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.
