Mandala Of The Catacomb

Mandala Of The Catacomb

When I could

no longer remember

the yellow eye of the sphinx, the

sea by blue moon, autumn

light on the mandala rose,

a great dryness came;

a cup of dust

too sickly to swallow.

It brought a living change

that paced me day to day,

my thief-companion,

rogue of a thousand fingers

reaching always into my net

for the day's catch,

cleaning my pocket

of each dulled coin

to leave me at last
like everything else

alone on the edge of a pulling abyss,
bleached bare as a fallen skull in a

lightless catacomb, forgotten behind

its earth-blocked arch;

down and round

with the ghost of the sound

of your traveler's laugh

when I was a doorway

to the endless road.

~August 2017

Images:

Skull, 1917, M. C. Escher

Thérèse Duncan -The Parthenon, 1921, Edward Steichen

Public domain

mandala:

1.Oriental Art. a schematized representation of the cosmos, chiefly characterized by a concentric configuration of geometric shapes, each of which contains an image of a deity or an attribute of a deity.

2.(in Jungian psychology) a symbol representing the effort to reunify the self. ~dictionary.com

Flannel Perfume

Flannel Perfume

Some weeks after

you left me, panhandling

into the chile parched Mexican dust,

I unwrinkled your shirt

from the closet floor,

accused its clumsy plaid

white for weddings,

red for the factory moon,

black for lies.

It defended itself

with your incense--

old glue, old books, fresh blood.

Too much of you came to testify,

sandalwood hair hung long, flying

brows, the sawblade of

your crosscut smile

rusty but sharp enough.

I could smell the verdict

blowing off on the

highway's blistered back

windy-wild and away, 

feel the unsteady fall

of petal-pink walls, 

each day's rubbled brick 

lichened over in patchouli shadows,

hanging stale in the cell of

a convict's years to come. 

~March 2017

Note: this poem has been edited since originally posted.

for Susie's Perfume    at real toads

Images: Red flannel plaid, manipulated, via the internet
The Roses Of Heliogabalus, 1888, Detail,  by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema
Public domain via wikiart.org  

New Year's Fool

New Year's Fool

I am from yesterday,

but not.

My veil is the cloud of a dozen

dead species of moth,

my too-short skirts some dismal fabric

that only comes in black,

like bombazine.

My face is from nowhere,
but not.

My hands namaste,

my hair is a madwoman's coif,

a harlot's passport.

I stole my maryjanes from

a Harajuku girl

stoned in the Mission,

I have no eyes

but 

you feel me watching you.

Some say I'm a fool,

but 
I'm not.

 ~January 2017

 posted for     real toads

a very impromptu write for

Fireblossom Friday:Escape to The Past

Image: artist unknown, fair use.

The Night Bee

The Night Bee

The night bee flies alone

while the drones doze at home

and few will ever taste

what she brings back to the comb.

Confused by the moon

and the closed rose,

she crawls harlequin walls

where starlight froze

where jasmine twines up

through a sweetness of bones.

The night bee flies alone

while the drones die at home

and few will ever find

what she brings back to the comb

what she keeps in her black throat

stolen from the flower

that closes at dawn.

~August 2016

Optional Musical Accompaniment

posted for    real toads

 Weekend Challenge

Caveat: Despite the amazing similarity to Magaly Guerrero's poem for her challenge, I honestly came by these words on my own, as I never read anyone's offerings before I write to a prompt (and in fact, 3 days later I am just now reading hers.) Still, it's a crazy coincidence that our two poems should be almost identical in so many ways. I offered to take mine down, but Magaly has graciously said to leave it, so I do, as an illustration of poetic lightning striking twice.

Image: The Tempest:Ariel and the Bee, illus. by Edmond Dulac

(Colors inverted) Fair Use via wikiart.org

Blackberries

Blackberries

Wild blackberries
on the tongue

all sweet stain
and full of stones,

black as blood

among the thorns.

 I came to worship

but I stayed to think.

I came to eat

but you had only drink:

a river of salt

to wash the sweet away,

and a flood of ink

to black out the day.

~June 2013

55  wild ripe berries of Rubus fruticosus for    the g-man

Hover mouse for image attribution or click on pic to visit photographer's flick'r page.