The Dominance of Grey

The Dominance of Grey

 A villanelle

The grey veil she wore ate up all the years.
It licked at her grimaces, nibbled her smile.
It didn't pull off, only washed off with tears.

At night she’d spit into its fine woven fears,
proudly wear it next day to hide naked denial,

unavailing shrugs eating flesh off the years.

The veil grew a voice and it talked in her mirrors.
It held her more closely than husband or child.
It didn’t pull off and she needed more tears.

What once would dissolve it now reversed the sheer
wisps to dark masking stiffened with bile;
the grey veil she wore grew fat on the years

as she aged, a blown eggshell, flat eyes, lips and ears,
her features erased like an asphalted mile.
It didn’t pull off and she had no more tears.

No  salt left to wash her old face back with tears.
No mind left to fight for her long-eaten smile.
The grey veil she wore  ate up all the years
It didn’t pull off, only drank all the tears.

~December 2011

Re-posted for   FormForAll   at dVerse Poets Pub

The multi-talented and erudite Samuel Peralta is hosting this week and writes on this classic form as seen through the lens of physics and Dylan Thomas.

I originally was inspired to write this after reading one of Karin's excellent villanelles, so thanks to Karin Gustafson at ManicDDaily .

 

Image:  Young Woman with a Veil, by Pierre August Renoir, 1877

Public domain via wikipaintings.org 

Apologies to the Master for a focal black and white manipulation of his work for this poem.

 

Skyfall

Skyfall

High on the wire I watch the dove

pleat her feet to sit on the sky.

Balanced on faith or skill, she cannot fall.

Deep in winter I'm wrapped in fall;

in summer, the spring nests of doves.

On earth I see fire, in water sky

where lovers rose on waves, blue sky

so thick before the faith met fall

and lost the certainty of doves.

Doves swim the deep sea sky; we only fall.

~August 2012

Posted for    FormForAll  at dVerse Poets Pub

Samuel Peralta hosts today's form session at the pub ,on the tritina. The tritina is a shorter variation of the sestina, and Samuel explains it all better than I can at the link above.

Header image: Mourning Doves, by Seabarium on flick'r

Footer image:  Flight, by EssjayNZ,  on flick'r

Shared under a Creative Commons License.

Song and Dance

Song and Dance

The Monk's Tail (Chasing) a huitain

The milk and water monk got saved so strong,         

red rosary clutched to repent each sin,       

he scourged his back for his stained glass god's song

yet ev'ry howled word he sang high and thin                      

exalted the idol he'd raised within,

his mouth in the mirror a round black hole     

through which each paean of praise would begin

in pure worship of his own handsome soul.

The old nun who had no religion rose,

leaping high to a midnight jumprope chant

held to the earth by the skin of her toes,

she turned in the sway of that sweet descant 

heard by the innocent and aberrant

who drink the water and taste summer wine

who love and endure till the last star shows

for a heart of earth and a dance divine.

~August 2012

 

 Posted for   FormForAll   at dVerse Poets Pub

I first learned of the huitain adaptation of the ballade stanza from Kerry O'Connor at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, so I dedicate this one to her and that excellent site designed to challenge writers to write in all kinds of ways. Gemma Wiseman hosts this prompt at dVerse Poets, and the form is great fun to revisit.

Header image: Portrait of a Carthusian, by Petrus Christus, 1446

Footer image: Dancing Woman, by Ilya  Repin

Both paintings public domain, via Wikipaintings.org

Bonsai and Pantoum

Two poems tonight; please only read as much as you are comfortable with. The second is a pantoum, for Sam's prompt last Thursday.

Bonsai

         At evernoon 
the garden burns again

scorched by a sun no less denying

          than the coquette rain.

Only  fools

 grow roses in a desert.

Pressed and cut,
transplanted too much

in  seedling stage

nothing takes root;

                               matured, only a dwarf of

what was meant                         
                                                             twisted in miniature,
stunted to be

a curiosity.

Those with a taste

                                                 for the odd, the extreme,

occasionally collect it

but soon pass it on

                       as too difficult

to maintain.

~August 2012

Photo credits: header Bonsai importado, by Kenneth F Andrade

footer: Bonsai,M J Ambriola, both on flick'r both shared under a

Creative Commons license

Posted for   OpenLinkNight   at dVerse Poets Pub

 ~*~

For those who participated in last Thursday's FormforAll, Samuel Peralta hosted a pantoum session at dVerse. It took me awhile, but here's what eventually bubbled up, with a few liberties taken. As always, late to the party.

Three Egg Omelet

(A Pantoum)

Three blue eggs nestle

no one can see

deep within the thistle,

down among the rosemary.

No one can see

three words miscarry.

Down among the rosemary,

two lives we bury.

Three words miscarried,

the moment passed beyond recall.

Two lies were buried;

sun sets, moon rises, stars fall.

The moment passed beyond recall;

planes crash, trains wreck every day.

Sunsets blind highrises, curtains fall;

hearts bend, love ends, songs replay.

Suns crash, stars wreck every day

and fall into the thistle.

Hearts bend, lies end, songs replay,

three blue eggs nestle.

~August 2012

If you'd like to hear the poem read by the author, please click below:
three egg omelet by Hedgewitch O'theWilds

Header image:Blue, by Jon Eriksen, on flick'r
Footer image: Robin's nest in trumpet vine, by b4b2, on flick'r
Shared under a Creative Commons License

Riverspeak

 Riverspeak

In the arms of the river

crooning rocking

all things come to rest,

or get caught in the net.

Bodies and cowpies

moribund butterflies

mattresses endwise,

cast offs and discards

the rafting mind blind

throws tail over ear

to disappear;

yet the river's no acid-spate, 
no dimensional warpgate.

All of it

bloats

and eventually

floats.

July 2012

Posted for   FormForAll   at dVerse Poets Pub

where if I'm reading the clues on WaystationOne correctly, Gay asks us to write about writing about it all (ars poetica)

and also, for

the triumphant return of the

Friday 55

at the g-man's

Header image: River relection day, by tanakawho, on flick'r

Footer image: Danger, by Leo Reynolds, on flick'r

The Absence Of The Bee

The Absence of the Bee

A Triversen

The bees have gone away;

the heavy absence of their humming

matches the blossoms' wither.

On shrinking stems

flowers petal-fall closed parasols

and pink petticoats peel away.

Black beetles are blind

to orange-anthered hats,

preferring unseemly chewing.

The attention deficits

of waggish bustling wasps

and dizzy moths puzzle pollination.

The tickling of an occasional ant

wandering from his pheromone trail

can't trump a bee's tumble.

The silence of life

without bees

is intense.

June 2012

Posted for   FormForAll   at dVerse Poets Pub

Prompt: Triversen

For a complete and proper explanation of this simple and eloquent form, see the article Gay Cannon has written for this prompt at the pub, and catch some poetry by Wallace Stevens at the same time.Win-win situation.

Process notes: The metaphor used in this poem is that of Colony Collapse Disorder, a term applied to the mysterious disappearance of worker honey bees which disrupts agricultural crop pollination and causes bee colonies to fail. We are experiencing a high incidence of this throughout the United States right now. No one is quite sure why, but disease, parasites and genetically engineered crops containing pesticide seem to be the dominant factors.

Image: Photo manipulation of the herb borage,  a bee attractant.

© joy ann jones 2012