Hymns from Under the Beaver Moon

Saph's works for Leo's daily poetry.

 **i. 30/11**

*a triolet.*

Ripples echo away from the moon

As the tide tickles the shore

There is no sound, safe for cry of a loon

Ripples echo away from the moon

In the night sky, stars are strewn

Nothing here for one to abhor

Ripples echo away from the moon

As the tide tickles the shore

 **ii. 01/12**

*an ekphrasis of Claude Monet's "The Magpie"
Alexandrine*

Alone at dawn, perched tranquilly upon the gate

In company only of the winter sun, late

A spill of ink on ceramic snow, soft like wool

and white like the buttermilk sky, so dreamful

Is a magpie, as he calls his raspy chatter

No one to hear him, but, no, it does not matter

So he goes on cawing, cawing until evening

where he will quiet down once more until dawn

 **iii. 02/12**

*a rondel*

You can really never know

If folks are worthy of your trust

For in your tea, sharp and robust,

Could be poison, introduced by a foe

Due to having been hurt some long time ago,

Or something you'd said over which they had fussed

You can really never know

If folks are worthy of your trust

For some the deceit can easily show,

But this traitor could be one after which you lust

So be cautious, you must

and think, as you see the pearly gates, their glow:

You can really never know.

 **iv. 03/12**

*a lento poem
feeling some kind of way about someone again*

I will love you like the sun loves the moon,

But the sun has never known the night

Or the cold light of the one she loves

Shut out this glow do the dawn and the dusk

Morning birds, they sing to her celestial songs

Just as the wind sings to sails the songs of the sky

To pull further from the firmer shore

Must it really be this way, should your love not have been mine?

 **v. 04/12**

*a dizain*

Look at what you've done, I hope you're ashamed

What did i do to you to deserve this?

My little world, a hearth, all burnt and flamed

Before I met you was a time of bliss,

Times of a distant past that I now miss.

You were the ruthless, wild tides of the sea,

Drowning out what it could mean to be free.

You never thought to care, your heart, a heath.

You tore me to shreds and shattered me,

But not once did you ever bare your teeth.

 **vi. 05/12**

*a sad attempt at a palindrome poem*

Take me to the skies

Where the auroras and stars do shine by night

where reside songbirds and seabirds, the wind and clouds

Where the sun and moon give the world their light

Far from the world that is cruel and loud

A quiet land of celestial delight

It seems so peaceful, silent, and yet proud.

How i would wish to take flight, to go there.

 **vii. 06/12**

*a chant royal*

A reverie of apricot mornings in jars

Of cornflower days, and sugar plum nights

A cheese wheel moon and powdered sugar stars

And moth orchid birds that go together in flight

Of Snowshoe hares and northern stoats

With silky and dogwood white coats

To be lost in the soft, silken embrace

Of winter morning mist, frost made of lace

and drifting floe on the aegean sea

To hear passerine sing in all their grace

What a divine dream it would be.

In the tattered pages of old memoirs

Lay secrets that thought they'd never see light

of warbling larks and of whistling nightjars

of the fiery, cutting soar of a kite

of wide fields full of growing oats

of storms who rattle the mast of sailboats

with howling winds that could outpace

tumbling leaves that left without trace

from their home in the branch of a tree

and to join the gale's playful chase

What a divine dream it would be.

Among the wee songs of weathered guitars

A ballad of the sea and sun so bright

of colorful bandages patching scars

ghost stories told around fire by night

of sundresses and frilly petticoats

and digging, in the beach sand, tiny moats

photographs of a smiling, sunburnt face

memories of reeling, from the river, a dace

of gently chasing away a beach flea

to shift the blame for a broken vase

What a divine dream it would be.

In the woven chiffon of a peignoir

are shared stories of ruin and of blight

no more are those times, memories of ours

now we run free in the meadows, not a danger in sight

with everlasting dreams of pages strewn with notes

and lackadaisically sharing silly anecdotes

among the wildgrass which the rains abase

picking flowers to pot and to set atop a bookcase

and look at from the table, with herbal tea

I wish to escape, to go anywhere, someplace

What a divine dream it would be.

And as one follows a dim lodestar

and travels by a weak starlight

a memory will remain in an unkempt bazaar

only to return in a time of plight

of calm rivers with docks that keep boats

tied, to stop them from running away with the floats

of decks of cards who are missing an ace

and maybe as well, or two, a face

of releasing a little bird, letting it be free

and remembering what used to dwell in this place

What a divine dream it would be.

There is nothing that could ever replace

the sweet times of childhoods that new memories erase

Looking through old things that held memories, we'll see

just how many wonderful things took place

What a divine dream it would be.

 **viii. 07/12**

*skipping concrete poetry*

 **ix. 08/12**

*skipping a pantoum*

 **x. 09/12**

*skipping a diminished hexaverse*

 **xi. 10/12**

*three couplets*

You thought it was funny, you who rule all these lands,

To see me, a peasant, suffer by your hands.

When soldiers are marching off to war,

A crow in search of carrion does soar.

I watched as the rope frayed, we were so happy then—

Truth of the matter is, I'll never see them again.

 **xii. 11/12**

*a rondeau*

Me, a monster, born to hurt

They taught me to never bare my teeth,

Told me always to ignore the calls from underneath

I wanted to be good, and hide the dirt,

So i followed the orders they would assert,

They cannot order me anymore, but i remain tame.

My spirits did they subvert

By shackling me to keep my claws in their sheath,

For me to break out was all but uneath

And yet i still never feel free, staying so curt.

They cannot order me anymore, but i remain tame.

 **xiii. 12/12**

*a sonnet*