While you are here


While you are dreaming

Of that Cimmerian shade

Drifting ahead, a few years from now

I can do nothing

But hope you won’t stray

And wait to miss you

Should you go

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None better dressed than I


Image result for painting cottage

Such cheerful rags; much my maker made of me

And yet more in fortune gave, until time’s fickle Chanticleer

Called his third of a vernal April’s day, upon the dew still glistening

Or so I contend – no matter the hour, I went with the dawn

Betwixt her red clouds scudding

~

Painting by Thomas Kinkade

A Watcher Only


Forget me, amid the revelry

The incandescent swathes below

Served from my cups gone cold

Crisp in the heat and haze and glow

Neither envy nor reproaches

Pierce the vibrant compass through

And thrice unheard is to forget

All, save how I miss you

~

Elizabeth Cook, 2016.

Length of Stone


They didn’t listen
When I tried to keep them from the stone
It ground along its groove
And at the sounds within
They mistook dread
For wonder flickering in my eye
Shuffling, he came out as promised
Outwardly hale and yet
I smelled the rot on his wrappings
He smiled at them
And I knew that his smile was
A skull strumming threads of flesh
He would turn to me next –
Realizing this, I evaporated
Back under the hangings
Milha said,
He could follow you, you know
But it had been a long two years
Walking behind him
Now, I held the length of my stride
Dearer than unsought miracles
I tied my bundle tightly
And went out into the desert
~
Elizabeth Cook, 2016

Gravekeepers


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Champ and stamp and plough the way

No drifts may bury hallowed graves

Though flakes in doubled flurries fall

And moonlight casts its silent pall

We sweep and leap and claw away

To bare the shallow, stony graves

For one is yours, and yours entire

And one is mine, in flood and fire

And one is the grave of Aristo

Whom all have mourned but none have known

His are the softest falling snows

And his are the winds that cease to blow

But champ and stamp and clear the graves

And sing and croak the cold away

The moon spares naught for Aristo

Nor do the sparkling veils of snow

Elizabeth Cook, 2014

Orison – 4


Continued from

Orison

Orison – 1

Orison – 2

Orison – 3

~

Even without sight I could tell as the house loomed and I was borne within.

I could only act as myself in part, and could be nothing more than what I pretended to be. On this my life rested. My eyes flashed open once inside, and with a cry I let out all the fear that had been building. The man carrying me did not so much as miss a step. The house was great and empty, and I froze in awe at the room he brought me into. It stirred memories too old to recall. Cushions littered the floor around a low mahogany card table. Divans made a half-circle, and a great harp stood behind them.

I wriggled free. I think he let me do so, for there was no other way out of the room, and I scrambled away across the cushions until there was nowhere left to go, and there I sat drooping but wary, exhausted by the effort. Continue reading “Orison – 4”