Orb II: The Last of the Poems by Byron Wayne Scott - HTML preview
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Foreword our love grew further apart. Perhaps it was only for The harsh, winter months That we had generated a warmth for each other, A warmth that was as sincere as any love That had blossomed during the spring. For us the snow was truth. We needed nothing else. For even though the moon had Deserted us, we still had our light, An aura which we had created for ourselves That reflected from the pure snow And made us realize that we did indeed love. But with the coming of a new season Our love vanished without reason And we wept those warm spring days. Yet no one weeps these summer days The past is past and lies somewhere hidden In sadder memories meant only to forget. Another has taken her place, and Though the colorful spring flowers have Turned to dust, we have more than Made up for it within our own visions of grandeur. The obstruent game of love has fallen Unnoticed somewhere along the road, and Neither I nor she will return to usurp it. For we have gained our own pleasures In an existence that is not true love, yet Is far more than love. We find joy in the Blossoming trees that bear sweet and gentle fruit, And treasure the moments together on the Glistening grains of sand that line the calm sea. And we are happy and find that life is indeed wonderful. And no one weeps these summer days. Sunshine Twiddle-dee-dee, twiddle-dee-doe Sun shine so well so Master Pink come faded think And went on to so well so Dippity-dee, dippity-dee Dew shine on we to we Oh, do shine master mine Fine to wee on wee Well said come to bread Think we all came on dead Sunshine down mind Find we all gone on bed Evening Eternal mist of the evening sun Relinquish not your love-spawned glow Now there is no other for us to know Man finally did it; the moon is gone But as Ahab chased the great white whale The sun will rise, then sink low Peter Pan will never grow old And life will come and life will go Oh evening, my evening Reassure me that you won’t be hushed For you are something that man cannot touch The hope that man needs so much Vernal Fields It was in vernal fields of flowing wheat Where we happily caressed the gentle earth And bounded together in spurts Of joyous somersaults In little time we lay motionless Upon the ground, as if wounded By a sterling arrow And we recaptured our breath Now through sylvan meadows I tediously trod the ground Recalling memories of yesterday and yore Those happy days long since past When we blessed ourselves with the Creation of Baby upon this very spot And I long to live again those days Of sunshine and frolic now spent When all we meant to do was love Flamenco Dancer Flamenco dancer Siesta time is over And we can only get older Tired and creaky As squeaks grow in our voices And we wait for you to dance Demigod of movement The strobe is in red There is spinning in our heads So inflict our minds With delirium and heat As the music peaks Draws breath inside to prison And your rhythm grows Quicker and sharper Your movement much finer Than any who have danced before And then in an instant it’s gone The music is over And breath is set free And outside we all hate you For not being immortal For not taking us past That one climatic height That leads to eternity We all hate you Flamenco dancer You can get better But strange as it seems Don’t take us past That one frustrating point Or our will to live will vanish Prism Violet A small warming of the heart As if budding on a bright spring day And the yearning to bloom into A passion-filled blossom of unfathomable feeling For one who ignites strange sensations In an otherwise cold, swirl-minded stone I posses the hope of all mankind That I may break free from the grasp That holds me indifferent and all alone In the decision to ignore the heart And obey the mind So that I may avoid being hurt Indigo But now I sense all hope slipping away As it seems to be getting eaten alive By a cold storm from the north The girl who had broken in and Stolen a small fragment of my heart Moves away at an incredible speed And I once again seek seclusion That I may hide in unknown depths That have never before been reached by man Blue And now I have reached That barren bottom of solitude No one may penetrate My indestructible shield from society Only a chosen one could ever Destroy the outer force That shuns my mind from others For the only path to my heart Is through my mind Where I can rationalize Whether my heart could ever Withstand the onslaught of love Green Somehow a force pricks my mind And the sunshine seeps through My outer shell to rekindle the spark That had lied dormant for so many years I see before me a face that seems To glow naturally in my presence And communications between us Acknowledge that fact And that cold north