezes.
Your faraway comes in
on breezes of blue.
Near comes on the fringe of lace,
swaying by the open window.

I knew the door,
the faraway.
I knew you would come.
I waited at the edge of time
like a white curtain, trembling.
My faraway comes
from faraway, from
away far away until
I return to you.

My hand, quivering,
pulls the curtain aside,
embracing the night-filled air.
The light shines down on my
fingers, wrapping them in a mist
of moon and time and echoes
of what once was.
I hear you say,
I am a blossom in your courtyard.

In the glanced silence
I find silver confessions
dancing like moonlight
across the emeralded
screeds and hills of
faraway, wispy thoughts
and lacy memories of faraway
Let me confess: it is not true
I waited; I waited/for you.

Hidden Confessions

I know where
you hide the almonds,
where you hide confessions.
I know how to discern
the fire in your heart.
Someday, if the willow
stops her weeping,
if time opens the door,
I will bring you back;
I will feed you almonds
from a faraway time.

Summer blows warm,
it confesses our distance
from the sun is not what it was.
I yearned once, for the dark side
of the sun, the dark side of the sun
that burns cold, always burns,
a mute minister, dumb enough
in the darkness, the dark side
of the sun, filled with scarlett
ice cream, frozen. Tomorrow
I fly, running before the sun.

The Call of the Moon

With blue whispers and
lowered lashes, the greater
moon, the blue moon,
calls me back.
I am in a room with
empty glasses, half eaten
almonds and silver, although
I’m not sure
why the silver.

Yearning for the Night

I yearn for the night to extend
for the words, the poets,
for my lover, but the end
did come like almonds
crushed and blown away.
I knew I must be dreaming;
such are the trysts of a maid.
Now for the washing up.
But for what it is and what it was,
swallowed words buried alive,
I will go smiling, remembering
the yearning of the night.

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Glynn Young

Editor and Twitter-Party-Cool-Poem-Weaver at Tweetspeak Poetry

Glynn Young lives in St. Louis where he retired as the team leader for Online Strategy & Communications for a Fortune 500 company. Glynn writes poetry, short stories and fiction, and he loves to bike. He is the author of the Civil War romance Brookhaven, as well as Poetry at Work and the Dancing Priest Series. Find Glynn at Faith, Fiction, Friends.

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