New Year's Sonnet

New Year's Sonnet

Will New Year come to my garden with his sharp secateurs

to deadhead with zest all my brightest elflock flowers,

unfinished blooms of crimson damask, fleurs
du mal et bonheur alike, the columned hours

clipped carelessly, tossed in a loathesome braided trug

of blades, a compost forgotten in the dryrot heat?

Or bring a plague of wasps to buzz in my mug

so each sip is a sting to a thirst so long incomplete?

But I dream that he comes, his arms overladen with days

his pale star eyes sailing lucent in a white-sickled sky;

with a quirk and puff of dawn’s breath, her seducing ways

to raise the blood wine in the flute, a kiss without goodbyes

a song on the moon, a sigh you can’t conceal

that opens the flower, feeds and makes it real.

December 2011

Optional mellowness  to start out the new year:

donovan--sunny goodge street

Posted for    Poetics   at dVerse Poets Pub

Mark Kerstetter is hosting Endings and Beginnings on this final day of 2011, and invites reflection and speculation on the changing of the year. Come join us, and Happiest of New Years to all reading.

Disclaimer: I'm horrible with sonnets, and though I've tried very hard here to make iambic pentameter work in this, it's a hard voice for me, and I may have improperly scanned or forced it, because I never hear it properly--apologies to all purists of the form.

Header image: Ridiculous Bird, by ~Neural Disarray on deviantArt
Shared under a Creative Commons 3.0 Non-Commercial License 

FURTHER COMMENTING DISABLED ON THIS POST DUE TO SPAMBOT ACTIVITY

Visitation

Visitation

Sleeping deep

deep in your brown eyes

rocking in the dance

don’t be afraid

I said

cupping your face above me

you smiled and looked down

full and flawless

and 

between us

I saw there was 

no fear

at last as you rolled

with 

that antic motion

turned immaculate

in and through  me

no fear

though you’ve been dead

bien-aimée, âme perdue

these nineteen years

and so have I

until

just now.

October 2011

Posted for   Poetics   at dVerse Poets Pub

where the prompt today from Kelli Elmore is Fearless; to write past the taboo and into the forbidden. I have my own theme of the frightening and surreal going on this month for Halloween, so have tried to fit into both here.

Image: Visitation, by joy ann jones

Summer Night Dyad

In honor of the last One Shot Wednesday hosted by the team that has brought so much encouragement and growth to so many writers, myself most of all, I'd like to dedicate this entry with the thanks of a full heart to 

Brian Miller, Adam Dustus, Pete Marshall, Chris Galford, Claudia Schoenfeld  

& Gay Cannon.

You will be missed.

Summer Night Dyad

I.

The Night, The Moon and The Lovers

Up and above in the swinging night,

far from red walls and flying knives,

the kestrel flies with a mouse in her mouth.

The scorpion wags her tail in the south.

The firedrake sleeps in his sulphurous cave

spooned in the high cliff above the wave.

A flickering lantern orange and brief

still fights the moon in her silver sheath;

two lovers sail in a boat of breath

and love till they have nothing left.

When the heart is spent and hollowed like clay,

it becomes a lamp to light the way

Skybluepink lips of deepest night

cup the moon in an overbite;

she’s a melting scoop of vanilla ice cream

 tipped in a cone of clouded dream.

The flame persists though the wind is sharp;

The faeries come out to dance to the harp.

II.

Shooting Star

The beating heart of night rocks

the star cradle on her breast gently gently

in the warm southern wind,

but still every so often a star falls out

bright and sudden, a streak thin as a broom straw

scratched off against purple floor,

a white chip on black china

a match that lights

and is blown out.

Oh to be in that cradle rocking, lulled

with the whistling of constellations,

the voice of a mother, vast and mild

caring as much as she can

for her brood of legion,

at the edge of

the ear

humming

lullabies;

to rock

and sleep

then

to fall,

a

brief

light

in the

dark

to 

wish 

on.

July 2011

Posted for   OneLastShotWednesday   at  OneStopPoetry

Process Note: Sky blue pink is a color my grandparents used to tease me with as a child. If I complained about wearing something, they would always say, "What do you want, a sky blue pink dress?"

Photo: Blue Moon with Skybluepink Clouds, by joy ann jones, july 2011

Happy New Year

Here are male and female vocal versions of the appropriate song, one from Mairi Campbell & Emily Smith and assorted Celtic type musicians, and the second from a young Scottish singer with the unlikely name of Paolo Nutini, which  I ran across over at Pondering life  (thanks, thingy).

Because after lifting a mug, one version is just not enough, even if you can't understand a word except the chorus...

happy new year

Ghosts of Christmas Past

The

Ghosts of Christmas Past?

Absurd;

they're never past

at all.

Passed, perhaps,

they linger in the hall

a scent unseen

a sight unheard, a laugh unlaughed

Watching drinking playing rapt

unwrapping revelries they  made

when they had form.

Some were torn

away too soon and swept too far

still hearing laughing cries not sudden tears

And once each year

they show their hidden smiles

 smoky, floating, gone but smiling still

Laugh? perhaps they will,

make a sudden joke, a flame 

leap up, or old remembered song

and then

(perhaps)

a new dance will begin 

free from old sins.

December 2010

A Very Merry Christmas, A Happy New Year and additional Happy Holidays of Any Variety Not Previously Mentioned

to all my pixelated internet friends and readers who make this world a little brighter with their own 

ability to shine

This is as cheerful as I get, folks. Enjoy.

Posted for Moondustwriter's Christmas Eve Eve Poetry at the inimitable One Stop Poetry

All photos from the author's files