The Majestic Lady

He tells me about the lady bug.

Says that’s the only thing he remembers,

But I think he remembers the tears too

And the pain.

But these things are too hard for him to describe,

So he just goes on

About the elegant nature of the lady

In her red satin gown

Dotted with black pearls.

She waved a farewell to him

With her languid arms

And disappeared into the night sky.

It’s funny how omens are beautiful

Before we know what comes next

And they stick around in our minds long after

Everything else has gone.

He smiles when he tells me about her

But it’s bittersweet

And laced with regret.

He doesn’t look at me;

Instead, stares off into space

No doubt seeing her.

“I remember you,”

He tells the majestic lady.

“You were everywhere that day.

I saw your dress trailing the leaves

In the sun, you were on fire.

You were so beautiful.

Everything else was wrong.

But you were still so beautiful.”

I assume she simply waves at him and flies away

Like she did then.

Because she is only a memory.

I wonder if he will ever see her again

In that beautiful light of before

Or if she has become a house

For the aching in his chest

And the hollowness in his bones.


The Firefly

The firefly’s iridescent glow blazed in her hands.

It buzzed; it hummed on her still palm.

Was it immoral to capture such a pure creature?

But all she desired was to look upon its fiery soul in awe.

To watch the luminescent yellow flash in unison with the stars above.

Against the curtain of night, thick with the aroma of damp soil and blooming flora.

Of blood-red roses that dripped and cascaded as water from a fall.

A fall of the Angels from Heaven.

With the dew clinging to their sheen bodies

And the clouds weaving through their flaxen wings.

Ari-el, the lion of the Lord, Ari-el whose name rolled off her tongue, smooth and velvety.

Both wild and tame.

Like sand pounded by the shores of the far-reaching sea.

Compressed to form emerald glass within the heat of deep fissures.

Bubbling, oozing, spewing.

Glowing brilliantly in the murky trench.

Expanding and alighting.

Sparks of life illuminating the hushed universe.

Sparks of light illuminating the shadows swaying against her skin.

Before fluttering away, frivolously; fleetingly into the void.

May 26th 2015, Seneca Lake, PA

The Firefly is a combination of literary devices from different high modernist writers. T.S. Eliot’s beautiful, yet mundane descriptions, Pound, Doolittle, and Lowell’s imagery, Joyce’s epiphany’s, and Woolf’s depiction of thought process, are all included in this poem.