Thursday, July 28, 2016

Postcard From The Moon



Postcard From The Moon




We met in the dark
at the end of the world,
the last moonhunter and I.
In the melting evening's whisper-light
we raised our glasses high.

He'd come round the Horn
in a hot air balloon
he propelled with a treadmill of fish,
and when he stretched up for me fondly
I felt inclined to grant his wish.

I held his hand
when the fever rose,
I sang nonsense songs while he bled.
I poured out when he asked me to give him
a pool of moon for his bed;

but when I was a sliver
devoured by night,
he went to the sun for a shadow.

'So, this is the end of the hunt for the moon...'
 ~ my postcard pinned to his pillow.



 ~July 2016








posted for   real toads




some nonsense for Kerry's 












Top: Man Drinking With The Moon, vintage postcard, c.1910
Footer: Man On The Moon, via steampunk tendencies on pinterest





Sunday, July 24, 2016

Hekate


Hekate





I've stood at the crossroads
for a thousand years, triple faced, staring
down the choice of roads; a goddess, a witch,
one third a woman, till the times revolved
and made me a ghost.

The curse of a god's eye rests upon me
and the curse of birth sits upon thee.
What once was rare now is common;
what once was common has gone
beyond recall, the library of the ocean

emptied scroll by scroll, the old light lost
and sweetness of air. 
I split the directions to give my visions,
six eyes to see forward but none to look back.
What once was rare now is common

the blasphemy of waste, the apostasy of wealth:
the constants which confer the cruelty of power--
and at the last turning, the helplessness of love
consumed in cold fire--
what once was common is only a tale. 

But the dead past behind me I cannot see
and so, poor mortals, I give you witchery.


~July 2016







posted for     real toads




Optional Musical Accompaniment











Iamge: Triple Hecate, 1795, by William Blake  public domain via wikimedia commons


Thursday, July 21, 2016

Totem



Totem


Spirit Eater
White Waltzer
secret inside my skin
snailcurled in snowdrift
sleeping, black lips closed over
teeth big as carrots, dark poppy-pod eyes
shut, REM flutter stilled
silent as the melting flake;
in dreams you
come to eat the gold yolk
from the half-egg moon called
winter’s sun.

Wake when the hunter comes,
lift your chainsaw paws,
show him your ivory-yellow teeth
scrimshawed by the obduracy 
of your kills; shake 
his bones from your throat
with a growl.
Ice Orphan
White Diver
my only protection now.
All winter you reaped
sleek black bodies of grief,

turning the ice
salty red with your patience,
and when the dark time came
and there was nowhere else, you wooed me
 with garnets and alabaster, freshcut from
the sorrows you'd slain for me.
So I gave you
sleep in the black heartcave
content to barter away
all yesterday’s skins
for the talisman necklace
of your ebony claws.





~January 2011









Originally Posted for   Fireblossom Friday   at real toads


(Hannah has a very similar prompt up at real toads today so I resurrected this but did not link.)



Header image: Post card. Bear totem on grave. Ketchikan, Alaska.
Source: US National Archives, series: Photographs of the Inhabitants of Metlakatla, British Columbia and Metlakatla, Alaska, compiled ca. 1856 - 1936
Public Domain via wikimedia commons



Sunday, July 17, 2016

Sacrifice



Sacrifice






Chaos is too strong
and takes up too much space
so to sweeten it away, 
we say
we must make sacrifice.

Never ourselves, no,
but something we pretend
is quite important, beautiful,
or dear, yet when the blade is done
will not be missed.

Chaos is too quick
on its feet. We thieves
swindle out no bright salvation here
shifting barefoot in the ash
the lying Order of our tears


dried by the furnace breath
of Chaos laughing.



~July 2016
.





 posted for   real toads


















Image: A Sacrifice, Govanni Battista Piranesi
public domain via wikiart.org


Friday, July 15, 2016

Raven Dream


Raven Dream






Raven reels in raucous black for the sundown sky
before I dream my crippled dog is somehow young,
can run, that love poured out in sand grows palms
and fish, that slickened cogs grating off the true
can still be grasped and purpose given back. 

I sleepwalk down to the druid's obsidian wood. An
earth-glass pool's a window for that other wind
of pomegranate and pine ruffling yellowed lace;
by a twist of shattered light it reflects a smile
I knew in another time another place.

Raven swells in circled sky on lintel'd wings
pulling a wire on which we both are hung,
glass beads that slide together whole and touch.
The ring of our collision in midair
is unmakeable by one but not for both.



~July 2016







posted for      real toads







(which I have failed miserably--this being a little over twice her required word count--sorry)
















Image: Big Raven, 1931 by Emily Carr, pubic domain, manipulated