Garden Plots ~ sestina

 I found a sestina I forgot I wrote in 2009.  [I did find it when I looked at the label sestina.  So yay.]

 

Garden Plots

Not the ages of man, but of woman
occupy my thoughts in these passing hours,
passing now with no deliberate care
whatsoever, if once again the sleep
I seek mocks me tauntingly.  So it leaves
me mulling over the life I have made.

Was I ever that buoyant child who made
mud pies in the yard, cloning the woman
who could turn out a pie dotted with leaves
of flaky crust lovingly crafted hours
upon hours, perhaps even in her sleep,
nurturing body and soul with such care?

When in the springtime of my life, what care
did I have for the future?  As a maid
I was timeless, ageless, I slept the sleep
of innocence.  I blossomed into woman-
hood full of ideas to fill the hours
to bursting, all those green unfurling leaves.

A wandering vine took root and our leaves
entwined to form a sturdier plant, care-
fully nurtured and tended.  In the hours
of loving husbandry as we two made
a garden together, man and woman,
a sprout grew wild and free in our sleepy

valley plot.  Seasons pass as dreams in sleep;
a day dawns when our sprout ups-root and leaves
for new vistas.  This can hit a woman
hard, this bare nursery.  It took some care
to plant anew, germinating plans made
to stuff the once full but now hollow hours.

What was fallow bloomed in time; now the hours
weight lightly on my mind.  No time for sleep
it seems, as plantings old and new have made
an oasis in the desert.  New leaves
have turned, and if they are gold-tinged I care
not.  A mature garden suits this woman.

Happy is the woman who fills the hours
given her with care.  When she drifts asleep
to dreams of falling leaves, her peace is made.

Ellen Shipley (c) 2009

Sestina for a Crown - Fighter Poem - sestina

Sestina for a Crown

(sestina)

Well shaded from the vernal heat
And dangling on silken thread,
The leaf-bright tree worms sway and dream -
Oblivious to passers-by
Who pluck them off of breast or crown,
Intent upon the tourney field.

Assembled on the sun-drenched field
A host of fighters brave the heat
Presenting consorts to the Crown.
Entwined in one unbroken thread,
They stand that all might know them by
Their dedication to the Dream.

The least of fighters has his dream
Of besting on the battlefield
Each hapless knight who happens by;
He might be addled by the heat
Or following a Norn-spun thread
That leads him to a kingdom's crown.

The king who bears the crescent crown,
Acceding to his fondest dream,
Will weave it with a common thread
That binds contenders on the field:
Cool heads that temper battle heat
And trust to skill to carry by.

The consorts silently stand by
And try to dwell not on the crown
That shimmer wraith-like in the heat -
To all but one a hopeless dream.
Well-wishes they try best to field
While through murk woods their thoughts do thread.

In tattered cloth or silken thread,
The populace will know him by
His chivalry upon the field
That brings to one a princely crown:
The culmination of a dream
That finishes with evening's heat.

Rosemary thread into a crown;
Good will for-by the one whose dream
To win the field transcends heart's heat.

-- Mistess Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

~*~

My first sestina.

Conde Cristian del Leon Rampante - Fighter Poem - sestina

Conde Cristian del Leon Rampante
fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S. XXXVII

What is the Worth of a Knight...?

(sestina)

What is the worth of a knight in battle
If it is not to favor his lady
In honorable combat on the field?
She trusts to his skill to advance their claim
To the Crescent Crowns on this august day.
He can hope to do no more in her eyes.

So it was Cristian gazed in Crystal's eyes
And cast his lot to the lists of battle,
Hoping to grace her brow at the end of day
With rosemary fit for a king's lady.
To accomplish this task and press his claim
Sir Cristian strode forth to face the field.

Reyni-Harekr chose him from the field
Of knights and others fresh with shining eyes
Upon the royal prize that each would claim
If the fates were kind. And so the battle
Was engaged for honor of his lady,
The first of many battle of the day.

In victory Chistian began his day
Advancing toward his second battle field
With a smile and wave for his lady
Fair. But who should taunt him with such twinkling eyes
Of mischief but his squire, come to battle
With the leontine sire and win acclaim.

James the merry trickster did press his claim
Home. Cristian had his first loss this day,
Next Rudolph Fekter went down in battle
And Cristian recovered on the field,
And Snorri Snarfari Bjornson's eyes
Went white, laid low before his fair lady.

But Sven Orfhendur honored his lady
And Cristian retired his regal claim.
Although he was a champion in her eyes
The Rampant Lion did not win the day
For Crystal, and the two must quit the field.
But there is always another battle.

To do battle for a favored lady
On the field: 'tis the hope to win acclaim
In all eyes, but especially hers, this day.

-- Mistress Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

...is an empty vessel for the muse.

Garden Plots - A Sestina

Garden Plots
(a sestina)

Not the ages of man, but of woman
occupy my thoughts in these passing hours,
passing now with no particular care
whatsoever, if once again the sleep
I seek mocks me tauntingly. So it leaves
me musing on the garden I have made.

Was I ever that bouyant child who made
mud pies out back, copying the woman
who could turn out a pie dotted with leaves
of flaky crust lovingly crafted hours
upon hours, perhaps even in her sleep,
nurturing body and soul with such care?

When in the springtime of my life, what care
did I have for the future? As a maid
I was timeless, ageless, I slept the sleep
of innocence. I blossomed into woman-
hood full of ideas to fill the hours
to bursting, all those green unfurling leaves.

A wandering vine took root and our leaves
entwined to form a sturdier plant, care-
fully nurtured and tended. In the hours
of ernest husbandry as we two made
a garden together, man and woman,
a sprout grew wild and free in our sleepy

valley plot. Seasons pass as dreams in sleep;
a day dawns when our sprout ups-root and leaves
for new vistas. This can hit a woman
hard, this bare nursery. It took some care
to plant anew, germinating plans made
to stuff the once-full but now-hollow hours.

What was fallow bloomed in time; now the hours
weigh lightly on my mind. No time for sleep
it seems, as plantings old and new have made
an oasis in the desert. New leaves
have turned, and if they are gold-tinged I care
not. A mature garden suits this woman.

Happy is the woman who fills the hours
given her with care. When she drifts asleep
to dreams of falling leaves, her peace is made.

--Ellen Shipley (c) 2009