Twilight’s Despair

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .


she sits alone upon the stair
golden highlights in her hair
wearied head against the wall
fearing yet another fall
love’s pure beauty to obtain
to rouse herself to climb again
takes the mettle she fears she lacks
as witnessed by tear’s bitter tracks
yet loathe she is to descend
and mourn another sad love’s end
thus she sits upon the stair
twilight deepening to despair

ceg 7.12.08


From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .


saucy and sinuous
high-heeled fantasy
long-legged dream
she knows she makes them stare
and dare
to believe she could be theirs
dark-eyed beauty
exotic vision
ravishing reverie
she gathers their awed appreciation
and wears them in her hair

ceg 7.12.08

Jean Louise

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .


I will probably always remember those days with the bittersweet sepia color of a gracefully aging photograph.  Bitter because I saw that truth doesn’t always win and that ignorance and poverty can turn anger into hate.  And, yes it was also sweet.  Sweet and fragrant like the camellias of  my childhood that dripped their snowy petals onto the sun-dappled lawns.

I found, if not friendship, something akin to it in the most unlikely of places.  Not too many summers after we met, he died.  We all paid our respects to him, but were mindful of his shy ways.

Many years later, Father retired from law and continued to hold at bay the never-ending requests that he run for public office.  I remember that the only time I ever saw him cry, was the day that a misguided man ended the life of another; one who had a dream.  Even my brother, ever the grown up, coughed into his hand and took several passes across his eyes with his handkerchief.

He, my older brother, his hopes of being a football hero dashed, followed in our father’s footsteps and may one day run for governor.  We all believe he will succeed.

The sweet friend of my youth never did marry me, though he continues to flit in and out of my life, bringing with him his odd mixture of pathos and humor.  He is part flamboyant thespian, part wounded spirit.

In the years closely following that summer, we began to see past the facade of our own genteelness and saw an ugliness that we became ashamed of.  I think we became better people that summer; all of us.  I believe we did learn, after all, how to climb into another person’s skin and walk around in it.


*Although this piece is an  original piece by me, and created from my imagination, it is based on the incredible characters created by Harper Lee in her breathtaking novel, To Kill A Mockingbird.  This is what is referred to as metafiction, whereby I have inserted thoughts into characters created by someone else

ceg 7.15.08

Beware the Whirlwind

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .


tell me, old mother, how
how do i make him love me?
i will tell you, child for
the shiny coppers in your hand
they are yours, old mother
please, please tell me the secret
dirt from his foot steps
hair from his head
what, tell me what
do i do with those things?
burn them and grind them
and feed them to your true love
thank you, dear mother
i will do so tonight
beware, young daughter
a warning i give you before you depart
a warning, for me, dear mother
but why and of what?
beware the whirlwind, young girl
for it is the devil dancing with his witch
old mother, for that i would give
the rest of my coppers to see
nay, my child for if
you get too close
yes, please tell me, what
what if i get too close?
they’ll catch you up body and soul
and take you with them straight to helland did the child listen to the old woman’s words?
i’m afraid i don’t know, but this i can say;
never was the girl seen again
since that night when the winds howled
through the trees and the sounds of gypsy
laughter danced in the leaves

ceg 12.31.08

Once I Was

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives


 have i not engendered love
or the sweetness of a song?
a thought or two sent to me
when morning crowns the skies
fragile as a whispered dream?
perhaps i hope too much
for memories are but tender things
once i was a rose

ceg 12.26.08


From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives


 sweet Corinna sits and waits
and throws her caution to the Fates
Clotho spins her golden thread
while Lachesis measures in her stead
Ah, Atropos, she of dread
Cuts the life just barely led
sweet Corinna sits and prays
as she counts her numbered days


Before Night’s End

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .


 this white girl
sits on a stool
fingers wrapped
around an ancient
microphone, singing
like nina simone or
billie holiday
the bartender, glancing
up from time to time
is certain he will
have her before
night’s end
couples and singles
silently smoke their
Gauloise or Djarum
cigarettes and
drink their absinthe
or whisky
dreaming of yesterday
while the white
girl sings about
louisiana or mississippi
and glances towards
the darkened
corner table at
the man with the
distant stare
and knows that she will
have him
before night’s end

ceg 8.31.08

Skin Deep

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .

The Kiss (detail)  Gustav Klimt~The Kiss

he never could discern just what the flower
was that curved delicately down her hip bone
to her upper thigh and then disappeared
somewhere behind her knee, trailing
tendrils of green and lavender
she had told him once-was it lilac?
or something else-wisteria?
she had not been a delicate girl
her hair a ruddy red and a spray
of freckles across her body
her jaw was a bit too square and her
eyes tried to be green, but were
grey and smoky
her arms told of her strength and
she could drink most men under
the table, telling dirty jokes to make
a sailor blush
but that traveling flower down her
leg, from hip to knee always made
him see her as something ethereal
and dainty; how he loved to kiss that
purple ink, leaving a trail of moisture
on her pale skin
he would lie awake at night
alone in his narrow bed and wish that
he had learned to love more than
just that tattoo

ceg 11.2.11