A Song Beneath Silence A Collection Of Poetry & Photography By Apryl Skies
Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House 13547 Ventura Blvd Sherman Oaks CA 91423 ISBN-10: 1451501412 ISBN-13: 978-1451501414 Apryl Skies Š 2009. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author. First published by AuthorHouse Printed in the United States of America Bloomington, Indiana This book is printed on acid-free paper. Written and Edited by Apryl Skies Cover art by Santino Ramos and Apryl Skies www.EdgarAllanPoet.com
Certain elements of this collection A Song Beneath Silence by Apryl Skies have been removed by the publisher to provide a preview of the original work. Some of the artwork contained within may not appear in later editions and/or may have been altered to black and white.
Table of Contents Lyrica Prologue Imprints – The Trilogy Crux Paper Dolls *The Way Eyes Skyward The Hours *A Simple Love Song For The Complicated Halo To Horn *And When Light… *Breathe *The Diving Bell Echoes *The Distance Between As If… *If I Held Beauty In A Glass Art & Fire Reconstructing Eden Winter The Next Traveling Ballet Equinox Hands (Haiku) The Girl With The Butterfly Eyes Love Is A Can Of Peaches Buttafuoco & Burning Rubber Awakened *Firefly Eternal That Whiskey Blue Sway
Obscura A Simple Paradox The Personification Of Perception… *The Volte-face Opinions Of Dandelions *Whispers What Will Become …like rain Glea(mi)ng Luna Impossibile
Half-Stars This Poem Will Eat Itself Chaos A Trilogy Of Perilous Temptations Ab(sin)the Submerged Salvador Bleeds The Memory Castle *Unexist
Mythica *M(use) Teaching The Birds To Sing The Mythology Of Color Of Myth & Muse Freeway Poppies Blood From Marble *Akamu, The Fisher King When Ravens Refuse To Fly *Defining The Stone *Another Vineyard
Gothica *We All Move Through October Ghosts Wise & Time *Cemetery Flowers Skeletons *Of Blood & Bone Murder Poetica The Origin Of Hunger *The Seventh Sin *Adam Bomb Face-lift Refresher Course Tangible The Masquerade The Invitation Poet *About The Author *Contains photos or images.
Ce n'est pas un livre‌
C'est un voyage‌
Lyrica
Prologue Imagine you are driving with no particular destination or expectation, under no particular sky… Let the stars guide you, let fate take the wheel… Begin this journey empty as (can)vas…
Imprints - The Trilogy I.
Somewhere among these faces and empty spaces, wandering between the static and these echoes I found myself, lost‌ Chasing down rubies, but finding only diamonds and darkness in this concrete quiet Drifting past stars, cars and scars, strangers holding onto the dusk, leaving memories in the dust, silence, wind-turned to song Can anyone hear me? As Tom Petty bleeds through radio waves, dialed of distance‌ Tonight, I have forgotten wings, forgotten the blue that folds you, but I have painted my lips in roses, scented my hair in hope and through this darkness naked hands grasp, glove-pressed to wheel, angeled always in the musical magic of thunder‌
II.
Shadows stir as a phantom’s dreams dance the black magic of your soul, pacing the silence of song as fear lies quiet against rain, against fate, against distance, against‌ What can be found when there is nothing left to lose? With a kiss pressed lips to darkness, I am hushed of broken silhouettes, setting the mirror-burn to blurred reflections, staring back, set free to sing with the yellow bird Barely breathing, arms open and empty; behind a cold, foggy pane, a breath lay heavy of quiet secrets only winged hearts can fathom‌
III.
