coddled by mountains watercolor skyline we have forgotten the artist but recall the art on a wall, set apart while all the while Cézanne lies face down in a field surrounded, coddled by mountains carefully crafted by the same god he helped re-create ** seaside ministrations bundled warm and dry midst the juniper subtle scents of pine and lavender blend to blunt the violence of raging surf and the winds that lament with banshee song first days of February, tides carry reminders of winter’s devastations flotsam mottles waves snowflakes cascade white blur the aplomb of the horizon line springtide seems so far away, here amongst the rocks and sand, no driftwood dry enough to light a fire no reeds to weave a holy rood nor to silence the dogged banshee keen the poet has denied these soft suicides of the mind many times before, seeking seaside ministrations to mollify the ebb inside a soul yearning for love ** tablet of Jade inscribe my name on a tablet of Jade tell me i will be great tell me i will be sage for in my mind’s eye i see clouds cross the sky shaped like Qilin shaped like Buddha and there is sunlight and joy in my breath and so many secrets of birth, of death •• currents unseen oh to be able to summon a wind make buoyant the butterflies on currents unseen oh if but to catalyze the way the day would whisper the leaves to sizzle oh to just be in silence with me surrounded by butterflies filling the skies gamboling to the music of trees ** resilience under a hoary winter sky where all things hide away or bury themselves to die i recall the resilience of daylilies and i am thawed by memories of such beauty how soft things might yet blossom despite the falling of another wanton snow ** only what isn’t words dissolve ‘neath the enormity of truth return to their essence motes midst stardust an excuse for recalling existence something once called love though there is no proof of creation or destruction only what isn’t what was and what shall never be again ** soliloquy for the Unnamed this fretful night delights in the knowing chide of an owl’s call, who? indeed, more precise to ask, for whom? as such nameless Villains lurk in darkness never to share their ancient eponyms; ‘tis power potent in a name, ‘tis power to unmask, to reveal, to dissemble, yet when hellfire claims their ashes, remnants of their utterance, victims of their hate, portentous Fates lay waste to mortal claims; there is no love song, nor ode to a god in the full light of day which can undo that which is done or rename the Unnamed.
***
PS Conway returned to poetry in 2020 after a long hiatus from writing.
Since then, his words have attracted an ardent community of readers. To date, PS has published 29 poems across 2 online journals and 10 poetry anthologies, one of which was an Amazon Best Seller.
PS plans to publish his first poetry anthology “Echoes Lost in Stars” in early 2024 through an independent literary press. Details coming late 2023.
PS finds fascination in language birthed from dark, literate, and emotive places. In his free time, he fancies himself a rockstar, jamming on his drum kit, and a wannabe sommelier, savoring Napa cabs with his wife Susan.
