Friday, April 12, 2019

Sea Trash





Sea Trash




You've never known you carried

that force
which breaks the idea's skin
with no time for
an aftertaste
neither regret
nor understanding;

that you made love

 a leaf lightly spinning
already dead but flying
laughing to be
no longer itself
only something falling
into the old gods' wide arms;

that the moment they were born
your words were

my  million separate siblings
fluttering, full from eating light
then put to fire's smoking
neither regret
nor understanding
for something changed and burning:

a life you never saw
that broke the brown wren's shell.

And now

sweet noise and dust-light sparkles
sea trash in the soft salt tide
of heartsblood oceans,
bobbing from here
to gone.



 April 2019







for my dear friend Shay's final Fireblossom Friday, where she asks us to "write about love for someone who does not know you love them."






Images: both Untitled, by Zladislav Beksinksi via internet. Fair Use.



Saturday, February 23, 2019

Nostalgia of Old Things








Nostalgia of Old Things






Old things like a pattern; blue
willow on china's bone, Celtic knot,
rune 
on moss-faced stone,
cross in the weave,
thunderbird in the beads.

Old things want
to fit a picture,
outrun the mirror, last forever
linger
in an eye's reflection, the
part that made it real.

Old things work
to make a picture, liver-spot
hands holding the needle,
brush, pen, bead, hook,
the cursive book
of counted dreams.

Old things like a pattern
dog in his bed,
crow on the fence rail,
solsticing sun and feckless moon
flickering
timeless;

not the bed empty,
night rioting,
tea set shattered, not
the bloodsign on the door
where chaos has knocked
as the end.
 


~February 2019
















Images via internet, no copyright infringement intended
 

Sunday, September 16, 2018

Single Mitten






Single Mitten











You're lost.

You
the fact forgotten,

you 
the bramble-stolen path;

you 
the lantern empty,

the coat that feeds the moth;
the one

whose voice was taken,
whose breath

could not get in,
whose absence

 breaks the coupled;
the pocket-eaten mitten

that makes 
its partner useless,

a rag 
to be disposed;

you
the shadow flying,

you
the eye that's closed.

Lost.











~September 2018












Personal update: So many apologies for not reading or visiting these days, dear readers. I miss your poetry, and my own; all the voices which will no longer sing for me just now. My husband continues to fight the long defeat against his illness, but the time is getting short. I am hoping for some clarity on the other side, in which these frayed threads may be taken up again in some way. Til then, many thanks for all the concern, support and love you have shown me in this barren, foggy time.









 Image: top: author unknown, via internet. All rights reserved to author.
Gulls, 1982, ©joyannjones

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Still Life



Still Life


I sit
by a dish of light
with darkness at my back.
I throw in words,

flowers of flame; only
the dry, bright ones--
you, remember, once, then--

while I leave the sodden
syllables in a pile--
now, tomorrow, alone, gone--

for nothing
will make them
burn.

We can't speak the tongues
of each other's pain;
still, we huddle in light
and forgive.





~August, 2018















Image: Stilleben mit Blumen, 1908, by Heinrich Kuhn    Public domain

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Disconnect

Dear readers, I am disconnecting from the blog world for a bit. My internet connection has become horribly unpredictable and unreliable, but more than that, I find my brain just unable to cope with the discipline of writing and reading on any kind of regular basis.

For those of you who don't know, my husband is fighting lung cancer, and the sand goes very quickly through the hourglass right now. I feel that I need to be with him, directing my energies his way while I can.

I apologize for abandoning the 55 for awhile, but I will no doubt be back at some point. Till then, thank you all for the support and the input you have so generously given me over the years.






















Friday, June 22, 2018

Friday 55 June 22 2018

The burden of events this week is heavy. The visions before us are almost apocalyptic in their power. Yet what else can we do but write. My previous poem (on Wednesday) was my pitiful attempt not to address, but at least to respond, to the hatred, cynical evil and destruction of our world's moral and political fiber. Today, it's time for the 55. Thanks to Galen Hayes for starting this meme that is all that keeps my pen moving. There are no rules except the word count--55 words of prose or poetry, no more no less. Link your work in the comments below between Friday and Saturday at midnight, and I will be by to read.



My 55:

Dark-Lantern



The heart's a dark-lantern
thorn-cradled in
a cliff-cracking tree,
a nested-bird glimmer

in grey-green leaves 
by  perpetual sea
where language is
sibilant as spray,

arcane as whales' song,
grey-green as their play.
Light itself speaks from
the branch wind-whispered

and never stutters
tho the window shutters; through
the grey-green bars night
echoes with stars.



~June 2018






Olive trees on Thassos









Note: "A dark lantern is a candle lantern with a sliding shutter so that it may conveniently be made dark without extinguishing the candle" ~wikipedia



Top Image: Olive tree~Candle, ©Christos Bokoros 1994.    All Rights Reserved





The 55 is now closed. Thanks to all who stopped by to participate. See you next week.