Impressions; of tide-swept footprints on a winded, September shore Imprints of sound beneath silence brush like memory upon auburn sands, imprints of lies laid in stone, burning, flame to ash… Can anyone see me at all? Reflections fade slowly-soulful, sepia to cardboard corners distant of remembrance I need the touch, the touch of hands and angels, a simple touch of fate, the broken-fragile of flame… Somewhere among these faces and empty spaces, wandering between the static and these echoes I found myself, made of glass…
Crux Why, when holding back the fray of our unraveling, sculpted of a quiet dusk, trundling skyward toward our impatient, rhythmic breaths, in unison; a curious, soul-shined radiance, curling into the touch of angels with eyes tired against the weight of all timid graces… Why pale such beauty with hollow words said or unsaid for only a fleeting cause for dance in the shallow depths of my every waking imagining… Why, might I still find (among tears, you never knew I shed) a voice now broken, all of shattered glass and torn silences, a voice restrained though still echoing songs of an ocean’s gentle unsleeping and find again upon this pillow the frailty of all lost hope… Why, was sacrifice not enough when the skies of my private heaven are batter-broken in the purr of my cries, when cathedrals built of constellations crumble under the measure of my mirrored reflection When stars too frail to shine, fall to ruby dust at my feet and I am washed of raindrops I can no longer feel… Why, when my heart was folded and placed in your hands, written of word and burned as pyre …have I not yet come undone?
That Whiskey Blue Sway (For Herman Jackson)
Fingers fierce and fragile dance the porcelain fire away, setting ebony to ivory against the white of evening lights… Tonight, even the houseflies have their sway and swagger, ghosts will stride with secrets placed pocket-deep and everyone knows where the whiskey flows-Cigarette to flame, fingertips to quiet lips, a melody unbroken beneath the veil of whispering… She’s got that whiskey-blue sway Across the ballroom her eyes are invitations She wears these blues like a little black dress Flowers peek from the tuck of curls, (all red and smiling) hips set to boogie and bass, a swing of taunt against eyes and their flight And tonight patterns emerge from black and white as an un-masked clown sits dim in the corner, chasing the madness to glow The smoke and music fills,
unmoving in its sway; unlost within the depths of corners, we become poetry written on cocktail napkins and the rhythm that moves the night to a crawling groove.
Obscura
A Simple Paradox… It is simple for a dreamer to dream …but what if the dreamer is a realist? Oh, the defining question… Is the wine glass half-empty or half-full? Sometimes things are not so black or white…I suppose, if you have kindly poured for me a glass of Pinot Noir, I would say it is half-full. However, be it the case, I have been drinking from the glass prior to the question being asked, I would respond that the glass is half-empty. You see, it is all about perspective, is it not?
.
Chaos Somewhere; a bom b is being drop pe d (simultaneously) a dragonfly finds place upon petals‌
Submerged (For René Magritte)
Enigma will haunt the brush and taunt the confused, what is hidden now revealed, logic fathomed, will fray and fluster… She cannot swim for she has refused life, in the river Sambre Death clings to form, as she is slowly dragged ashore Eyes wide open, but she cannot see, troubled, vacant faces She does not— cry. Her image will paint the mind, a canvas of (immortal)ized pain and mystery, sur(real), and enchanting Oh, the brilliance of the mind’s maddening eye! Knowing naught what it is to know among unexplained objects without name, imagination brings light to dead of night and clouds upon False Mirrors.
