Thetis had a Daughter by williamfdevault, literature
Literature
Thetis had a Daughter
So clever and tender Thetis had a daughter
hidden behind a man's name...
as pure and sorrowful as her mother,
smothering her sadness
beneath her studies with Erato.
Obscurant to those who see only with eyes or,
in the case of Polyphemus, eye,
yet can see the truth and sings her songs
of gossamer beauty with vigor and eloquence
enough
to wake a slumbering Amomancer
to take up his song and, having seen her
and discovered her true nature,
lady of sorrows, borrowing the bard's cards
to shelter her from the colding winds,
lifts his aged voice to thunder her praise.
The tapestries begin anew their weavings,
mysteries in the histories yet unveiled.
wasting time and temperament by williamfdevault, literature
Literature
wasting time and temperament
a second gong sounds in plastic and metal and glass
the roadway littered with sharps and shards
while I clear my head
no one injured
but a familiar process grips me
like that time a lifetime ago
when God had gotten tired of me wasting time
and temperament
slowly sliding out of the darkness
to find the grey way of desperation
waiting for the worms
maybe next time I won't be so lucky
maybe next time
I shall be in the grace of a lover
who gives me reason to pick up my bed and walk
not just talk about the memories of jasmine tea
a sea I sailed upon once for endless nights
when the lights were not brighter but newer
the gong awakes me
to recon
laying down a beating where I’d been eating crow.
the blows are soft flesh on shattered sapphire.
too many business cards from timid MFAs,
mediocrities polluting Apollonian streams of consciousness.
I am sorry that your husband died.
I acknowledge that you loved him,
and he, you, and I am grateful you found joy
to your own side of the Pillars of Heracles.
the fates did not hate us
but allowed us to stumble in blind bindings
until we crumbled under the weight of our best pretensions.
cornbread corners to the hollow plates of desire.
I was unaware of the demon I found and bound
only with your persistent assistance. born of dragons
an
the curse of beauty by williamfdevault, literature
Literature
the curse of beauty
she was
and is
porn star pretty
more is the pity
the nitty gritty shitty city
grinds that currency up
and hollows it out
boring scoring pouring out hope and joy
like soul flavored pixy stix
onto a greedy receiving tongue
bartering beauty for security
which is a valid choice
as long as the voice making it is hers
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
she meant it when she said it by williamfdevault, literature
Literature
she meant it when she said it
you never danced for me
as I cast sacrifices
offerings
promises
in accordance with your wishes
and the strange scriptures
recorded in texts
ancient
recent
scrimshaw
glyphs
kissed and denied
like every time
that I lied to myself
out of charity
and hope
William F. DeVault. All rights reserved.
freedom is not just another word
for nothing left to lose.
you still, at least, possess freedom,
which is a terrifying and mighty place
to find oneself.
even if the bedclothes are not as warm
and you miss the pretty parasites
of passion and peace.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
Anno Domini 2018: The Great Cat Gives Birth by williamfdevault, literature
Literature
Anno Domini 2018: The Great Cat Gives Birth
labyrinthian fires
in from the ashes and against the wind
fire and desire are the sire of memory
cracking like bones beneath the boots
worn by conquerors and their toxic children
no surprise the lies as we all seek survival
even at the expense of love and truth.
squeezing the last few drops from the seeds
after the flower and the fruit is consumed.
whispers blister thin skin and within we die
to be reborn the next morning one less life
to barter like a feral cat, in labyrinthian fires.
buried alive
love is not a barter, but a gift.
grifters sift the dust of our trust and lust
to gather pretty pennies and peonies
to place on cold catalepti
I have found that when I shout into the void
anticipating reciprocity
on the part of strange and beautiful creatures
I am ultimately (so far) disappointed
in my mourning I contemplate
whether it was my expectations
as to the nature of those
that dwell in shade and shadows
or if my words were inadequate
to capture the focus of eldil
that dance in four dimensions
mesmerizing me and drawing dreams
there are times in recent times
where I have even begun to doubt
whether or not I am not heard
because I am not articulating
in a manner that penetrates the void
or perhaps I am a delusional mute
making not noise aside from within me
imagining that I
fit to flow, I know.
emotions like a confetti stream of dreams.
distance adds persistence
doubling down on wagers of soft sin.
imagining where your fingers are
right now.
wishing they were mine.
your spine is the rough racetrack
as I trace sensations
eclectic and electric
from lip to hip to tip inward
cured of pretense
until there is no memory
of you and I as
separate...
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
Thetis had a Daughter by williamfdevault, literature
Literature
Thetis had a Daughter
So clever and tender Thetis had a daughter
hidden behind a man's name...
as pure and sorrowful as her mother,
smothering her sadness
beneath her studies with Erato.
Obscurant to those who see only with eyes or,
in the case of Polyphemus, eye,
yet can see the truth and sings her songs
of gossamer beauty with vigor and eloquence
enough
to wake a slumbering Amomancer
to take up his song and, having seen her
and discovered her true nature,
lady of sorrows, borrowing the bard's cards
to shelter her from the colding winds,
lifts his aged voice to thunder her praise.
