PROMISES

Promises:

And promise you of all such things,
That make off with my heart;
From words–sweet breath– It gasps, then sings
The praises promise carts.

And never shall I go without
A rose upon my leave;
Nor never may I be allowed
An unkind word to breathe.

I’ve kept from all intrusive sayings
Directed towards the self;
For promises from angels lay
The laurels of inner wealth.

And always is a roasted fowl
Prepared with loving care;
Among the cameline I vow:
To starve, I would not dare.

How tender tongue makes calm the mind, entreats the heart to wish–
That promises of love may be fulfilled beyond a tryst.

Am I All That Someone Might Love? (So She Asks)

Am I all that someone might love?
She thought, whilst sulking in her chair;
Not one could hear the girl above
Her growing thick and ponderous air.

My nose is big and face too fat–
She thought, whilst plucking at the leaves;
If only I had this or that–
She climbed upon the fallen trees.

I’ve one too many freckles–
She came upon the lilies;
It’s no wonder they should heckle–
And the plains, at once, grew hilly.

If the sun had just shone stronger
On the morning of my birth;
Perhaps I’d fret no longer,
And be loved by all the earth.

And now she reached the ocean–
How she got there yet unknown;
Though she came upon a notion,
That her travels had foreshone:

If one has smelled a lily,
And climbed upon a tree;
Isn’t thinking rather silly?
You’d much prefer being free.

If one had plucked up all the leaves,
And wandered through the hills;
There’s much good there, you must believe,
And pleasant thoughts to fill.

And if one goes down by the sea,
And touches golden sand;
They must know all that came to be,
Is beautiful and grand.

And so she sat forth in her chair;
Still lost within her thoughts thereof;
And wondering with a wistful air,
If she was all that one might love.

The Big Green Mass

Windily and wildly! Like a sea made from leaves–
Its overgrown foam jumps forth as the tide
And drowns us–It does! Like a roving rural shower–
And so, clouds the senses; from each open side.

However, we love it–for though it hangs high
It sheds verdant light, from which we might draw–
A low glimpse of heaven, for each tired hour–
Renewed and excited; we look on in awe.

Yet windily and wildly! Who is it that lives–
Within it? A toucan? Or tiger, perhaps?
How is it with each of its ivy green towers,
The mass remains steady and safe from collapse?

No matter its size–Lo, no matter the shape,
It breathes in man’s poisons, releasing them clean,
It tends to its gardens and watercress flowers–
The good earth is loving–a thought plainly seen.

So fear not the jungle; and fear not the forest
Fear not the draws of a grand and green mass
Though do not disturb it–for then it devours–
O windily and wildly! Those trampling its grass!

Charles Brandon Pearson writes short stories and poetry, having published in Westward Quarterly Magazine of Illinois. He enjoys reading and drawing, and studies history at university. He hopes to continue on with writing as long as he can.