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For Ola Writes

Opening my eyes after sleep
that I summon now loudly,
blame too, God, my Freudian slip.

I am stealing a kiss now
from him, a cream of the cream,
the high-born mortal I plough.

To an honourable birth
upon his strength, beautiful,
in lack of bias and fixed mirth.

Here is to the gravite that
toss in canvas sheets deftly,
silvery letters of the art.

Through the furrows of your ridge,
let me in a crab's sideways
gait and snapping, but to bridge,

of lettering, from the rows
unmoved, address your piece of
cultivated land that grows

your blue leaves, O crested Lark!
- - entering a document
in its right register, hark!

Are you the garden of our
days where Aristocles teaches,
breeding shoots that still flower?

Or then let us know that you
are a Hyacinthus from
whose blood flowers grow anew?

How consecrated with blood
an ink to bleed such letters
in a fine art, true and odd,

to a grimoire? Marking out
lines to a bundle of leaves
with a label, beyond doubt,

on the back; more is to your
breath that perceives the untold
trail that romps home a victor.

What Lyre of a songsmith
held without dues would pluck songs
of beauty, all be it, blithe;

in fetching the crystalized
sugar of the honeydew
on bended knees, though king-sized?

O keen edges of the nib
that cut words of art for the
hearts that would not jibe or jib,

all be it, deprived of hope;
like a god out of machine
as has the narrowest scope.

From a mounted musketeer,
O flying arrow in his
monastic vows like a seer

to ward off evil as Sam
Awa taught; their heads stand their
hairs on end and at alarm

thereupon, that does good fell.
O shinning armour on the
rungs to knighthood that sails well

along coasts, each tide is not
dim-sighted that sees the depth
of your sea; thus drifting forth.

Continue to take objects
from the dreaming until the
bell of time chimes and projects;

to obtain your discharge by
service. Do your utmost as
being new to feather high

your reed and hiss off the stage.
Shoot outside the walls and thus
beyond the sky of the age.

Man your ship and sail away
to the windward. Your landfall
does wait upon, day by day.

Submitted: Monday, December 16, 2013
Edited: Monday, December 16, 2013


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