Salvador Bleeds "My religion consists of a humble admiration of the illimitable superior spirit who reveals himself in the slight details we are able to perceive with our frail and feeble mind." ~Albert Einstein
The museum is burning down, the poet’s arms are flailing Ships sailing foreign seas, fade from dust to ruin Picasso’s lips hold a burning cigar, while fingers strum his gray guitar The beauty in the gallery is not what rests upon the walls or hangs upon dustless, soundless halls, It is not impressions of expressions trapped in gold leafing nor figures upon pedestals; made of marble, carved of stone We exist in time-capsule gray where we are the modern art torn-apart on a dance floor, dripping with blood, gripping the revolution of evolution The library is crumbling, tumbling down, the poets have all gone mad Edgar and William grip quills with clenched fists; they will not be undone…
Portraits peer back as statues stare; eyes visualize, wondering what we are… Salvador bleeds crimson into walls searching the halls for the light that Rembrandt stole Knowledge like trapped mysteries, memories of shifted histories translations of mutations set fossil-deep, stones we toss river-cross from our feeble, fragile hands The ceiling has given way to sky as rain floods our tears unrecognizable And Einstein’s corpse is laughing, dancing with time’s uninvited guest the end…
Mythica
M(use)
A
vision of dreams peculiar‌
the call of quill, the cause of quiet, the press of ponder to page; Calliope dances, The sky is full of magic‌
Akamu, The Fisher King
Akamu, the fisher king whose name knows no age, only the touch of man to earth, tide and bind He crouches at shore with line and hook held as moon against an ocean’s abandoned sky All the things these rough hands have grasp, a lifetime of tribe and testimony; our land to the blade‌ The fisher king sees life in patterns, the earth and its dimensions, the land; an endless tapestry of textures and surfaces, uneasy as ocean and the ocean breathes him in‌ His hands and feet are worn with passions, rugged with persistence (unpossessed by the things he possesses)
Driven only by the tug of line, the carving of canoe, and the draw of 1Hilo and Huna‌
According to Hawaiian tradition, when the moon enters the phase Hilo, also known as the first or new moon, conditions are considered prime for deep sea fishing, but bad for reef fishing and the gathering of any below ground roots and vegetables. 1
Another Vineyard
In the distance lies a fragrant vineyard, rowed and hedged, The twisted vine of passion’s toil hammered-down the demons of yesterday’s desires to feathered angels, bloodied by thorn, calloused by word… Somewhere near the rocking tides and horse-galloping sands; awakened as night blooms, an ocean-winded quiet soothes on a lonely moon-shadowed path, jaded serene, a journey traveled only by silhouettes… In another vineyard, blossoms turn toward your sunflower eyes, watching with dagger-pierced heartfire… Once, meadows bloomed only for you, but now in the sun-turned warmth of a distant soul-fire, they fade from jewel to gray and astray are my thoughts under this blackened starlight,
coloring every cloud with curious wonder… Where are the dragons you promised? Are they made only of stone? Hidden in depths of tear-stained parchment, torn pages and fragile fingers Words unseen scrolling under the scowls of a lucid heaven… Even words have become weary of my song, for there is only one I can sing under this sky and I wait alone, knees to chest, heart to home, all tears to heaven… You told me once that dragons dance the clouds… But their magic has burned my hands and I have gone blind. Is it done. The world has forgotten my name, the candle of my days has been snuffed, a number pulled from shipwrecked shores A copper mirage of quiet shimmer echoes a distant laughter over the crest of rolling, brush-darkened hills,
but in another vineyard where flowers bloom and fruit smiles, ripened, your eyes turn without hesitation, they turn from gray to jewel‌
Gothica
We All Move Through (For June Nandy)
Somewhere there is a gateway that rests upon a moonbeam, singing light as angels may and darkness, so it may seem. Through this threshold we enter we are born so blind and deaf, but dream beyond all winters as sadness becomes our guest.
October Ghosts October falls haunted, amber-golden against wind as I remember… A city live and ripe with hands; calloused as day, the scent of sewage and sea Contrasting shadows fill alleys and cornerways like the aroma of fresh bread in the evening where the warmth of winter coats lie uneasy against the cold of knowing It will not be long… Before the hammer falls, dark as dayrise slipping deeper into a cauldron of wicked magic and angels as ghosts gather on pavement… Angels pray too…is that true? And when the closing of tired eyelids meets sadness and sea, when he again is so far away-so far, even static may never find him… We cannot ever be too kind… I am sure (buried deep as the ocean floor, perhaps…) he was a good man-or at least wanted to be. Just say good-bye and leave the rest to angels…
