Two Triolets In September

 

 

 

 

 

Two Triolets In September

 

Bright wasp-stings of light, yellow afternoons

that summer has given, October soon takes

with her quarrel of grackles and pale hunter's moon;

a wasp-sting of cold on a yellow afternoon.

Ferry winds will carry the gold leaf-wing soon.

Forgotten the spinner, the empty web breaks

with a wasp-sting sigh on a yellow afternoon.

What today has given, tomorrow soon takes.

 

 

So came the soft touch so soon to be lost

that folds poppies' faces to green nodding skulls,

sealing their seed-thoughts til the first killing frost,

in that last soft light so soon to be lost

where I dance alone with a fluttering ghost

with summer's warm vices consumed and annulled,

with scent of soft smoke so soon to be lost

and the red poppies' faces turned to green skulls.

September 2024

 

 

 

 

 

 posted for Word Garden Word List~Autumn

at

Shay's Word Garden

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images: Oriental Poppies, 1928,  © Georgia O'Keefe

Poppies in seed, via internet. Fair Use

 

Apple Wine, Bitter Greens

 

 

 

 

 

Apple Wine, Bitter Greens

 

 

 

 

You gave me apple wine and bitter greens

a highwire hawk who'd learned to trick the sky,

a line of lakes where the white moon hid her gleams

in cups of apple wine and bitter greens,

in fantasies, daydreams and guillotines

til we were just a wildfire burning dry

drunk on apple wine and parched of green,

two highwire hawks who thought we'd tricked the sky.

 

 

 

 February 2022

 

 

 

 

 

posted for

 Shay's Word List #13

 

 

and 

 

 

 

dVerse Poets Poetics:

After St. Valentine has left the building

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images: Evening at Volga, 1888, ©Isaac Levitan    Public Domain

Courting Redtails, 2008 ©Gouldingken     via wikimedia commons     Fair Use

 

Earthsong

Earthsong

A triolet on the death of
Chantel Moore

The Mother has come to cover her bones

and Owl to call when the wind blows stars.

White fire, black blood, grey plague of stones;

flowers grow colors over her own.

Drums make a heart, peace makes a throne;

burn for her now and melt the scars.

Flowers will know to cover her bones.

Owl flies tonight to the wind-blown stars.

June 2020

posted for earthweal's

Love Songs For Mother Earth

Apologies to those with certain newer word press sites. Their handling of spam puts my comments in the spam folder. I have commented on everyone's poem at this prompt, so if you don't see me, check there. I keep waiting for this problem to be resolved but it seems like it never will be. Again, sorry.

owl and moon by A.Perry

Process note: The owl is a potent symbol in many Native American cultures, including:

•  "Ojibwe tribes, as well as their Aboriginal Canadian counterparts, used an owl as a symbol for both evil and death. In addition, they used owls as a symbol of very high..[spirituality in their spiritual]..leaders..
• Pawnee tribes viewed owls as the symbol of protection from any danger within their realms.
• Pueblo people associated owls with Skeleton Man, the god of death and spirit of fertility.
• Yakama tribes use an owl as a powerful totem, often to guide where and how forests and natural resources..[can be used]with management...."  ~wikipedia

Images: Borage, Crocus, © joyannjones

Sweet Murmur

Sweet Murmur

Your voice is just the murmur

of the wide windy moon

after the storm passes over,

love is just sweet murmur

grinding grit and gravel

as the tide rolls in too soon,

salt over sweet murmur

of the far windy moon

~January 2017

for Brendan at   real toads

Image: Moonrise, Beaumaris © Clarice Beckett

Geisha

Geisha

He put her in a cage of words

so she could sing to him every night.

She lost the tune, her notes grew blurred;

she jigged in place in a cage of words,

peeping the tentative softness of birds

in the manic pluck, the mirror's bite.

He kept her in a cage of words

so she could weep for him every night.

