If all the stars were made of paint, I'd brush them ever keenly, and if the sun was made of wax, I'd write my name there clearly. But if all the stars were made of salt, I'd lick them, ever dreary; too bad the sun's not made of wax; I miss her all too dearly. She said she'd write and lick the stars, in her letter, but in theory- the salted, painted, waxy stars, are really all too eerie.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011
if the eyeglass breaks:
you could not rid your tongue of his name
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011
They live in hole-less pits, drinking the air of desperation. Only with blackened eyes do they see in the dank void; scrawling their names on stone is all they have to live by - cold and alone. They pity those who are blinded by stars.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011
The dusty crow who knows my name does call, and sleeps as grave and sound as my lost soul- as time does ponder and rid me mortal role, I but wander through this dead shameless hall. Begone the life, and love, with dying thirst- Who knows be true, with the shell I live in; leaving me alone, bleak, and left of skin, my flesh was soft, but it died dead the first. Linking from the foot to bone, I bowed much less- and left me humble, where no man hast stepped- though know not I the rage, nor foul tempest, of jealousy, or putrid thought that crept; Lost... I am but naked hollow who dress, the night with burbles I mighty wept.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011
She grows from bloody skin that falls on grass; and bends upward to the milky sky in vain. A beauty of the strangled, men of deed most filthy- that rot as husks from hang'ed tree, they waver- and become but stalks for unpleasant crows.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011
There stood a King of Thoan, Who bade his subjects: “Burn!”, He lit the oil, and under him, His fate took a nasty turn. Up rose the flame ill-tempered, Up rose the flame ill-bade, The King of Thoan, was no more, As he burned into the shade. Gurgle did his tongue in mouth, And bubble did his eyes, He kindled like a waxen doll, He smouldered in his cries. Melt upon his brow the crown, Of Father's ancient theft; Broil and burn upon his skin, Until stinking ash was left. Now the King no longer burns, Nor do his subjects three; He rests as ash in frigid tomb, As it crumbles in the sea. Now the Thoan people, who Rejoiced at wicked fate - Curse the King - the burning sire, As he rots in pieces eight. Alas they laughed, unhearty, For deep within the tomb, The Burning King, he rose once more, And cackled in the gloom. Raise he did the Kingdom, and His wretched subjects three; In amber blaze he burned them all; Then he sunk into the sea.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011
She painted him a thousand years of faces, He left with her a copper in his stead, Wait did they a thousand years in places, And writ there was a contract of the dead. Take with him a thousand years of paintings, Drop did she the copper in a well, Wait did they a thousand years in patience, Until the moon in sky did swell. Now he waits a thousand years in places, Now she moves among the living dead, The painters wife, she took those faces, and dropped themIn your sleeping bed.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011
Oh Baus, beware the Ashen Tree - With roots that crumple bird and beast, The needle-like, one two, two three, Branches lay a grotesque feast. Do sit and pant and scruff thy treat, My darling Baus – my mighty fiend, Dressing your teeth with rancid meat, Lick the pucid bones be cleaned. Don't look askance - my dearheart, or Tremble soft at its boughs pristine; For I be one with earth and ore, A sleepy spore of servile green. Come and sinketh teeth within, my Fleshly roots that crave the air; And nibble bitty at my sly, Leaves that fall as maidens hair. Beware dear Baus, the Ashen Tree; Of friend or foe unsure be I - Sit wary under cumbrous three, Or in branch'ed death, you die!
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011
A misty creak, one two, one two; the village-hand beguiling, The bell house rocks, its tongues askew, upon my Commodore- With hearty grin, a single ort be laid upon his cherry chin, As twinkle do the stars upon his brazen coat, and bore- Are his days, and unto me he clamber his disuse and cause; Timid is his sickly grin, my beloved Commodore. Trickle, trickle does the rain- a fickle mistress true; when One opens up the latch, of bell houses rusty pallid door, My Master waiteth, crumpled rough upon the wooden flaxen, And beckons myself over, with his marbled, bitten four- Fingers gleaming, whet with dew of foggy mornings call; Blessed are the fingers of my beloved Commodore. Ravens' wroth doth creak and skew- the evening air bethicken, The stones the bell house stack askew, shed light unto his four- Ever was his beauty lit, alas the time hast wrinkled it- His beauty became naught but the shadows on the floor; “Be it beast or man betrayed?” to my temple finger rose- To my temple finger rose, for my beloved Commodore. He beckon me and bade me, his command of mien betrayed me- My sleepless eyes of nights alight, by candles burnt by chore; Sitting brambly, sitting stern upon the moistened flaxen plank, My beloved Master cast his shadows on the frosted, whetted door; Ponder I of mode unsure, of sitting blackly - nothing more; My fingers doubted