Treasure Island

Saiom Shriver


12 Beauty

From the Bubble Blower, the moon rises and floats
The spruce tree's grace.. ravelling green lace... out of pure space
Foamwake disappears from the whale tail.. dries up.. the snailtail
10,000 brush strokes of the master artist... equal not the perfect
paintings of the pure mirror
Mist lies in parallel layers under the clouds
as satin sheets lie under cotton blankets
Fall's leafless orange berried bush foiled by blue sky.. a pointilist
The goddess of the sun retires for the night through clouds spreading
her fan made of rays of light
Cut the Diamond river swords through the whiteblanketed greensward
The fragrance of a rose does enthrall
every Rao, Smith, Ali and Rosenthal
The white rose of Uganda has the same aroma
as the deep purple rose which grows in Roma.
Beautiful the scent of the tobacco flower
but the leaves which helped weave the fragrance
are excluded in many places. Is she advertising smoking
by releasing her aroma to the air? Who can divorce her
from slaveowners?
God who painted living oysters' shells with crushed pink pearl
wants them left alone
It is the Lord's leela, He who lets
unscroll lilies and lilacs and violets
Fernfurl, chrysanthemumcurl, lilyswirl, wisteriawhirl
and sunflowertwirl
With early stars have fireflies
asterisked the evening skies
The greenleaved grapevine does a tightroping straight
line... along the windstirred clothesline
and a wavy Miss Penn banner on the young pine
The old ailanthus many humans found peccable
but the woodpecker delighted in her status peckable
The wind paddled the puddles, the lily padded ponds, and played the
pea'd pods and
pansies pied.
Lily pad plates... spheres with rims.. raindrops fill
them to the brim
A grey cloudcloak mutes the crimson leaves of oak.
Scarlet embers shrouded by grey ash and smoke.
Did not the apple blossoms fall, there'd be no cider in the
The sun paintbrush dapples the woods into apples
A clover veil.. violets the vale neith skies cloudclad or when ultraviolet sun prevails.
The full moon has spilled her silver paint cans onto the seastage. Some has splattered onto the cloud curtains
Flames of mornlight... the cotton clouds do ignite
The curvenecked clover lamps hang oer a London sidewalk's cobbles shedding purple light in their wee world

Before the falls, the sheen of shanti. At the falls
sheets of shakti.
On the stepping stones in the pool... snow has made
a pillow for each rock stool*

A feathergowned crane flies through the forest
like Cinderella fleeing the ball.. but now the Prince of Peace
comes into the hall
Dawn rhodescent, jeweled by moon crescent
Fragrant fireweed fringes fire hydrants.
The comet's tail, an orange light trail.
Under gold dandelion parasols, beetles lie in the beach
of green grass, looking at the blue skysea beyond.
Several lamps make a shack lovely.. more than a dark palace
as the light of the holy makes any face beautiful
In the folds of the fields Mother Earth has
.. phlox.. foaled... she has phlox unfolded
The spider web dewjeweled and studded with samara stars
..has not done harm
The secret spring, the aquifer.. helps the knitting
of new needles for the aqua fir
As Michelangelo's vision of David's divinity freed him
from his marble block, so women of size plumpkin can
free themselves from their body coach of pumpkin
Flowering grass spire, dew-wanded, a green exclamation point!
Young souls love beauty. Older souls worship the beauty of love.

==================================== ======
Spruce tree grace is to J Hull

Robert Frost was at a dinner party on a porch. Someone asked him
about the lovely sunset. He replied 'I never discuss business
after dinner.' He said that delight at a thought caused him to pick up
his pen (paraphrased) .

Submitted: Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Edited: Friday, June 27, 2008

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