Saturday, October 24, 2020

The Gold Afterburn

 

 
 

 
 
 

The Gold Afterburn
 
 
 
Salvadore, Frida 
and Vincent
go into a bar.
This is America. 
They're promptly 
asked
to leave.
 
The car was as full
of prayer and profanity
as Texas sky is full
of planets and stars
floating in smoke
and blue
bloody tears.
 
Cigarettes, flaming giraffes
and your buzzsaw breath
tipped the lightning jug
over all our
constellations.
The story dissolved
the map; no surprise
everyone got lost.
 
A wheel or two
may have fallen off
in the gold
 afterburn,
and the halos,
 
but all you need to
roll on that road 
is an engine that burns
the laughter
of
the mad.
 
 
October 2020
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
posted for Fireblossom
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 














Images: The Flames, They Call  © Salvadore Dali, 1942   Fair Use
Image via internet, author and title unknown     Fair Use




Sunday, October 11, 2020

Surrender

 



Surrender

"...this is the way the world ends/not with a bang but a whimper." ~T.S.Elliot

 

 

You've come a long way

to see me slip my skin

across the star-burrowed sky

past Cassiopeia's iron chair

past the spear of Orion

to the killing floor.

 

You've come for the show

that must always go on

to see my hair burning trees

on my lips the black hole

night for my breath

dripping acid rain.

 

A big bang for your buck

now the requisite whimper

that comes in the dark

with the last surrender.

I wanted to stay just

a little bit longer

 

but everything wavers

when fate breaks her lamp.


October 2020







posted for 

The Sunday Muse








Images: California Wildfires From Space © NASA Scott Kelly Fair Use

Title unknown © Mathew Brohder via Internet Fair Use


Saturday, October 3, 2020

A Delirium Of Butterflies

 

~SCROLL DOWN FOR THE 55~

 



 

 A Delirium Of Butterflies

 

 

There will be

a delirium

of butterflies

after the fever wins,

when the sterile step is taken

under the star-masked void,

when the bounce hits dust a thousand years

unstirred by wind or small-handed rain,

 

then

 

in freefall

instead of white detritus

butterflies stagger up

owners of the impossible

hitting your protective suit

like a trauma of cotton candy

 

then

 

you have crossed the threshold

of sweetness, otherness

 

then

 

 what you call

your life

will lose its casing

will become

a fluttering

an awe

a delirium

of 

butterflies.

 

 October 2020






posted for 

The Sunday Muse



 

 

 

Images: So Long As You Wish it, © Liz Houston Fair Use

Unknown title, unknown author, via Sunday Muse  Fair Use

Friday, October 2, 2020

Belated Friday Flash 55 for September 2020

 

 


 

Welcome, all, if somewhat belatedly, to the Friday 55 for September, 2020. Apologies for the late post, but since last week, things at my place have been disrupted by plumbing emergencies, brick masons and the unpleasant necessity of allowing workmen into my home when my state is 5th in the nation for COVID positivity, creating a very expensive and stressful chaos to match the larger chaos around us. But the 55 must go on, and I know everyone has a great deal on his or her plate right now, what with the fiasco of a debate, the rise of an old/new racist fascism and various other things, like the plague mounting to over 200,000 deaths in the U.S, and our West Coast burning to a cinder. I hope as writers we can use this exercise to some purpose, either to exorcise, excoriate, or escape. 


That said, the rules remain the same. Write a poem, piece of prose poetry or flash fiction on any topic, so long as it is in 55 words, no more, no less, and post a link in the comments below. The meme will be live from Thursday at midnight to Sunday at 4 pm CST.

 

~*~

 

Once again, I've chosen to escape to the world of dreams in my 55.

 


 

Green Snake

 

Spirits reach for me

but no owls come,

only the smallest snake

curled as a vine tendril,

the jade of an early apple,

sleeping on my pillow.

 

You 

send your fetch

to curse my hearth

ashen grey with death

but the snake slithers me 

to cover where

morning kisses water,

where you have

no power. 


October 2020

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images: Bullsnake,  author unknown, Fair Use

Viking Cemetery, F√§rjas, Sweden   author unknown, Fair Use

 






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



SCROLL DOWN FOR THE FRIDAY 55



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
towards

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.
 
Still,
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