wind departs From a heart now aflame Yellow The forests and flowers have come alive As new dimensions explode within me The singing of the birds creates Strange sensations in symphony And the music of her voice Tells me she loves me And my mind cannot overlook Or degrade that love as we swoon Beneath the rippling waters of the Seine And imagine ourselves designing Beautiful new patterns from the Thousand different multi-hued flakes of snow That blankets each new fold of warmth That develops between us Orange And we wander aimlessly Through the spring-time fragrance Of lush valleys and sparkling waters And pick out one vernal spot Made especially for us And devour the glittering warmth Red And passions have grown so great Between us, the understanding Between the mind and heart so all Encompassing, that we can ignore The physical love no longer And as we frolic naked through all the Unspoiled reaches of the earth And unify ourselves to search our minds Ecstatically with wonderment curiosity To become one with ourselves And complete with nature In order to discover the Real depths of true love We find that our attachment goes so deep As to be incomprehensible That the joys of the mind and body Will never be put into any words except “I love you” Winter/Madcap The first hush of winter resounded across the earth, deep into the vast millenniums of past existence, and far into the abysmal reaches of universal space; the beauty of it colossal, breathtaking to the perception of all human witnesses. The winter itself was warm and wise, simple and sanctified; pure to the conceived minds of those who understood. Yet it was cold and desolate, bleak and barren; dead to the mass of people who gave no thought as to why there was a winter. Time it was when the seeds of ignorance spilled upon the earth in cancerous tones, and the masses of people crucified what they could not comprehend. But mutual ignorance has no faults, so few realized that winter meant the birth of life. There then came a day when there was no winter, when there was no birth; and when spring came, it found nothing being born. Morning, and Madcap sat on Seventh Avenue He snickered a whisper “God, she’s awful” And said he’d rather have Craig Then burped and coughed And lit another cigarette Said he was free to do what he wants That he’d soon die someday anyway Primitive, lonely Madcap A demon spawned by winter Chased into the East Side By teeming millions Who subdued him when he said “I’m free” That they’d never had a thought in their life Oh, poor, perverted Madcap Unable to digest That terrible thirst for truth He reaches out to grasp The meaning of man That he may understand And so he travels once again To that foreign land of Seventh Avenue And says, “Man if life, life is free” And again he is chased into the East Side By teeming millions who say “You’re not free, you’re not life” And then he dies And the day had come When there was no freedom And there was nothing to understand There was no life Mourning Song Sleep and dream Then reawake to the realities Which make us want to love For it is hard to know Which harmonies eclipse the sun Then make us want to run In search of frolic and fun Beneath the bewildered notes Of an unfinished symphony And how we hopefully hope to find The gossamer wings of a velvet butterfly When the day is night, and the skies are black But we will fight to win our love back To be perched atop those love-strewn wings As each lover’s pair laughs and sings And brings something to the world You have yet to bring me Dulcimer Suite Thank-you for this dance Thank-you It is so hard to leave My symphony composed And arose for you And we danced to the tune And wondered if it was true But now the song has played out And for words we failed to say I feel that I must go away Rhapsody Recurrences of times that were Times When all I meant to do Was make you happy To make you happy And I did But dreams of future times Embrace me once again And resound across that timeless warp Enhance me to take that enlightened step And leave And I take my leave To go One Year Hence One year hence And come I once again To the land of Bethel And all remains are gone And I ask myself if had been real The fields of corn Sparkle in the wind As so many people once did But is it a fitting end To go down through the ages A fable As 40th century children ask “Mommy, Was Woodstock real?” A Poem for Hillary Mellow morning: Peach sunlight, the illumine auburn Casting silver shadows between Fading autumn verdure Frolicsome in the long night You lit my face with a smile And my mind reached out to grasp That fleeing optimism for love (thank-you and thank you all, And I hope I shall always be welcome) A Daydream You were Running through the snowflakes Glowing proudly A smile upon your face Then came to me In a dream-like trance (coat snug