Sunday, November 17, 2019

Star Bright








Star Bright




A little star
blown on a crinkled wind
comes to the Deadhouse.
It pushes open a window
darts a beam
between cobweb cities
and empty night.

The Dead and the
Apprentice Dead,
mummified
mute, are of course
indifferent but
the ragged prisoner,
the Almost Dead,

lifts her darkened eyes
and suddenly
begins to breathe
 in the swelling rhythm
of the living firmament.



~November 2019










Personal Note: For those who may not have heard yet, my husband passed into the solar wind on October 18th, after months of quietly enduring as much pain and indignity as a human being can suffer. I think of him as released, and of the rest of my life as totally unknowable, but at least the wild dark-eyed muse seems to be back, vague in the shadows, teasing me with her throaty whisper.








Image: Untitled, by Zladislaw Beksinksi

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