craft

My 11th trisect—And pure metaphor, apparently. Segment one depicts the word, or more specifically the morpheme. Segment two depicts the line, as in a line of poetry. And segment three depicts the process of writing poetry. Talk about abstract.

   craft

   rock

pressed in ancient beds of granite, slate and limestone,
         latent meaning morphs through dreamless sleep,
   eventually to break the rolling waves and rise
      from out the heavy hollows of the deep.

            eons steadily reveal
   frameworks laid beneath the ground,
         raw potentials long concealed.

rugged hands reflect on broken bits of earth,
         weathered through millenniums of doubt,
   and dimly sense potentials waiting undiscerned,
      conceptions to be learned and reasoned out.

            soon flames are tamed in hearthstone mounds,
   grains are pounded into meal,
         and slings are armed with small gray rounds.
 

   artifacts

barrows seal the homes where bones return to dust;
         dolmens house the disembodied dead—
   expressions raised to honor dear departed blood,
      conveyed throughout millenniums of dread.

            boundaries birth a web of walls,
   stretched throughout diverse terrain,
         enclosing keeps and township halls.

hallowed chambers echo whispers, murmured rites.
         columns vault gray shadows to a haze,
   and effigies defy the cruelties of time
      amid the slow decline of ancient ways.

            castles rise on golden plains
   and mountain palaces enthrall
         ridge tops in the sunset’s wane.
 

   trace

ages past are carved and mortared into place,
         stacked against the ravages of wear,
   impressions left to echo long forgotten days
      across the centuries of grueling care.

            quarries reach through hidden lodes
   for raw materials to build
         nascent hopes and strong abodes.

waters feed the ducts of resolute invention,
         wind buffets walls of praise and grave regret,
   towers guard their gates from sinister intention,
      bridges keystone over streams and vales. and yet

            each rigid monument of skill
   brick by stone in time erodes,
         erasing every act of will.

moods

My 128th ghazal, inspired by a woman with deep brown eyes.

moods

a clarity settles deep in her soft amber eyes
and peace wells up from nearly fathomless eyes

adventure lures the heart to the mystery
of sidelong glances cast from her earthen eyes

imagination paves her path with promise
where patience lightly walks with brownstone eyes

hope found refuge under the feathery green
of one long look into her mahogany eyes

she cheers the sunbathed home of inspiration
with a glittering veneer of cherry-wood eyes

love tastes of strawberry kisses beneath dark curls
coated with the cream of her dark chocolate eyes

compassion sways against the sprawling skies
praying up to the stars with terrestrial eyes

Instead of qafiya, or that species of rhyme that occurs just before the radif (refrain), I used words loosely hyponymous with the color brown for an associative parallelism.