The Life she Led

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .


she probably had a boy who loved her, once upon a time
they may have held hands on the walk to school
or kissed under the fiery light of sunsets
i imagine that her lips were waiting many years to be kissed
the way they were meant to be kissed
and that her body ached to be held and loved by that boy
she was ordinary in the most extraordinary way
and would often be found writing fragments of verses
in book margins or envelopes even once on a sugar packet
she dreamed about songs and how words could be
woven into the strands of her hair, secrets for only his eyes
and she learned to wait and to be patient, drenching herself
in prayers and hopes and see the world with the sweetness
of lavender sachets hidden away in the deepest part of her heart

ceg 11.12.11


This Fallen Angel

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . .  .

fallenangelArtwork by Ryn Li

Suddenly, as the owl-topped clock strikes eight, a mysterious figure enters the room. It is Herr Drosselmeyer, Clara and Fritz’s godfather. He is a talented toymaker who has brought with him gifts for the children, including four lifelike dolls—a Harlequin and Columbine, and a Vivandière and Soldier—who dance to the delight of all.
~The Nutcracker

Herr Drosselmeyer, late of Ost-Speicher, had moved, taking the gears and velvet, tools and paints of his trade with him.  He set up shop in East Burnham-On-Crouch.  Only a few of his dolls adorned the windows, but they were enough.  At first, it was only the scruffy urchins from the streets, with their smudged faces, rosy from the chill of New L’Ondon’s cold.  Soon, mothers and fathers, trying to find their absent children came also to his shop.  As word spread of his works, the clientele became more genteel.  He welcomed all of them.  They wanted to be angry, those wealthy ones; angry at the good Doktor.  He would not sell his beauties.  He would sell clever watches that would light up in the darkness.  He would sell music boxes that could fill the room with the loveliest fragrances and the most mysterious music.   He would sell cunning puppets which could dance by themselves when a pipe was played at just the right pitch.

To say that Herr Drosselmeyer was a genius, was a laughable insult.  He was courted by the wealthy patrons of New L’Ondon and plied with food and drink and whispered promises of riches if only he would sell one of his beauties.  Always, a smile he gave them, and a head shake.  They were not for sale.  Why not, he would query, purchase a walking stick with the carved head of the Sphinx, that would chuckle at its own irony as it tapped the ground.  Or a jeweled butterfly that would fly about the room before settling on the shoulder of the sweetest child.  As beautiful as all of these creations were, they would not satisfy the hungry longings for the beauties.

Sir Edmond wanted only Vivian, Herr Drosselmeyer’s most beautiful of his beauties.  A ballerina, she, with hair spun from angel whispers, lips of the essence of sweet dreams and eyes the envy of the sky itself.  She would pirouette and twirl, dancing with such grace and beauty, that Sir Edmond had indeed lost his heart to her.

“Gentlemen, this fallen angel is the illegitimate daughter of art and science. A modern marvel of engineering, clockworks elevated to the very natural process which even now is in your blood, racing, your eyes flashing at such irreproachable beauty. Here is Gaia, here is Eve, here is Lilith, and I stand before you as her father. Sprung fully-formed from my brow, dewy and sweet; she can be yours and yours again, for her flesh is the incorruptible pale to be excused from the wages of sin.” *

Gears and paint bedamned, he loved her.  He would gaze upon her for hours, memorizing her softly parted lips and smooth porcelain skin.  He tried everything to encourage Herr Drosslemeyer to sell her to him.  Money, power, women, and eventually rage and tears.  Drosselmeyer remained unmoved.  And so it continued day into night, week into month.  Edmond, a pale imitation of his former self, sat, rumpled and weeping, gazing upon Vivian.  New L’Ondon had moved on without him.  Always a new delight, always a new allure.  Drosselmeyer’s shop became quiet again, save for the tinkling sounds of dolls which dreamt real dreams and soldiers who fired muskets at unseen enemies.  Overhead, a candelabra bearing flames that sang, and below, carpets whose woven ocean tapestries carried the scent of distant seas and spices.  These were lost to Edmond, as he began to leave this world and enter Vivian’s.

The story was carried as an afterthought in the New L’Ondon Carrier-Times.  A ruin of Herr Drosselmeyer’s shop was pictured, still smoking.  No sign of Sir Edmond was ever discovered.  Cryptic stories of Drosselmeyer entertained the residents of New L’Ondon for many years, but no evidence of him ever emerged. Scattered and broken marvels were found in the ashes, as well as Vivian.  Vivian, broken yet still lovely.  Vivian, the object of adoration and unrequited love.  Broken yet still pure.

ceg 6.12.11

Herr Drosselmeyer’s Doll, by Abney Park

When the Sun Rises

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .



when you close your eyes
that is where you will find me
before dreams take you
you escape earth’s bonds
floating in and out of sleep
until you claim me
your nocturnal bride
bedecked in silvery stars
gliding on moonbeams
holding your heart dear
eyes filled with gentle longing
your name on my lips
no distance nor time
or the shackles of this earth
dare keep us apart
when the sun rises
we are drawn again earthward
spirits still entwined
ceg 7/21/11