The tapestries begin anew their weavings,
mysteries in the histories yet unveiled.
wasting time and temperament by williamfdevault, literature
Literature
wasting time and temperament
a second gong sounds in plastic and metal and glass
the roadway littered with sharps and shards
while I clear my head
no one injured
but a familiar process grips me
like that time a lifetime ago
when God had gotten tired of me wasting time
and temperament
slowly sliding out of the darkness
to find the grey way of desperation
waiting for the worms
maybe next time I won't be so lucky
maybe next time
I shall be in the grace of a lover
who gives me reason to pick up my bed and walk
not just talk about the memories of jasmine tea
a sea I sailed upon once for endless nights
when the lights were not brighter but newer
the gong awakes me
to recon
laying down a beating where I’d been eating crow.
the blows are soft flesh on shattered sapphire.
too many business cards from timid MFAs,
mediocrities polluting Apollonian streams of consciousness.
I am sorry that your husband died.
I acknowledge that you loved him,
and he, you, and I am grateful you found joy
to your own side of the Pillars of Heracles.
the fates did not hate us
but allowed us to stumble in blind bindings
until we crumbled under the weight of our best pretensions.
cornbread corners to the hollow plates of desire.
I was unaware of the demon I found and bound
only with your persistent assistance. born of dragons
an
the curse of beauty by williamfdevault, literature
Literature
the curse of beauty
she was
and is
porn star pretty
more is the pity
the nitty gritty shitty city
grinds that currency up
and hollows it out
boring scoring pouring out hope and joy
like soul flavored pixy stix
onto a greedy receiving tongue
bartering beauty for security
which is a valid choice
as long as the voice making it is hers
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
she meant it when she said it by williamfdevault, literature
Literature
she meant it when she said it
you never danced for me
as I cast sacrifices
offerings
promises
in accordance with your wishes
and the strange scriptures
recorded in texts
ancient
recent
scrimshaw
glyphs
kissed and denied
like every time
that I lied to myself
out of charity
and hope
William F. DeVault. All rights reserved.
freedom is not just another word
for nothing left to lose.
you still, at least, possess freedom,
which is a terrifying and mighty place
to find oneself.
even if the bedclothes are not as warm
and you miss the pretty parasites
of passion and peace.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
Anno Domini 2018: The Great Cat Gives Birth by williamfdevault, literature
Literature
Anno Domini 2018: The Great Cat Gives Birth
labyrinthian fires
in from the ashes and against the wind
fire and desire are the sire of memory
cracking like bones beneath the boots
worn by conquerors and their toxic children
no surprise the lies as we all seek survival
even at the expense of love and truth.
squeezing the last few drops from the seeds
after the flower and the fruit is consumed.
whispers blister thin skin and within we die
to be reborn the next morning one less life
to barter like a feral cat, in labyrinthian fires.
buried alive
love is not a barter, but a gift.
grifters sift the dust of our trust and lust
to gather pretty pennies and peonies
to place on cold catalepti
I have found that when I shout into the void
anticipating reciprocity
on the part of strange and beautiful creatures
I am ultimately (so far) disappointed
in my mourning I contemplate
whether it was my expectations
as to the nature of those
that dwell in shade and shadows
or if my words were inadequate
to capture the focus of eldil
that dance in four dimensions
mesmerizing me and drawing dreams
there are times in recent times
where I have even begun to doubt
whether or not I am not heard
because I am not articulating
in a manner that penetrates the void
or perhaps I am a delusional mute
making not noise aside from within me
imagining that I
fit to flow, I know.
emotions like a confetti stream of dreams.
distance adds persistence
doubling down on wagers of soft sin.
imagining where your fingers are
right now.
wishing they were mine.
your spine is the rough racetrack
as I trace sensations
eclectic and electric
from lip to hip to tip inward
cured of pretense
until there is no memory
of you and I as
separate...
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
the wind is warm. formless and granular. the sand whips
the masts of the ships that never sailed, failed voyages
dry docked and stillborn, worn like a mason's hands.
the road is unmarked, lightly traveled, a pilgrim's afterthought.
the old man, blind in one eye, shades his brow and whispers
a solemn greeting, resplendent with time and tragedies.
"welcome to Bohemia", he rasps, dry lips spitting each word
like watermelon seeds at a long forgotten 4th of July party.
he rises. joints stiff and sore from the scores of times
he has risen out of common decency, even for those unworthy.
dignity and respect, reflected in a genuflecting s
I'm a poet. Ronin for now, making my way in the world. I don't write poetry. I don't do poetry. I coexist with it, some have even suggested I am poetry.
I can live with that. I have to. Because it is true. And that is what poetry is: Truth.
Favourite genre of music? ---Experimental rock Favourite photographer: ---Mariya Andriichuk (LadyMartist) Favourite writer (and editor): ---So many, so many Favourite style of art: ---Surrealist, hyper-realism Operating System: ---Mac OSX Skin of choice: ---Soft, warm, ready to explore and share. Favourite cartoon character: ---Daffy Duck
The new book officially came out November 21, 2019...QUINTESSENCE! Available through bookstores on or offline around the world! 219 poems! Hardcover or paperback...and coming December 15...eBook!