For My Daughter, Lauren: On Dragon’s Wings

The following photo is of a sculpted clay dragon and his unique environment that was imagined and constructed for me by my multi-talented daughter Lauren.  The poem that follows the photograph is a lexical account of what her creation led me to feel.

claydragon

 

 My humble submission:

 

On Dragon’s Wings

By Michele Habel-Coffey

 

Here lies a sleeping dragon

Guarding treasure made of gold

His position is of slumber

And his history is of old.

 

I know not what he’s seen

In his journeys through the air

But I have an inking ‘bout his dreams

What lies in slumber’s fair.

 

His visions are of hands still small

Upon a child almost grown

The young lady that hath fashioned him

His tiny seed, she’s sown.

 

He sees my daughter’s beauty

Creative energy and light

It sparkles in his treasure

His soul upon the night.

 

And the magic of the moonbeams

Shining on her countenance

Are the flashings of the future

Where passion will meet chance.

 

My wish for her is to fly

Upon the dragon’s wings

Using up the hopeful air

While engineering better things.

 

 

Alone With Everybody: by Charles Bukowski

the sick child

 

Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there’s no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

 

Oscar Wilde: Flower of Love

oscarwilde

Flower of Love

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault
was, had I not been made of common clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed
yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had
struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled
with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the
kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on
that verdant and enamelled mead.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw
the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,
as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned
me, who am crownless now and without name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling
on the threshold of the House of Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the
oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the
lyre’s strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out
the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,
clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms
brush the burnished bosom of the dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would
have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion,
known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as
we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by
the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered
petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you – ah!
what else had I a boy to do, –
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the
silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and
when once the storm of youth is past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death
the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure,
for the blindworm battens on the root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree
of Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you?
God’s own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an
argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my
poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better
than the poet’s crown of bays.