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POETRY ABOUT AND
IN THE SYLE OF
EMILY DICKINSON
Sponsored By
By Dakota Balmore
EMILY'S THOUGHTS [OPUS 654]
Before the dawn the birds awoke.
The day - they knew - cried out for song.
'Cause thoughts of mine rushed about,
Refusing ne'r to form a row.
And as my hand - at latter time
Coerced my pen with gentle stroke,
I found that wood had turned to stone -
Resist! Resist! No stance.
A well-known fright pierced my heart
Where no sound did shape the sense.
A larger fear came from the past
To mold - to stay - to numb.
Then rose the demon doubt
To split my "self" in two -
I turned at once to his great truth -
To mend - the two - to one.
To weigh my "self" - a doubtful task,
To jump onto my scaly pan -
Yet - let me on another's scale -
Will see me sued for loss.
If the world grows close to deaf -
And shuns away the melody -
Then I will still be filled with song
To know he listens - listens on.
Dakota Balmore © 5/20/98 (Revised 8-30-00)
MY SIZE FELT SMALL TO ME [OPUS 655]
I looked to see my inner self
Beyond my mirror there.
A sight so plain and simple then -
I barely drew the air.
I looked again - a second see -
And spied a tiny speck.
Though size was built of hefty three
My size felt small to me.
My arms were taut -
My legs were weak -
My heart was caught -
My skin was deep.
My mentz was there deep inside
A growth - too small to feel.
And in his light of greater guise -
My size felt small for me.
As others picked and picked their way
Into the nested one.
They found a lith of glowing size
And told the world the same.
The world gave praise for efforts done
through deeply planted seeds.
And picked the fruits of size - they claimed -
My size felt small to me.
Dakota Balmore © 5/20/98 (Revised 8-30-00)
MY GOLD [OPUS 658]
How easily her hands toil for her.
My sister's dexterous movements
finishes each household task
as an expert's deft hand
once finished the Mona Lisa.
Vinnie dishevels the dust better than I.
Her culinary skills surpass mine.
Everything womanly surges
past my level of competence
as a trained thoroughbred horse
surges past one of the wild.
In the depths of my lonely mine,
I burrow in awe of her housely command,
Extracting only ineptitude
in the shadow of her capable lode.
But, deep in my articulate shaft,
I am the reigning mistress!
For spinning gold to paper is my aim.
An alchemist of the arts,
turning thoughts to golden ink…
a waste to those of lesser vision.
But I live among the poor.
I correspond with the indigent.
To meld with another alchemist's aim,
would be a loftier aim for me.
To tie it up with bows of yellow love,
would be life's perfection realized!
If luck were gold then Elizabeth
is the luckiest scribe of all.
Vinnie is better able to survive this life,
but I, dear Sis, the better to adorn it!
Dakota Balmore © 5/24/98 (Revised 8-26-00)
email graphic by Victoriana.com,
A Victorian Antique Marketplace
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