faithful, my beloved Commodore. Sitting grim upon his fingers, a single coin he rolled and threw- A dusty relic- killed by cold, and man's dishonest reddish core, Tumble tumble, drop and clickle upon his knuckles, the silver disc, Fated man hast suffered, the toss and spin on granite floor, Embers flew and flocked the chair, casting cinders, evermore; Laughing in the lamplight, my beloved Commodore. Tap and tap, behind me heard, a softly rapping at the pane; “Tis' the wind!” with hearty cheer, my Master raised his knarly paw, Drop and clink the coin befell, and rolled before my wasted feet, Drop and clink the dusty coin laid bare unto the floor; Headless facing the silver piece, of origin unsure, Abandoned him, my Master- my beloved Commodore. Three four, three four, the bell struck- its acme- ever shrill; And grazed upon the powdered sky, of hands' unsteady lore- With a crack, the rapping grew, and tumbled through the window, Of flaxen, frost, and wetted wood the bell rumbled as before, Cackle did the raven, as it beat upon the door; And laugh he did, my Master- my beloved Commodore. Pick up the piece of silver, with unsteady hand did I, And thrust into the hand of my laughing Masters paw; Tickled by his breath, he breathed- he breathed forever still, The name of the raven, flapping- ever flapping at the door; The name of the raven, flapping- tapping at the door, “A Raven?” quaffed the voice of my beloved Commodore. Ply with ale his voice- in a delicious amber hue, He shrieked and smiled at me, in his most rustic ardour;- “A Raven no, dear-heart, listen as I implore; that rapping- tapping, flapping that strikes upon the door-- is none other than my love! My beloved, I adore!” He smiled and sipped his ale, did my beloved Commodore. “Your love?” I sighed and struck the tempered granite wall- My fists felt cold against the stone, that I could not ignore; The beating ticked upon the pane, and then unto the ground, Thrust open did the windowpane, and through the square did pour, The rasping sound of shadows, as they tickled at the door- Tickled shrilly did they, towards my Commodore. “Ah, my love! How long have I been bitten by the cold?” He rose his hands before the shadow, as it swept along the floor; “Too long have I waited, in this rusted bell house cage- my hands be bit and suffered, Love, repeat I shall once more; Await hast I for you my Love, the one that I adore.” Await did he, await; my beloved Commodore. A maddened crutch did take me, and fix me to the spot, Thunder rose and pounded at the sky as it had before; Five six, five six, the bell did toll- rolling in the sky, And under feet of Master did, the shadows lick the floor- Lick and lap at the feet of my Masters form once more; Unsteady were the eyes of my beloved Commodore. Unseen to me this phantom, this villain of the gloom, Had stricken at the heart of my Masters sickly core; He stroked the thing, invisible unto my waking eyes, His shoulders broad did heavy sigh, and out his shoddy four- Fingers reached toward the coin, now cast upon the floor; Reach and stretch did the fingers, of my Commodore. Transfixed I stood, unsteady still to the beatings of the wind, The bell house shook with bitterness from the windy Western shore- The twilight stricken pebbles- like a thicket in the heavens, Were once the home of he, the man crumpled- talking to the floor, Crumpled, maddened, laughing- at the shadows on the floor; He did this and nothing less; my beloved Commodore. Scoff I might at night-times, experienced as such: That my Master left his mind, at that crumbled bell house door; Flutter fully, did his folly- and rose slinking in the sky, His sanity as crumpled, as his form upon the floor; Smile he did- and fondle at the shadows to his maw, Licking like a beast- was my beloved Commodore. Alas all will hast left me, as I yell unto blackened sky- “Was't it my fault- my neglect- that devoured his gentle core?” As he sat bewitching, his hands and mouth were twitching- I ran and latched my hand upon the frozen granite door; I ran and left my Master, sitting dreary on the floor- Left him there, my Master;- my beloved Commodore.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011
A weary beast'd plume among shadows grow, Crawling forth from frozen moonlit glow, Cometh thee Amarok; king of misty throne, All paw, and thrift, and lucid bone. He dwell, he dwell, the beastly crux Under crystal skies; wandered flux, Muddy kept is his stride – a pretty hue, Grip with teeth, pearlescent – lest true. With mouthful of stars, he stride blackish through, A gardened floor, littered wilt; leaves askew, O' Amarok of fable, he gravely breathes, The twisted soul of broken trees. Petty prey of his do listless roam, Fatherless squalls of dank-lit home, His gaze a pearl among thicket fern, Mighty smile, he slip, into lusty turn. A Beast of plenty, he live of three, Lank souls that passed the reddened sea, Alas my wit, hast left me still, When gaze I do, on wicked will. Of counting stars, his hobby sing, The graceful ward, the fearsome King, Altered grace, he slew all known, Those that stray into his dank-lit home. Amarok know, be him his name, Fearless those who prod his fame, Wander not into bracken'd copse, He slink, and smell, as broken fox. Bite will he, and rend apart, A shoddy traveller, of sickened heart, Careless be, and dead you will, The Amarok preys, with fiendish swill.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011