~September 2013

posted for    real toads

Weekend Mini-Challenge: Dr Mouse Is In The House

Lolamouse makes Rorshachs for us and asks us to " choose an inkblot and write whatever comes to mind." She also said "If unstructured, free form thought causes you to become anxious, use your associations as a stepping stone to a more structured form. " This is a triolet, more or less.

Inkblot by Lolamouse

Class Warfare

 Class Warfare

A Triolet

 

I watched the day the castle fell,

saw dove and gosling put to sword;

a yowling Vixen rang the bell

and laughed the day the castle fell.

They burned the deer park, sealed the well

unlocked the cage of the talking bird.

She flew the day the castle fell,

calling fools to bring the sword.

March 2012

Posted for  FormforAll~Triolets at dVerse Poets Pub

Gay Cannon has invited Samuel Peralta (of Semaphore)to discuss and inspire us in the triolet form, one of my favorites. I've bent the rules a little here in my political roman à clef, but hopefully I will not be put to the sword.

And those who are counting may notice that there are also 
55 torches and pitchforks present
 for the G-Man.

Image:  "Der Thier und Jäger Krieg. "A broadside satirizing ordinary people and their aspiration to gain political power by showing the world upside-down, with animals storming the fortification of the hunters..(Nuremberg, Fürst: 1652)[Public domain], via wikimedia commons

Wings ~ Deal With It

Wings~
Deal with it

No one remembers Icarus flying

Any fool on the street can say how he fell,  

tasting the burn, laughing and crying.

No one remembers Icarus flying.

Heaven’s the place you'll go after dying.

Everyone knows I'm going to hell.

No one remembers Icarus flying

Any fool on the street can say how he fell.

June 2011

*Thanks to Fireblossom for the inspiration for this title.

Posted for   OneShootSunday  at the inimitable OneStopPoetry

Photo: of Graffiti by Chris Galford, courtesy of OneStopPoetry

Friday Flash 55 ~ Casting the Runes

Casting the Runes

You ask but how can I explain?

The truth and beauty; neither parse.

What hides itself in a sea of pain,

I ask, but how can you explain?

Not every fish is for the seine.

The drama flops when played as farce.

We tell our own but can’t explain

the Truth. And beauty doesn’t parse.

April 2011

I've taken a bit of liberty with the triolet form here and let the runes fall where they may.

Posted for Friday Flash 55 at the G-Man's

Gypsy Witch Cards source link

Crop Failure

Crop Failure

The summer came and parched the cloves 

The sun beat down, a drum of brass.

Before the locusts came in droves

the summer came and parched the cloves.

They parted then in a blighted grove,

divided, dried to blistered grass.

The summer came and parched the cloves.

The sun beat down, a drum of brass.

March 2011

A triolet.

Posted for Magpie Tales # 56

Also posted for OneStopPoetry Form Monday at the inimitable OneStopPoetry

Working Class Crab

 

Two Poems on the Crab

Working Class Crab

In the mind of a crab, the whole world’s something dead,

full of 12 hour days with no time to draw breath.

His benefits suck, but at least he’s well fed.

In the mind of a crab, the whole world’s something dead.

There’s no dancing, no love, not a thought in his head

about why he works on in the factory of death;

In the mind of a crab the whole world’s something dead,

full of 12 hour days with no time to draw breath.

The Crab and I

In the mind of a crab the whole world’s something dead

and hunger‘s the hell that he keeps in his head.

He trolls the long beach with his eyeballs on stalks

turning widdershins, searching as sideways he walks.

The joseph’s coat sunrise just doesn't exist,

nor the hot siren’s song nor the cool evening mist.

Crossing a footprint of Everest dimensions

has little to do with his will or intentions.

His work needs no family and no place of rest,

just a groping and hunger that’s only expressed

by ceaselessly searching in every tide-spring.

The mind of a crab makes the world a dead thing.

No self-awareness, no angst in his breast;

yet he and I both think the dead must taste best.

Like the crab I want nothing from anything new.

I eat a dead meal made from memories of you.

January 2011

Posted for OneShotWednesday at the inimitable OneStopPoetry

Photo: Sand Crab, by Petteri Sulonen