Saturday, September 19, 2020

The First Kingdom






The First Kingdom


I dream of

the first kingdom

empire of four

water wood earth and sky

when we knew

 we did not rule,

when a hand outlined

 in ocher

tried to make us real;

when water set to boil

in the round womb of the cauldron

gave magic,

when our skin was honeysuckle,

our tongues fluent in bird,

our hands for making not breaking,

each others' blood too precious to shed

except in the green sacrifice.


Now I watch

the black beyond night

billow out.

The poison steam of brittle brains

evaporating madness

cracks the cauldron.

Sacrifice is colorless.

The lie of ownership replaces

creation's light in our eye. This empire

of assassins, where love is only

an argument of muscle and bone,

where the last fires burn and

birds drop dead from the sky

must pass away, its darkness carried

from the earth, before

the first kingdom can become

the last.


September 2020








 posted for Fireblossom at

The Sunday Muse









Note: in Celtic mythology, cauldrons symbolized many things magical: birth, death, endless plenty and the strongest magic of resurrection. They've been found in many Iron Age burial sites, and later Christianized in the concept of the Holy Grail.  The Cauldron in Celtic Life






Images: Hand Painting, Chauvet Cave,circa 32,000 BP

Title unknown, by Brooke Shaden  Fair Use

Sunday, August 30, 2020

Sunflower Summer


Sunflower Summer

Ah Sun-flower! weary of time, Who countest the steps of the Sun:
Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the travellers journey is done. 
~ William Blake


It was a sunflower summer
counting steps to the sun
as the heat ran away
after a bad opening night.
Monarchs and hummingbirds
trimmed the yellow-gold plates,
bright beads of Christmas glass.
Rabbits came to the back door
with tea and grass hats
asking the way to Wonderland
til everything went south
blind as salmon in time's reckless river.

I spoke crackling long distance
to the place where you'd been.
It was noncommittal, polite, quite
willing to take a message, yet
I never heard back,
though every sunflower
turned its gathering face to you
in that unmaking summer
of black rolling thunder
in the East, lightning crawling
in the navy blue clouds

a red greed of fire, tree-torches smoking
 a banshee wind in the West.
The scorch of mankind
opened its heart to the storm
and the storm came inside
 like Jesus in a circus tent.
against autumn's flood
the sunflowers pack light
into rucksacks of seeds
for the traveler's journey
 to come.

 August 2020

posted for 
and earthweal's Open Link,
(for Mondays theme of Storms and Rainbows)

Images: Sunflowers, artist unknown   Fair Use
The March Hare, © John Tenniel circa 1865  Fair Use

Friday, August 28, 2020

Friday Flash 55 for August 2020

Welcome all once again to the Friday 55. Another month of this ghastly year proceeds down the tubes, howling and gibbering, leaving us to endure and express it in our writing. I feel a twinge of embarrassment whenever I refer to having a kickass weekend this year, but I can't help feeling Galen Hayes, the originator of this meme, would not have hesitated, and indeed, would have done his best to see we all had one. 

So, the rules are unchanged. Write a poem, a prose-poem or a piece of flash fiction, using exactly 55 words, no more, no less. Link your URL in the comments, and I will be by to read what you have cooked up out of this month's witches brew. 

The prompt will be active from Thursday at midnight to Sunday at 4:00 PM CST.


Here is my 55:

Song For Summer's End

Catkins, willowskins,
grey geese in the morning
sky light,  V-flight,
feather-spin in the gloaming,
bee-fumble, leaves tumble
in Fall's honey-wind sighing
her kiss-clover slip over,
pollen days flying.

Pepper-dust, finger-rust;
summer's crone's crying
too late at the broken gate
where autumn's fast riding.

Even so nothing goes
that has a song to
hold it close.

August 2020 


Images: Bees circa 1900, © Ban Jiaoshi       Fair Use
The Autumn, 1896, © Alphonse Mucha    Fair Use