By Fire Tashlin
This is a poem that I wrote about my Lady, it is also a form called a Sestina. I find that doing poems in very rigid forms are almost more like puzzles than figurative writing.
I feel the sweeping breath of dark wings
The feathers are soft and shine like stars
Eyes like a field of stars sparkle
Over hard leather and shining steel
White hair wispy with snow and ice
Weaving and cutting a tapestry of fate
Do weathered old hands determine my fate?
Am I to sound in the dark and be called on wings
That sound soft but cut like shards of ice?
Look up to the endless stars
And wonder when I will be one with their shining steel
Polished to a hardened sheen and with their inner light will sparkle?
Or perhaps my thread with drops of dew will sparkle
As young hands weave my fate
Hands not yet calloused and roughened by steel
With wide soft white wings
That hold the light of the moon and stars
Captured and frozen in glass clear ice.
Say that maybe I will flow with the ice
In a sea of cold and fear while the sparkle
Of souls and pin pricks of stars
Are but a note in a symphony of fate
Surrounded by the ocean of soft wings
All edges and curves and spines of steel.
Will work roughened hands hold scissors of steel
Caressing a figure carved of abalone and ice
Carnelian feathers and opal bones and wings
Formed with edges and sweeps that sparkle
With the threads and strands of fate
Woven in with all their own stars?
I see the sea of shining stars
Like holes cut in velvet black by steel
Who holds in her hands my fate
Frozen blue and held in ice
With shining black frozen chips that sparkle
And flutter on her wings
Holding gently the fate amidst the stars
Rushing winds past wings made from steel
And soft tines of ice, all edges and sparkle.