The Cepia Club Blog

The Cepia Club Blog: The Cepia Club believes individual awareness and activism can lead to a peaceful and prosperous world. This blog contains the pertinent literature, both creative and non-fiction, produced by the Cepiaclub Director and its associates.

Monday, September 21, 2020

The Amy Trilogy--Three Poems by Pi Kielty


The Amy Trilogy

Three Poems

By Pi Kielty



By Pi Kielty

For Amy

They swam tempest rain for the stars,

She his own Venus, he her Mars.

Above those clouds, they did swim far

Became their own, though short the hours.

The fondest tones, their gentle talk,

Escape they made from Thief the Clock.

Throwing all fears, those twining knots;

Holding their hands, they swam not walked.

Last no chances, T'is not the time;

Stealing thunder, the clock unwinds,

they speak hope's words, with hopeful minds.

Heavy rain, pattered all the chimes.

And as they swam to higher realms,

Embraced in views, sharing spells,

They did no wrong, to hear no bells.

Fleeing time's rain, they swim too well.


By Pi Kielty

For Amy

Falling in lonely winding time,

That ribbon which all things will bind.

She grabbed my hand, I hit no wall.

Her clasping bond, doth holds my fall.

Dropping together, direct through;

Hope for time may travel far, too.

And yet, we falling, we may'st share

Those fates a'falling. Can time dare?

May we move on, past timing strife,

Overcoming time's shorted life,

We may fall up, or fall far down.

Together we fall. Time unbound.

Tremble: A Pory

By Pi Kielty

For Amy

Trudging my field, that green smell lifts with quiet heat. No clouds to blind my sun, July hammering, my hair undone.

No hat, no sleeves, no covering of leaves, my feet and soul naked, but a flower unseen. The heat burns my steady heart beat, my sweaty quest to find the thrown seed. Finding not the bud I tossed, the wind had waft-blown my soul. My time, now lost.

I know it lives, here, somewhere, that flowering seed, without voice. “I MUST find IT! For love of GOD!” I decree. But I never make my better choice. My deed must find me.

My mortality beckons, and I in broken stand. “I wish it became my time,” says this sorrowed man.

Near the coming cloud from the west, the sun creeps low, down earthly crest. The wind blows its early hint of storm. I trodden home forlorn, self-hating, and alone.

“I hope my blossom freely given, not to change, scorn, or own.”

I approach the oak tree, and I rest on grass, in front the fields, the shade's last grasp. Night won't reveal. Here I sit and I fail my cry, unheard, unnoticed, as daytime dies. In the breeze, now strong but still warm, the hay waves like great water, its green dusky caps, a lathering foam.

Does god bless my, these eyes! In the field's edge, I see a flicker-color, my one near the hedge. Too far to touch, too grandly unspoiled, I look at you; color pink, form; my passion boils. Your petals arch, then they embrace, like wind. I clench my eyes, my mind clearing, your stem: sobbing me with rain, and I relent feeling. I know this pain.

In our eyes, we look, and I say, “I can't help loving you.”

Then you return instead, “I know, but I won't stay.” I tremble sad still. Then, from us, we turn away.


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