Ruins

Ruins

"...I have let time pass, which..helps more than reasoning.”

~Queen Elizabeth I

I.

I wake in the night

thinking of ruins;

not the makers

but their leavings: fort,

church, graveyard,

house, each

with no tomorrow of its own, yet

a casket full

of glass for magpies,

scroungers' stones,

writers' plots,

lovers' verses, shadow beds

for weary ghosts

and so must be content

to watch the walls fall down.

 

II.

These rainy ruins

where ravens ride wrinkled sky

where nightfall black-backs silver-mirror moons

however weak you are,

you can stroll forever, 

muscular past for a walking-stick,

hearing a hundred private jokes

the ghosts still tell/will tell

to you or the next one

for nothing's

as constant as a ghost

or more hopeful

than a ruin.

~December 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two old 55's, reposted for 

 earthweal's Open Link

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Image: Carpathian castle ruins, author unknown, via internet. Fair use.

 

 

 

The Foresters

[SCROLL DOWN THE PAGE FOR THE FRIDAY 55]

The Foresters

We gathered wood for

a winter we'd never see;

not to keep others warm

but so each stiff tree's arm

yielding to the saw with a whistling sigh

would sketch a rune of twigs, a ghosted fire

to magic into being our desire.

We gathered fuel against a

north-blown frost, thin-sliver shavings

to take the match of want

to a bed of coals where we'd transmuted lie,

fuel for the flame as the flames rose high

from our wedding pyre,

ash on the smoke-rise snapping in the sky.

We tore that chainsaw through a scrub-oak sea, 

worked wedge and maul ignorant of what bleeds

at the quick mistake, at what would fall, 

gathering sticks

for a hearth we'd never be,

any more than the promise

of saw-dusted seed,

the marriage in the trees

dropped unburied in the broken green.

June 2017

A reboot of an oldie never blogged, 

 a twist on Monday's theme of culture and nature

posted for earthweal's Open Link

Images: The Wood Sawyers, 1850-52, by Jean-Francois Millet  manipulated    Public Domain

Landscape with Stump, 1892, by Ivan Shiskin      manipulated                       Public Domain

Friday 55 December 15 2017

Another Friday swings us around to the writing table where 55 words make up a meal. This time of year I always find complicated; the social pressures, the meretricious and constant blare of exploitative advertisement, and various reefs and shoals of real life often combine to annul the festive, let alone that anticipatory sense of joy the holidays once may have brought to us as children. Nevertheless, it is a rich time, and I hope we can bring some of its fruits to our Friday cornucopia.

The rules remain the same--no rules, except to write 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less, and link in the comments below between Friday and Sunday. Many thanks to Galen Hayes for making this meme the pleasure it is, and a holiday toast to absent friends, in his honor.

The spirits here are not in a particularly seasonal mood...

 The Crow Shaman

The crow-shaman

knows the bones,

knows the fighting dance

where flesh is sweetest;

how to open secret doors

to rich warm ruby

meals beneath tough skin;

how something small, something shiny

can be stolen and made magic

even without hands.

Each death, each face,

each twilight rise

beneath his night-wide wings

he owns forever.

~December 2017

 Factoid: Crows remember and recognize individual human faces.

 Image via internet, author unknown.  Fair use.

Friday 55 December 8 2017

Welcome, fellow travelers. Another Friday finds us collected here to assemble our jigsaw thoughts into our own 55 word puzzles, and to remember Galen Hayes, the originator of this meme. There are no rules, strings or obligations, except that you write a piece of prose or poetry in 55 words--no more, nor less-- and post a link in the comments below between Friday morning and Sunday afternoon. Comment moderation is off now as I am so often out of pocket these days, but I still wield the ban-hammer and will delete any trollish appearances.

So, this week, winter came...

First Day Of Winter

I woke to a turquoise sky

with nothing in her pockets; no sun,

no moon, no scrap

of smoke or cloud. 

Day was missing,

night had wandered off.

My mind was all she had, sister

twinned to her blank eternity,

summer's embers 
ashed to blue clinker

without a tear to soften us

until the rain.

~December 2017

 

Image: Roman Nose Park, Turquoise Sky, 11-29-2014, ©joyannjones  Manipulated.