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Original Chess Poems


Opening Theory

A phantom navigator
leads me to waters
to fight over waves
'gainst pirates of pride,

their sails -- a mindset --
on vessels of tactics,
and I'm lost in calculation
a few moves from shore.

The quality of his direction
-- The variable of "universal human understanding,"
and knowledge of him
-- An unknown sum
of wind.


Awaiting Move

Reaching across concerned your hand,
as it knew you were lost
and time began.

All lines were drawn in white and black
with poisoned pawns
to now attack.

This Game of Kings, a reach for God
who waits on wings
and unveils frauds.

A waiting move to forfeit time,
for naught improve
a perfect crime.

This traps you've sprang
contains stale hate.

Advance or hang:
Your smothered fate.

As for your queen...
Sure, I would love her.

Worthless piece!
with castle wrecked
and conflict cease
in spite...
I checked.

The feats of square, of white and black,
know all too rare
this mordant sac.


In Deep Wood

[Note: "squawk" is a name for a type of heron.]

You're the judge of broken
while the aging men are homeless,
as true Harlem kings are throneless
and all's relative to the eldest generation.

There, they don't "play chess,"
their only subjects being trees;
they call it "Livin' in Deep Wood."

And though perhaps they know the lesser limit of "get by,"
guaranteed they've glimpsed an upper bound of freedom,
as one could dub these games "Talk through/amongst their liege;"
each move, their only trace—nay, score of lineage.

You're the judge of season
of these storms of deviation
over inlaid squares on a city block
—concrete like a capture only after it's had.

The tempests' eyes circle in focus,
as though the queen's an ice cream truck,
her music – a solo over sirens... and other such caveats,
with little kids on fitting bikes being concentration
—of attention, as at that time they anticipate a sign from her eminent direction,
her worth being the taste of a puddin'-pop.

And it comes in the form of a squawk,
a glare in their thought signifying the initiation of action,
maybe as with a woman with something of yellow in her hair.
It is a woman, and he need not say but move her,

while drawn onlookers find some charm
...with no luck
and crowns resigned to a test where none is needed.

E'er My Move

E'er my move, it is,

with all players having left

the board in waiting.


The Concept of Quitting

Might I tell you of her
in simplified abstraction?
as game entails completion,
and here, still, I seek to find her aim...

while He to Time brings Meaning,
ever-stirred and then resolved,
in-and-to these perspectives we call personalities;
much as we are here and of long-ago-decided
and so yet to be mastered,
is she:

Well-found in her early stages,
she is converted and transposed,
formed ham-and-single-handedly
and whatever way she may,

...through infancy,
her movements

Her position matures;
she is liberal, poetic;
her movements, dynamic,
unrelentingly so.

She is as to uniquely genius
as genius is in sacrifice to All.

And in the context of company,
she plays to provocation,
knowing that structure is limiting
and what it is to needn't explanation.

But abruptly, much is sacrificed
for even the slightest initiative;
for purpose, her position traded
in listed, singular continues.

Any anguish has been written
in lines across her forehead,
now, no less deepend...
but with her now not minding.

And towarding End, each move
I think -- a year,
and savored as such in longing

for the luxury of mobility
when it seems the only move,

when she ponders the concept of quitting as not to,

if I may.

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