A Sentimental Valentine’s Day Poem (Ode To Schiller) by Shannon Scott

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CLICK PLAY TO HEAR SHANNON READ THE POEM

If only Valentine’s Day fell upon some week in May,
with gladdened heart I’d have a wealth to say to my love,
for she and I are like hand in glove.
Rather its in February, a bleary month if there ever was!
 
Which when this ill plot was sought, was it arbitrarily so?
Surely it was coquetry, as if seriously commanded, would be contrary to poetry and reason! Rhyme left naked and abandoned!
For it only rings with tributary and when the ill fated name “February” is said,
which sinks from the mouth like lead?
People look as if you’ve summoned the dead!
 
So dread, why was May not chosen instead?
It is my contention that with May’s mere mention?
Such metaphors leap freely to this bard’s lips!
“Its a lovely day in May when the minds at play upon gay imaginings of a young maiden’s fair hips!”
 
See, its a shame that God’s calendar maker was not instead a baker!
For badly risen bread is more liveable than the unforgivable misplacement of this lover’s holiday day!
 
There as you can plainly see, that its not simply me! Not!
Moreover that THE WORLD secretly chagrins,
and only when they can sing, “Hooray for V-Day in May” will smiles part once more above their wanton chins!

Quasimoda of Forsyth Park

by Shannon Scott (C) 2015
Click Here To Listen To Shannon Recite This Poem


There goes the lumpy woman.
The one with the plum, polyester knee shorts.
Brand new Reeboks and bruises dark.
She doesn’t walk or run, but rather hobbles.
Nature’s lark.
A disintegrating machine.
Getting back into her shape of nothing.
She is something new somewhere else.
She is something new here.
She is all she has.
More noticed from a balcony than on a street.
The shoes fit better than her feet.
I watch her from here but we will never meet.
When the moneys gone, love and luck have run out.
She may become you, she may become I.
No doubt, no doubt.

The Warmest Cold

By Shannon Scott (C) 2015

I still covet this work as one of the best I’ve ever done. Long ago I met a person on my road to a higher self and learned much about visiting a world where I did not belong but fell for their Siren call. She was all 3 of them in one body. 

Click To Hear Shannon Recite This Poem

 

She was the ice queen.
A boreal beauty.
Bearing love formed by tiny crystals,
shimmering silver, red and gold.
Fracturing light into rays spectacular.
Storing the warmth of the sun in all her parts.

But only to a specific degree.
For ice is ice.
And some goddesses are frosty indeed.

Her ardent smile could freeze you solid,
but left your blood running lukewarm.
Her febrile words were a fireside invitation,
but to the inside of a frigid room.
Her burning eyes could melt you to a puddle,
but found you bathed by gelid water.
Her pyretic touch invigorated cold skin,
but leaves your love frostbitten.

Yes, the ice queen can only be warmly admired and never handled.
Her wintery land does see the sun pass and set, but there?
Spring and Summer are but seconds and not seasons.
Only what is born there can inhabit her artic domain.
Her kingdom is enchanting, but for warmer creatures life there only promises pain.

Travelers like thee will always be her curious.
Opposites attract as opposites will be.
Momentary fools maybe, but in the end, her destiny divides.
For she must find someone as cold as she.

For ice is ice.
And some goddesses are frosty indeed.

IceQueen

Heartlight by Shannon Scott

Click To Hear Shannon Read This Poem


Beating below the twilight,
not far from my nitelight…
– is the heartlight
I carry for you.
“It shines in the guise
of Egyptian sparkling
eyes”
Its glow, waking me for the
day.
Its beam my esteem’s
gleam.
Its cast, carrying me
through the dim.
Its ember my kiss before I sleep.
The sun inside of my dreams.
The moon inside of my night.
This is the song of my heartlight.

Imaginary Sleeping With You (by Gandre’)

Click To Hear Shannon Play With Words

This wasn’t written by me but a poet named Gandre from Germany. She used to have me narrate all of her poems as she said I sounded like Klaus Kinski. She was a strange bird but a mind blowing writer and poet. Scientific even. She always apologized for her English but had a command of it that few English could even match. Partly she wanted to know how her words were supposed to really sound together and so yes, she was using me. Sigh, my fate. We used to talk on the phone and she had an angelic voice and was just beautiful. But she rather liked having benefactors over boyfriends. Either the angels stole her back, a sugar daddy or the misty ether. All I have left is this funnily read poem by yours truly. I had fun adding sounds to the words and part so she could feel them in action.

