Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Goodnight, with Clock






Goodnight, with Clock




White moonflower,
grapefruit and dust
scent the cast-off shirt-tails 
of my sleepless love.
 
Mauve wallflower
jasper and rust
open up the dusk,
confound the cognoscenti,

quiet the caustic clowns,
bring the blessed bedsprings
and the holy grandfather clock
so the kissing ceremony 

of  goodnight
can begin.



~April 2013




It's the last day of April, and this poem is a fond farewell to National Poetry Month, among other things. Many thanks to all of you who have played along this year, and those who have helped keep my spirits up and nose firmly down on the grindstone with your visits and/or your own stellar offerings. You know who you are! All I can say is, it's been real and it's been fun but...

Thank the old gods and the new it's finally over!!






Image: Clock with Blue Wing,  by Marc Chagall, 1949
All copyright belongs to the copyright holders.


Monday, April 29, 2013

Basket of Berries







Basket of Berries



When I was a peach
they stood in line to split me.
My sweetness spangled their chins.

When I was champagne,
they stood in line to toast me.
My slipper overflowed their little brains.

When I was a basket of berries
they fought like cats to juice me,
to suckle up a fool's Cointreau.

Now that I'm a stone
it's logical they've left me;
they didn't come to build, after all.

~April 2013




Calanais Stones








Images: Chandon Cremant Imperial, by Alphonse Mucha
Public Domain, via wikipaintings.org

Calanais Stones, by Kelvyn Skee , on flick'r


Sunday, April 28, 2013

Electric Veil



icy




Electric Veil



We spoke
without moving our lips
in the manner of
the electrically veiled.

We stroked
each others' pixels, pink and plump
on the liquid crystal display,
dry as shed snakeskin

to the attenuated touch
in the febrile flashes
of the tubes of night
malfunctioning.

Atoms surely collided,
neurons fired in an old dance
but the feet never moved
the fingers never

found the frets or pluck
of the plangent lyre.
Only the synthesizer
thumped on till dawn

when the power failed.




~April 2013






 Hover mouse for image attribution, or click to go to the photographer's flick'r page.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Viking Spiritual





Viking Spiritual



There'll be a morning
to rise up and go,
when wings pink-plucked naked
are finally fledged,
when the wind shows her kindness
not too hard nor too little.
We'll ride on the back
of a valkyrie's song.

There'll be a noonday
forgiven  with flowers
over the battlefield
poppied with stone,
sunlight in a child's cup,
cedars swayed in a kiss,
voices raised in the shield song
for hearts killed in war.

There'll be an evening
written slant in our name.
We'll be its last murmur;
rose summer will glow
on a face now forgotten
and darkness will close
sweet as mead, deep as dream,
long as the serpent
that swallows the world.

~April 2013





posted for   dVerse Poets
Poetics: Trip the Poem Fantastic
Karin Gustafson(Manicddaily) asks us to take a trip without leaving the farm, or about leaving the farm, or having nothing to do with the farm, like this one.



Image: Valkyrie, by Stephen Sinding, Copenhagen
Public Domain by photographer, via wikimedia commons

Friday, April 26, 2013

Bonfire




Bonfire



Before
the firewood was gathered,
before the driftwood hit the sand
even then we knew
we would burn down the world.

On the beach
older than children
younger than men
we ran from it to tidepools
of blue derangement, 

glassy blind to what lived there;
ran to the rush of the unending wave
thinking we could be it,
wear its bitter strength,
forget to strike the match.

That day she was the seal
who swam too far
round the cove bend,
became the dead thing
that should have been a delight

thrown up bloated
twitched and dull in the backwash
of a ministry of crabs, 
a convocation of flies.
Shadows lit the bonfire and danced

without their clothes. The music
walked like moving dunes.
The seal stared in the flames'
flicker, knowing there was
not enough sand on the beach

to bury her, only the darkness
of the mouths of flies.



~April 2013





posted for   real toads
Challenge: Fireblossom Friday
The ever intricate workings of the mind of Fireblossom have conjured up a challenge to assume that one is transformed into a particular animal, and speak with that voice. After grappling with this concept all night, I suddenly realized I'd actually had that experience once, as detailed here. I hope it falls within the meaning of the directive.







Image: The Golden Gate, 1900, by Albert Bierstadt
Public Domain, via wikipaintings.org