The Novelist

Princess Purple

Hers is a beauty of eloquent pen,

Trilogies etched with a holy amen;

Fragile and humble, she offers her soul,

Teardrops her parchment, resilience her scroll.

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The Bold and the Beautiful

rudbeckia bud

 

I view you with scorn.

Pitiful, I label. Naive beyond belief.

Do you not feel it in your bones,

this Frost creeping, cadaverous

mongrel, seeking your flesh?

No one who knows what

Saskatchewan winter can accomplish

would proffer innocent bud,

sacrificial lamb to ego’s altar.

Or do you know exactly what you offer?

Scorn spars with Pity,

until a third enters the ring –

Disbelief.

Do you bloom in spite, or to spite?

Death may just be the mother of

all necessary re-invention,

the Holy Grail to this Holocaust.

I see.

I know.

Tears trace my ruptures,

draining immature ideas,

congregating on your petals

where they christen you

Bold.

 

 

In the Breaking Place

rudbeckia bud

 

She raises weary hands high,

knowing that if she aims for

heaven, she just might touch God.

.

Tendons stretch beyond breaking

point, in the places  where pain

collides with grace; she feels buds

.

Tear and in the ripping, birth

laughs at the Fall, defies this

gravitational downward

.

Spiral, dictatorial

dead-weight. Thirsty soul seeks sun

and in the breaking place, blooms.

 

 

 

Her Imperfection

rainypeony.jpg

She let him see what others couldn’t,

opened closets

and emptied drawers

and exposed her viscera.

She fully expected him to flinch,

toss her back

(a fish out of water,

the one who got away)

but he didn’t. Instead,

his tears met hers

and formed a river, a magnificent

fountain, rivulets which thickened

like blood. She revealed her nakedness

and he, finding her soul to

be more than oxygen,

found the pearl of great price

within her imperfection.

Hide

peonyblush.jpg

 

Life taught her well –

hide beneath pretty

packaging, paint sleeves

pink like brittle

.

fingernails to ward

off the curious

and offer a semblance

of heart without

.

engagement. Scars

mean band-aids,

amateurish wrappings

to disguise the terror

.

of being known, the

risk of offering her

self and finding that

she is not enough.

Heart-Strings

trollius.jpg

 

He played her heart

strings, plucked each

one with practised

hand, ode to joy

.

in every note. By

the time her soul

was his, he had changed

his tune, cadence

.

soured by off-colour

harmonies out of

place with love

songs; now her

.

heart-strings sag,

derelict, waiting

to be moved by

a new duet.

 

Hope Unfolds

pink.jpg

Hope unfolds, a wrinkle in time,

boutonniere in a funeral pocket.

It whispers to the weary

when gale-force winds shout,

yet its stir conquers kingdoms

and uproots emperors,

one pale pink petal at a

time. Hope is one drop

of one wave of one ocean,

yet it carves out its allotment

of the shoreline with a steady

hand. It dares to grasp the moon,

sleep with stars, paint the

Sistine Chapel, bow at the throne

of heaven, bloom on a cursed earth.

Hope is the candle in the window

to call its sons home…