My Favorite You

by Shannon Scott (C) 2015
Click To Hear Shannon Recite This Poem

So many you to choose
So many you to know
So many you to admire
So many you to grow
The you that rises so early,
to make herself all pearly
The you that breezes the city
and makes hard work look so easy
The you that decorates, stays tidy
and keeps things so straight.
The you that wears things sassy
but keeps it all so classy.
The you that creates words of feeling,
and pushes poetry’s ceiling.
The you that brushes canvas,
and gives your soul’s color new compass.
The you that senses, sees, shoots,
and gives film unimagined roots.
The you that records ever word of every song ever heard.
The you that is there, gives much care.
while others just stare.
The you that plays, nurtures & defends,
one of man’s best friends.
The you that rolls and jams,
showing of one of the world’s toughest lambs.
There are more yous in you than there are minutes in a day.
There are more yous in you than this poem can’t help to convery.
With you, one is never bored with things to say.
You make art of yourself in every possible way.
My favorite you?
How can I pick?
Me choosing a favorite is almost sick.
Maybe the best is yet to be done.
But if I must, there is just this one.
Its my pet favorite and my secret crush.
The one I caught glimpses of and made my love blush.
Now and then I could conjure it with a joke.
Or if I said something wry.
When this you came it was so revealing and unshy.
All that was kempt, came unkempt,
and it would let fly.
High walls tumbled, muscles unrumpled,
and blood filled up.
From deep inside you this beautiful sound,
began to go eruptible.
Joyous noise completion and vibration uncorruptible.
Jarring was its witness.
But seductive none the subtle
Head rearing back, eyes gleaming lightning beams.
Tears welling up
Champagne bottles shooting streams.
Cheeks filling peak for the coming shrieks.
Lips slivering long, delivery ready,
for your heart’s song.
When it sprung on the air, it surrounded me,
and spun me like a top.
But so delicious to hear I never wanted it to stop.
When I felt of its causation?
I never felt such glad sensation!
I’d done something well in your heart’s nation.
Your body in perfection.
Your soul’s music a vexation.
Your spirit in its truest,
and suddenly on vacation.
Your laugh…
You. Laughing.
This is my favorite you.

Wellsprung Waxation

By Shannon Scott (C) 2015
Click To Listen To Shannon Read This Poetical Work

Ah, the delightful slope of heartwrench and accomplishments.

In which while sliding your feet reach the muck before the stable ground before your mind does.

Thus is life. Have minds like ours come to concur?

The fact that you’re just here is promising.

The prizefighter mentality has not seen too relinquish far enough to let that dark shadowy mixture that’s swishing in the back of your mind to claim grounds to your brain matter.

This is good.

Those abstractionary realists who tiptoe around society that suspects them to be stepped in cynicism?

Could in fact be holding the golden ticket to deeper levels of rest amongst outside clatter.

Perhaps rest came to you when you needed it…

My point is — that healing feels no rush for closure.

And while you’re being bumped or bruised as you continue sliding down or up said slopes of self acknowledgment and disparaging.

You’re not alone.

Consider yourself an experiment.

Reweave yourself with confidence that mistakes are a part of the purifying process.

Rose Hill Runabout!

by Shannon Scott (C) 2015

(Click to Hear Shannon Read This Poem In Character)

I don’t care about anything out there!
I don’t care about the pitch fever traffic or the unkindly stares!
I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care, Don’t care, Don’t care, Don’t care!
I’m happy right here where the dead people sleep!

Rose Hill is my pasture and I’m its happy sheep!
There are slopes to run & stone bridges to leap!
Wildflowers growing and grass beneath my feet feet feet!
Grave markers to read and new dead people I need to meet!

I don’t have time for you old world of the living!
You might be driven but you sure ain’t livin!
There’s no peace out there or rest for the wicked!
Stress is your game and your spirits are constricted!
You won’t be my misery and I won’t be your convicted!
Here in this place I’m one with me and stay uplifted!

What’s that you say? You say you laughing at me?
That’s okay because in here you’ll soon be.
Away from all of that out there where you ain’t free.
You just can’t see, can’t see, can’t see.

So you go about your business, hustle and dread.
I’ma roam round here awhile, where you think its dead.
Might even move in, I’m so partial to this stead.
Lie down awhile, take in the cool earth ‘neath my head.
Listen to the river roll by and the train on the tracks too.
I’m home in here with the breeze and the quiet.
Not out there with you in that life laugh riot.

Memory Maker

Copyright Shannon Scott (C) 2015
(Listen To Shannon Recite This Poem)

Oh Memory Maker…
Won’t you come take her?
Far, far from the memories we’ve made?
For then I might forget her
And we’d be all the better.
Once more resting in the shade.

For a half finished city was built towards a life of fun.
We stood together and named it “LUMUKU”* and life there had begun.
Scholars, artists and scribes ready to make art of it in the sun.

Then one day it all went away.
I woke up and found the city had been closed.
For repair or a lifetime of delay?
I do not know Memory Maker
For the sign she made did not say.
It just read, “Go Away Go Away!”
Leaving me wondering was it for real or had it all been a play?
I do not know Memory Maker for she has yet to say.

So I sit here idle, outside this shut down town of two hearts.
Oh worry not — Love is here with me, our old friend in these arts.
No truer two had been nor since found
Now awaiting the return of she their three.

Love spies me mumbling,
“We can all live together Memory Maker..”
“We were such good company..”
“You’ll see.. you’ll see.”

(Funny, all I wanted was to lay down beside her like some lazy spider and laugh for a lifetime flicking rubberbands at the trees.)
*LUMUKU = Love U Miss U Kiss U
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Love By The Numbers

By Shannon Scott (C) 2015

(Listen To Shannon Recite This Poem)

One lover is but one.
Two in a room, opens the womb.
3 perfects the “you and me.”
For love is the 3rd person.
Few are willing to see.
Love with only two, cannot be harmony.
Only egos, competing endlessly.
The 3rd must be observed, before the two can truly be true.
Number 3 must be honored, before there will be a “me & you.”
Two easily visible, but with persona in stirs,
3 goes neglected, true love suffers to be observed.
Ones are each vital, but three is the guide & will not be denied.
One and two, must turn to 3 to be free.
Bowing, smiling, asking for true epiphany.
Only then, can one and two be friends.
Love, the 3rd person, unites all ends.
Love is a triangle, with 3 sides to complete.
Love is the point, one & two must reach to meet.
Friendship foundation, arms joined high for trusting walls.
But without love as the crown, all 3 will fall.

LoverPyramid