The Ship of Gold

The Ship of Gold

It was a great ship carved from solid gold:
Its masts touched to the skies on uncharted seas;
Venus, goddess of love, her hair streaming, her flesh bare,
Flaunted herself on the prow beneath a blazing sun.

But one night it struck the great reef
In that treacherous ocean where the Siren sang,
And the horrible shipwreck tilted its keel
Into the depths of the abyss, ineluctable coffin.

It was a ship of gold whose diaphanous sides
Revealed treasures which the profane mariners,
Loathing, Hatred, and Neurosis, disputed among themselves.

What remains of it in the brief tempest?
What has become of my heart, a deserted ship?
Alas! It has foundered in the depths of the dream!

Emile Nelligan

The Violin

The Violin

You must use the body - its curves,
its hollows, the spring of the sound, which
brings back what is absent, what has
been and is now gone, fading. Cat-gut,
fret, the busy machinery of longing,
which takes its strength from the
presence of absence, the body's darkness,
the wood carved out, thinned and
made to flex. There is a pain at the
source of it - so easily broken, this tree
without a heart, the sap dried to amber
patina. Only in the sound can you
hear it move, the veins in the blood of
the body that is no more. The bow pulled
along the taut strings, a pitch that
is all but unbearable.

Sheila Black

The Bench

The Bench

Under a Maple tree near the city park entrance,
sits a nondescript, weathered, plain old bench,

Hundreds have passed by and many to rest
Like mothers with toddlers tying up a loose lace,
Kissing scraped knees or wiping a face,

That old bench is a meeting place Tuesdays
for widows Mildred and Grace,
Who chat over lunch that they take turns to make,
discussing TV shows, world events,
pains and aches,

Then there are old Army pals Walter and Ray, who meet on Thursdays,
Checkers they'll play,
while reminiscing about those former glory days

Who would know a simple bench with such a history
of events?

A place where love began or love has ended,
Then again sometimes where hearts are mended,

But to most it will only be
An old bench near the city park entrance

Nancy Ellen Crossland

The Beast

The Beast

Its appetite is voracious,
Its manners less than gracious,
Taking, taking, never giving,
Consuming the lives of the living.

Having no conscience or remorse,
Once loosed it always stays its course,
Destroying all that is in its path,
Never considering the aftermath.

Destruction is its nature, you see,
Though it has no dislike for you or me,
It ever follows its natural bent,
Being impartial in its ravishment.

by Richard Ellis