Showing posts with label hell is empty all the demons are here. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hell is empty all the demons are here. Show all posts

Monday, June 8, 2020

Ouroboros









Ouroboros




The girl who grew old
in her sleep keeps her eyes
on a chain, afraid to let them loose
from the fingerwork of dreams,
stringing the beads of her sanity.

The machinery must turn, not
roam across every face
of cruelty, of beauty, that
comes now in the crowd
whose Fahrenheit flies

towards the boiling heart of the sun.
Voices with stones, medicine hands
 on eyes seared blind in acid clouds;
gunshot, brickbat and burning
sweep our shuddering house.

Tiny assassins make up
the bed where we fear to lie down
with our dusty farewells.
The crone bleeds hidden
gold watering her marigolds,

sees again in the glinting blue stream
 the great ouroboros return; 
Jörmungandr opens his mouth
to lash his tail and break oceans.
Now is the time for devouring 

 as Fenris howls
for the gods to come out and die.




June 2020











posted for The Sunday Muse
and Kerry O'Connor's Skylover Word List















Process note: "In Norse mythology, Jörmungandr.. is a sea serpent, the middle child of the giantess Angrboða and Loki. According to the Prose Edda, Odin took Loki's three children by Angrboða—the wolf Fenrir, Hel, and Jörmungandr—and tossed Jörmungandr into the great ocean that encircles Midgard[our human world.]The serpent grew so large that it was able to surround the earth and grasp its own tail. .. When it releases its tail, Ragnarök [the last destroying battle of the old world, translated as Twilight or Doom of the Gods] will begin.  Jörmungandr is an example of an ouroboros,...an ancient symbol depicting a serpent or dragon eating its own tail..The ouroboros is often interpreted as a symbol for eternal cyclic renewal or a cycle of life, death, and rebirth..." ~wikipedia, condensed.






Images: Title unknown, by Alexandra Dillon  Fair Use
Alchemical drawing of an ouroboros by Theodorus Pelecanos, 1478  Public Domain








Friday, April 3, 2020

Flash Fiction 55 Special April Edition #1







Welcome all 
to a special poetry month edition of the 55. To give a platform to those writing a poem a day in April, or to anyone who wants to engage in the form, I will be hosting this meme of G-Man's every Friday in April, and I am sure he would approve. So have at it, and share with us a poem, piece of prose-poetry or flash fiction on any subject, so long as it consists of 55 words, no more no less.


The prompt will be live from midnight Friday April 3 to 4 pm Sunday April 5th.


No Mr. Linky here, so just copy and paste the url of your 55 in the comments below, and I will be by to see what you have for us.

~ * ~

Here is my own 55:






Rationing


For today,
only one chapter
two slices bread
three acid tears
four-times-washed hands
to wipe them.

For tonight,
one half-moon
foggy with spring
two hours sleep
three cups chamomile tea
four owl-calls
playing the night music.

For that day
 unknown,
only one page
two ravens
three stubbed candles
four men in masks
to carry infinity.





April 2020



















Images: Photo: via internet author unknown Fair Use

Photo: © Sergio Agazzi/Fotogramma via Reuters manipulated Fair Use
[Italian military trucks and soldiers by Bergamo's cemetery after the army was deployed to move coffins from the cemetery to neighbouring provinces.]




Saturday, March 28, 2020

Golden Currant






Golden Currant ( Ribes aureum )



 
Locked down to an acre
alive with spring's current,
silver-gold greyed green in
the storm's blue sky farewell,
each arch of yellow stars
on the hill petals honey,
drenches the stench
of rats in the brushpile, of death
with vanilla.

Old dog in her grave
sleeps under shadow
as I pass and remember
her breath with my breath.
Circular rites of the riding mower
trance me an order  
on a grass chaos'd dancefloor, dream me
away from the too solid walls 
stale with canned howls, wilted laments

demon-pitchforked in piles
from screens to my skull.
Shadows posture and strut,
sicken and die, cry in
the night under my pillow.
On the hill, golden currant
knows this spring's secrets,
this spring of its hundreds;
just a silver-lined scent

from some hungry sodbuster
now dished in the dustbowl,  
whose catalogue currant
is never in fruit. Dead brothers
all, under the flowers
wind-snapped in March color
that will flood this dark rampage
with a grave-sealing  spice.

March 2020













posted for earthweal's

(themed for last week's 'Silver Linings')

 











Note:"Ribes aureum, known by the common names golden currant,  clove currant {etc}...is a small to medium-sized deciduous shrub...The plant blooms in spring with racemes of conspicuous goldenyellow flowers, often with a pronounced, spicy fragrance similar to that of cloves or vanilla... The berries were used for food, and other plant parts for medicine, by various Native American groups across its range in North America" ~wikipedia







Photos  Ribes aureum, March 2020 © joyannjones