Flewelling - Enticing my delight: a third collection

Enticing
My Delight a third collection WILLIAM FLEWELLING AuthorHouse 1663 Liberty Drive Bloomington, IN 47403 www.authorhouse.com Phone: 1-800-839-8640 2012 by William Flewelling. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author. Published by AuthorHouse 06/21/2012 ISBN: 978-1-4772-2829-6 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-4772-2828-9 (e) Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911304 Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Certain stock imagery Thinkstock. Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them. Contents Again, The Maple At Price
Ridge Crossing The Pacing At The Pacing
Of The Queue Watching The Thunderstorm
Blow Through Poems, once written, take on their own life. They become poets, writing on the mind and heart of the reader who comes to them. I find readers wonder what brought up the poem, wanting to get behind the poem to some sort of something the poet had in mind or upon the soul that caused the poem. Certainly, something was seen or felt or heart or imagined that caused the poem to happen. In the process of writing, there are always nouns and pronouns that are used.

In particular, there is the ubiquitous use of the first person singular: I. As my friend, Guy Kettelhack is wont to protest, the poems I is not necessarily the poet; the poem is not its own poet but may possess its own I independent of the poet. Although the use of he or she is generally apt for a male or female person, you can be anyone. You is typically used for the second person, the one addressed; but you also can be a most general reference to somebody, undisclosed and unidentified. And I is generally best understood as the implied speaker in any given poem; as such it may as well be the poem itself as speaker. I would have these poems write their meaning within the experience of the reader, for that is where the poem comes to life.

William Flewelling The ridges cross, a crest along the main road where the maple stands just past that rise. While other trees remain a mottled blend of greens, these branches sprawl in upper, outer display to cap the span in red and orange splendor. Splashed against the skieshost blue and grey of late September this singular array lends startling presence as the crest commands the road. WCF 21 September 2011 Again, The Maple At Price
Ridge Crossing The rising maple branches, bare and stark in Autumn moods, lift up the rood-like stare to screen the deep green witness of the firalmost a shadow on the overcast that substitutes today for sky. The contrast in the trees, the spare insistence of autumnal haunts begins austerity in spite of evergreen serenity. WCF 26 October 2011 At the proper time she rides her daddys strong arm to join her mother, yearn within the pleas the readiness to stay.

She brings her own display of eagerness: a squirm and reach, a little word, a random smile, a greeting cross the pew to win a gracious smile, articulate in wanton glee community. WCF 23 May 2010 The silver jack-o-lanterns dangle, dance in aerie evidence of flight. I note the orange laid behind the eyes, a mote of hint and haunt beside the point. A chance conditioning allows these lanterns room to muster their illusion in the mist and cover of the hour. They bounce and twist to cast their spell on gloaming as on gloom. I watch the prescient focus duly weave a charm along the throat, invite a brief insistence, wonder over distance, lure retention by such easy flightthese leave their jaunty, toying, even coy relief to play disarmingly, establish cure.

WCF 7 October 2011 Intrinsic words must circulate between adaptive faces while the afternoon sun gleams to grace these glances that caress a cheek and trace a smile, interrogate an innocence preserving each residual propensity for life in dalliance and pause. Along the pleasantries we share trajectories appropriate for care on manifolds untouched, tangential to the crush undared, become the ciphers for the deep amenities unspoken here, or ever in the lush hush owned we must maneuver around shied lair. WCF 24 May 2010 from watching Emma Thompsons Wit The irony of stalking death with wit, discovering within archaic lines the sinews of experience, whose tines prove vanities too blatantly to fit remorse: there in the study, deeply wrought in understanding how the rhetoric of sonnets must expose the sinews thick inside the muse on writthere death lies fraught. Too young, the scholar wrestles death by Donne and learns the tender tendons living weaves in unexpected mien among these trails too young as death deposes Donne to run supposed courses, agoniesto reave the mysteryand yet, unwoven, fail. WCF 29 June 2005 Along our walk the barking dogs are gonemoved to another ridge. The llamas are some other place and those four horses are removed, the winter done and pastures green again, and empty.

I see the birds the darting swallows, scurrying swift killdeer, soaring vultures, streaking black crows, sometimes an arcing hawk, a turkey. A deer or so will play and dash away. A groundhog, chipmunk disperse in haste at Arthurs scent. And Arthur is attentive where the long grass thickens in the ditch and floribunda roses drape their blossom briars in looping arcs along the bramble slopes. I look, but no ones pasturing their stock along my road this year. Theres none to cast an eye, nor snort, nor shy.

WCF 24 May 2010 The onions fumble, hand to quickly grasping hand as from one stretch aside and up the trailing hand sweeps suddenly to catch mid-fall the onion lost. Within emergency so felt, response so swift, the muscles in the neck and arm, the shoulder, thigh (and more, Im sure) snap flexed into a vibrant poise of readiness to act. The onion caught, the whole relaxes as she sweeps into a sway of frame exhibiting control of everythingthe held and re-held onions, all alike within her spell. WCF 28 May 2010 I walk the side aisles, tour the outside corridors, the added pieces patched in place as extra space, perhaps as incidental when circulation takes its norm among the figures and faces holding place in plazas, gardens, those consensual centers known by all. I amble though as outer element aware of many tales within the forming epic but only from this aisle and corridor that all know is additional and purely liminal, as counted and uncounted the same as always, fondly a boundary watcher left in rudimentary composure, cipher-like. WCF 11 October 2011 Imagining the reading brought in snatches to collected verse the patient interludes when some relief is sought between the tunes impending to be sung on strings the violin provides, the dull insistence that some headway flow according to the promise made, perhaps a lingering on one or two, an undertow that draws the savor to a third, or forth.

Somewhere a smile, a frown, a pensive scowl, a tapping toe, a tongue insisting it must sound these rhythmic passions well enough to flesh in ear the images and metaphors, the tromping tropes of wandering asides. They may be fraught with anythingennui, confusion, pleasureas the troll of poems matriculates the mind. WCF 19 October 2011 The Coronation Alleluia asserts bold Handels vision, rings in choral pleasure, crossing back and forth across the chancel space while saturating all the hall in joyous praise. At altar rail the lifted eyes behold the faces exposing choral pleasureone as one alight with inner swarm of glow, becoming as the bread is brought the emblem of a bliss inherent hereand as the cup draws near affirms the near sublime ascension unto sheer delight. WCF 30 May 2010 One checker lies along the floor, at tile edge as the hearth ends, floor begins. It lies at angle, catching the lightso still as elsewhere tries the afternoon congestions, such as seems to come in murmur and in chatter, laughter, commotion, beeps at register and clatter of coins, the thump of this and thatthe piece in red lies still, oblivious to other things that this arrest on nothingness in quiet stand beyond the din.