Memories Yet to Be

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .



it was a rather savage memory
and it almost always came back
to her this time of year
with the hushed sound of snow
falling and the smell of distant
smoke from fire places that burned
without a second thought about
the fact that she was not there to
feel its heat against her face
she had to admit to missing those
peppermint kisses and the fragrance
of evergreen and presents hastily
wrapped in whatever paper was handy
she missed the sweet harmonies
they had made together
tears, half frozen to her face, causing
frosty curses to issue past her lips, made
her fall against a blameless bank
of snow and glancing up from where
she lay, she spotted a ring around the
moon and the promise of gifts yet
unopened and memories yet to beceg 11.18.11

When the Magic Died

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .


The last days of magic were upon us. 

The trees no longer sang and the stars no longer whispered their secrets soft and low into our ears. The the divine goddesses whom we had worshiped for so long, had turned their golden faces from us and crushed our prayers beneath their heels.  We watched as the stars fell from the sky and the moon hung her head in misery.  Our tears left our faces wet and our eyes red with grief.  No longer the chosen.  No longer the loved.

One by one, we stood in silence, effigies of our previous lives.  The winds no longer moved our hair, but instead carved time upon our cheeks.  The flowers, denuded of their petaled poetry, turned their faces to the earth and the leaves once full of life, fell at our stony feet.

We stand, silent sentinels of a time when magic wove its way through our very veins.

ceg 10.1.11

At the Garden, by the Gate

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .


My dearest Johannes,

There is a chance that I shall be able to find you yet.  I leave the islands today and should be in your fair city soon.  I can only hope that you will find it in your heart to greet me with open arms and a smile.  It has been a lifetime since I last felt your kiss brush against my skin and your whispers in my ear.  When I think of it, I tremble like a silly school girl.

I do remember that night we spent on the rooftop with stars above us and the glimmering of the lights from the city below us.  You said that the light made my skin glow.  I believe it is you who made my skin glow that night.  I can almost feel your mouth on mine, plucking it like some ripe fruit and savoring it at your leisure.  You had to keep your mouth on mine to keep me silent, lest some nosy passerby thought I were being ravaged against my will.

Do you still have that book of poetry that I gave you?  It took so long to write all of my favorite verses down for you.  That bit of a lyric that you loved so much; I never could find it and place it in the book for you, though I tried so hard.  I remember it was about a  rare flower found in a valley by a knight for his fair lady.

I never did believe Madeline when she told me that you had left.  I knew that no power could keep you from me and that you must have been taken by force.  Conscripted into the army, no doubt.  Set sail on some loathsome ship with wretched captors.  Or perhaps it was a robbery gone wrong that found you in the hands of some foul misanthrope.  It makes me shudder.  The thought of you being held against your will; my name upon your lips as you fought to get away.

I dream of you every night and know that I have at last found a trace of you.  I am saddened that your ordeal has erased my memory from you, but I am confident when you see me again, you will once again embrace me with the same vigor you held me all those years ago.

Until then, I leave you with this

In spring’s fair winds you seek me
Trembling to behold thee
In white linen’s sheaths I wait
At the garden by the gate
And when beheld by your eyes
I shall be your bonny prize
Your treasured love hast returned
Upon my heart your name is burned
  Fetch me now, I pray
  And by your side I’ll stay

Your Trijntje

ceg 2.20.12

Chameleon’s Conundrum (a villanelle) a poem about a cold-blooded animal


i had a curious dream last night
of a chameleon shifting greens and blues
in the lovely pale moonlight

his beauty was my sweet delight
changing, mixing lovely hues
i had a curious dream last night

he began to speak, his words took flight
he asked me how i could choose
in the lovely pale moonlight

to stay one color, was it right
that one should win and the others lose
i had a curious dream last night

he then gulped a dragonfly in just one bite
chewing slowly, he began to muse
in the lovely pale moonlight

i think it sad with all my might
that you can’t simply become chartreuse
i had a curious dream last night
in the lovely pale moonlight

cegl 4.24.16

She Warms Him On The Darkest Nights (a sonnet)

William-Adolphe_Bouguereau_(1825-1905)_-_La_Nuit_(1883)William-Adolphe Bouguereau

She warms him on the darkest nights
His face silvered by the moon’s caress
Velvet darkness sings sweet-dreamed delights
He plummets deep into Morpheus’ abyss
Diana, huntress, leads the chase
Through forest deep and moonlit meadows
To catch him ere he turns his face
And forgets she who keeps him close
He shudders within her sheltering arms
She pulls him closer to her breast
As he succumbs to her nightly charms
His face, his form softly possessed
With each dawn, dark dreams fracture
Limbs entwined, sweetest rapture

cegl  4.22.16