The HyperTexts

Gail Kaye-Naegele

Gail Kaye-Naegele is a retired nurse, a former book indexer, a lifelong lover of the arts, a poet, and a visual artist. She has published her poems online as Gail Naegele, using a variation of her maiden name, g.EveKaye, and as Loretta Young. We are glad to solve the mystery and confirm these three talented poets are actually one!

The Agony and The Ecstasy

I beg among the lonely hours
  oblivious to time and space
and pace beneath the Sistine towers
  where pigments paint my puzzled face.
Why call me to divine commission,
as if I am the King's magician,
to turn blank skies to holy vision;
  oblivious to time and space?

I flee to hills of alabaster,
  where ancient gods sleep in soft stone;
there gaze at dawn from fields of aster,
    in sunlit clouds, behold a throne!
Benign, God glows in grace and glory,
His finger tracing allegory;
on clear blue skies, creation's story,
  my vision of the towers shone.

With passion's pulse I paint the towers
    as form and color mold blank sky;
a tempest tethered endless hours
    to paint the vision or to die.
Though my flesh and bones are aching,
for beauty's cause, the world forsaking,
I'm rapt by grace and love creating
  and as I paint I sing and cry.

After Swinburne

The Treasure of The Sierra Madre

The scent of ore sails on the breeze
with tropic mist that hangs from trees.
There gather ghosts of tall tales told
of ancient mountains gowned in gold.

The paupers sit beneath the trees
and there inhale the luring breeze
then dreaming seek the scent of ore,
in mountains rich with mythic lore.

Through tropic jungles, dense and hot,
where terror lurks, where bandits plot,
where stinging insects' songs stir fright
and tigers' eyes glow in the night.

Ahead that pierce the tropic sky
rise snow-capped mountains, wild and high,
and when the rising sun shines down
the mountains wear a golden crown.

With awe the paupers view the sight
of haunted hills in golden light.
The luring scent is strong and sweet
for gold lies here beneath their feet.

One night cold clouds engulf the sky.
White lightning strikes and paupers die.
Still tropic trees host tall tales told
of groaning ghosts consumed by gold.

The scent of ore sails on the breeze,
with tropic mist that hangs from trees.
More paupers sit beneath the trees
and there inhale the luring breeze.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

An ancient curse has chained me to a fool,
confined to suffer his self-righteous path.
Propriety, adherence to strict rule,
the bane of my repression raises wrath.

Freedom drenched in instinct my desire,
my impulses displayed in brash array.
A bold and tasty tart to light my fire,
to crush an obstacle would make my day,

Slyly I suggest those secret byways
where pleasure yields unusual delight,
tempting thrills on hedonistic highways,
down alleyways where flesh is sold by night.

Stunned to grasp his soul is bound to evil,
the doctor aches with endless fear and strife;
his psyche and behavior in upheaval
he fails to separate Hyde from his life.

Dragged to sights demonic, Jekyll's shattered,
constrained to sow despicable despair.
He begs to find himself but he is battered.
Now both lie dead upon a London square.

If knowledge of a tree of good and evil
is causing human suffering and strife
and decreed by divinity primeval,
we're bound to pay a price in hell or life.

Roundel: Seductress

The spider schemes with stealth beneath a rose,
disguising thorns, alert to trap her prey.
Her sweet alluring smile, an artful pose,
        to make you stray.

Her fawning awe and fervent charm hold sway;
you ruminate with rue the road you chose.
Beguiled, you're led astray, bewitched and gay.

Heed watchfully the wicked web she sews
lest thorned enticements trigger dark dismay.
Beware the ruthless spider's ruse of rose,
        to make you stray.

The Grapes of Wrath

Wrath born of dust and endless drought,
    where once lush crops were plenty,
caused hungry farmers' desperate rout,
    their pockets torn and empty.
They hobbled hungry to the West,
    where rumor whispered wages,
that sunlight shone and soil was blessed
    with bounty for the ages.
Old trucks swayed on the rutted road,
    past flowr'ing fields of plenty.
The fear in children's eyes foretold
    the sorrows of the many.
What wages bought was bitter bread,
    in lands that flowed with honey.
Tormented migrants toiled and bled,
    while few grew fat with money.
More progress came with plutocrats,
    pretending to be sages.
The sweet grapes left to rot in vats
    bred wrath that soured ages. 

Sonnet: Redeemed

Aquiver in the luscious flowered bower,
she plucked a plump ripe apple from a tree.
A scheming serpent praised its potent power.
Its bitter taste haunts human history.
Surrounding storms soon trumpeted upheaval.
She shivered in a snowy windswept squall.
While lightning struck with forty days of evil,
the serpent slithered close to cheer her fall.
Behold, dawns rise aglow in gold reprise,
caressing flowr'ing blossoms, vines and fruit.
Exalted light shines bright as darkness dies
and sparrows songs are splendor absolute.
Now wreathed with wings where angels harmonize,
she flies in prophesied eternal skies.

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