Wise and Time (For Uncle Jimmy Riccio and his beloved Gilda)
We grew old together, senses dimmed to a slow, faint whisper of echoing time, our hair turned the color of clouds in the sage-soft slumber of the evening… I want nothing if not you… Had I known the mourning doves sang for you this night I would have hidden my heart away under the first ray of light breaking through, piercing the stark stillness of morning's awakening eye… Without you, there is no more love, there is no more passion breathing deep beside me, there are no more words pressed to page or a song hummed in the lull of Sunday's rest and my soul is alone here, hanging over the crest of death's ticking pendulum. O’ tangible you. We are so delicate… I am, afraid. Dust spun and floated to rest upon you in your winding, silver hair, locks that still belonged to you. Sunbeams cut the quiet, hiding the darkness and rising above your breathless, alabaster visage there are no tears, there is no more love for me here…
Mi Amore, when I draw my last breath… lay me to rest beside the sun-baked Hornbeam, leave me there in my untainted death and may my bones become the earth and my eyes the jewels of Orion. Remember my Darling, there are no tears in heaven… Your voice still echoed my thoughts as leaves crunched, breaking beneath my feet. I held you for the last time under that Hornbeam, brushed the long rain-cloud curls from your face Above our heads, doves and angels sang our parting I laid down with you in the moss and wild flower, clung tightly to you, holding your hands in mine and I lay and wait… There is no more love here without you. We perished together under that Hornbeam, among the soft, cool moss and flowers, we faded to a lost, faint whisper of echoing time, in the sage-soft slumber of the evening… Gilda (Mosco) Riccio ~R.I.P. Nov. 17 2008 Jimmy Riccio2 ~R.I.P. April 11, 2009
Mr. James Riccio; awarded many medals and honors as a U.S. Army veteran of WWII, commanded an armored vehicle for General Patton. 2
PoeT This is your voice cutting diamonds, piercingly soft, sublime… This is your song jar-trapped, lock-clasped and buried… These are your words bleeding, shed of soul, wickedly pure, beautiful-immortal…
To all my poet friends and readers.
About The Author
Apryl Skies makes a charismatic debut into the literary world with the publishing of her first poetry collection, A Song Beneath Silence. Apryl is a Los Angeles, California native whose creativity is not exclusive to her passion for poetic composition, she also expresses natural talent behind the camera. The photography within this collection captures the intense beauty of the world through the eye of a lens and the heart of a poet. While inspired by history’s many brilliant poets such as Eliot, Cummings, Blake and Poe; Skies has established a modest following of her own. As a contemporary poet, Apryl has impressed the likes of fans internationally as well as by her many appearances at local poetry readings through-out the Los Angeles area. Vivid in imagination, rich with colorful expressions of life, hope, fantasy and possibility are the words of Apryl Skies.
www.EdgarAllanPoet.com
Acknowledgements “
We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that
deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit.” ~E.E. Cummings A very sincere and special thank you to the following people, My Husband Steve My Mother My Mother-in-law Carole Sister Patrice Mc Sweeney, “Aunt Joanie” My Sister Cynthia Fred Doughty Chris J. Miller Lydia Blaisdell-Miller JR Phillips Herman Jackson Robert Richardson LaRita Shelby Lars Russel Shelli Berman Brandon Morino June Nandy David He Cheryl Marren A sincere thank you to all of you who have touched my heart, inspired or believed in me, you who have captivated, pushed, questioned or tested me and to those who have doubted, battled or broken me… I thank you too. Life is sublime…
Photography (By Apryl Skies) appears in the 1st full color edition only -The Way -A Simple Love Song For The Complicated -And When Light… -Breathe ( “Obscura” - Acrylic on canvas, by Apryl Skies) -The Diving Bell Echoes -The Distance Between - If I Held Beauty In A Glass -Firefly Eternal -The Volte-Face Opinions Of Dandelions -Whispers -M(use) -Akamu, The Fisher King _Defining The Stone -Another Vineyard -We All Move Through -Cemetery Flowers -Of Blood And Bone (Rare carved jasper skull) -Adam Bomb
Photography
(By Steve Volponi)
-Unexist- (Apryl Skies - unaltered photo) -About The Author - Apryl Skies
www.EdgarAllanPoet.com
A SONG BENEATH SILENCE is a captivating collection of poetry by Apryl Skies. Beauty often emerges from the most unexpected places and this concept is intricately weaved throughout her charismatic literary debut. This collection is an engaging journey through a poetic labyrinth and an intimate look at the lines that blur; dreams and reality. “…and my hands have grown old writing this Poem, like a poet watching flowers grow as angels tow the hours.” Painted of possibility, perception and hope: A Song Beneath Silence ~By Apryl Skies, is a colorful and expressive odyssey that touches upon the delicate human condition unlike any other.