warm) And seized my arms and cast me Into those wintery patterns Where I quickly lost your sight Fading in the falling flakes My mind then And anthology of thoughts So I settled back into The snow Coffin depth And restedThese are the last of the poems that I wrote during a three and a half year time span beginning in September of 1967. Orb II contains all of the poetry that was written during the 2nd half of that time frame, the good poems and the bad ones. This volume contains some of my best work. A Champion Born and Flamenco Dancer are two of my personal favorites, along with the whimsical Sunshine; while Prism is arguably the biggest bunch of malarkey I have ever read. But then, what do I know? Over the past years, I’ve learned that what I like and what my critics like are two different animals. What the reader may notice while paging through this book is that towards the end of the volume the quality of the poems begins to slip. My excuse for this diminishing focus is that I had to get out on my own, explore life, and try to earn a living and put food and beer on the table. Suddenly, poetry did not seem so important to me. Still, all in all, I am very proud of what I accomplished during those years. I truly hope that some of these poems reach out and touch your heart, and bring a little sunshine to your day. Yours, B. Wayne Scott Orb II: The Last of the Poems 1 Rumplestiltskin…..March 1969 2 A Champion Born…..April 1969 3 One-eyed Man…..April 1969 4 No One Weeps…..June 1969 5 Sunshine…..June 1969 6 Evening…..July 1969 7 Vernal Fields…..October 1969 8 Flamenco Dancer…..January 1970 9 Prism…..February 1970 10 Winter/Madcap…..March 1970 11 Mourning Song…..April 1970 12 Dulcimer Suite…..May 1970 13 Rhapsody…..June 1970 14 One Year Hence…..September 1970 15 A Poem for Hillary…..October 1970 16 A Daydream…..November 1970 Rumplestiltskin Cold-hearted bubble of green hued tint Rise to the surface, shatter to mint Cover the surface with a cellophane ruse Make truth and wives easy to choose Indivisible nation all underground Let flowers and sunshine rise to the mound Illume the netherworld with a brilliant shine Let passions flow with a sweet tasting wine A time and a space for all evil and good But there is no evil, Hell has come as it would An insipid sky of colorless fright Put ghosts and goblins into the good night A startled world of hypocrisy Rumplestiltskin, what about vanity? Men and trolls and minds full of hate Cold-hearted bubble you will burst too late A Champion Born Across the prairie of desert grass The dust and loose-rooted soil arose And in one final cataclysmic moment It came together taking human form And a champion was born It was a miracle the old lepers Could not comprehend as they Watched from their ranch house. They turned away saying it was Merely a twister and besides, the Sun was near the horizon Making their eyes play tricks. Sensing the pessimistic presence The champion arose into the air And shot across the brown, leprose acres Toward the ranch house. He hovered outside the window As he watched the scowls on the Old peoples faces as they failed At trying to light the fire. The fantastic temperature change would Soon bring early death to the cursing lazars If no flame came to crackle in the fire place. But the champion felt compassion for the Stricken lazars and with a mere Thought the fire burst into flame. Each lepers eyes widened the Length of his face at the oddity And they lit out the door into the Frozen night never to be seen again Except by the lemurs. The champion thought deeply for A moment and then in an instant He shot high above the Earth into The lavender reaches of far space Where he exploded himself into a thousand Fragments that drifted forever through the cosmos. One-eyed Man Beware the one-eyed man His sadistic approaches To find contentment between The parted limbs of the Fair and soft skinned creature Bend and shape the heart As impulses and throbs, The sensation of the strobe Beware the one-eyed man Weaving back and forth In his struggle against hypocrisy He goes to Hell in one flaming Indiscreet streak of spark And then triumphantly returns From the dead But in his moment of silence He sees all good in man and love And then turns his back on them And drops out when he Realizes he may be the anti-hero Please, beware the one-eyed man No One Weeps We both wept, those warm spring days When love is fabled to flow like rivers For those already stricken, And blossom and grow For those less tender in emotion. It was a time when moisture laden trilliums Over-ran the meadows, and the sweet scent of Sage and myrrh defied the winds to push them away, While lavender made its pledge To crepe the processions of gowns or organdy. And that white obverse disk sat in the Proud, black sky for a seeming eternity And lit the path for the treasures of love. Yet