Wing Of A Moth

Wing of a Moth

Your kiss

hangs like a moth's wing
on the wet cheek of night,

a flight interrupted, a life

separated from its whole.

It knows

all the tyranny of gravity,

this caress you cloak in air;

the past is loudest when it whispers,
aching where it smiles.

Miles after dreams

I walk soar swim,

miasma'd in a sigh, stumbled

at a stile thrown across the

pasture-path 

where pink-nosed ruminants pull

and chew your weedy lies, sluice

them stomach to stomach

til they drop to show
the truth they always were.

Bright bell of the sun,

ghost of a moth's night shadow,
wild bloom and weed

flower, fly and ring;

between we two wings
let us have lift once again.

 ~June 2016

posted for    real toads

Challenge:Weeds

Moth  © Amelia Fletcher, via internet

Weeds and Flowers, by John Henry Twachtman public domain

The Tumbleweed Maker

The Tumbleweed Maker

You are the thing that

makes the tumbleweed,

the thing that consuming,

consumes itself.

Not the snake but the fire,

not the mirrored serpent but

the serpent in the mirror,

not the rain, ever,

but forever

the dustbowl wind

that takes everything loose and light

breaks what tries to stand

that    pushes              pushes

pushes

to have its way

then getting it,                     

                             sighs away.

I hide from the sun
you pull out  

to smile benignly

dripping gold on yesterday's wreck

while trusting flowers come, 

tumbleweeds sway in greengold balls

the cat lolls on his back

forgetting to crunch up the doves

and things seem--

O

just 

fine--

until the smile 

opens its can of hell,

curls leaves, drops flowers as

the panting cat thins in parched dust

where

the warped wall,
the emptied weed
the hiding heart

are light and loose and broken

ready for you,

the black wind

that blows it all away.

~April 2014

Images: Homestead and farm in Texas County, Oklahoma, USA, during Dust Bowl.
"Dust Storm Near Beaver, Oklahoma"1935
USDA, NARA respectively, public domain via wikimedia commons 

Friday Flash 55 ~ Puffball

puffball spores, magnified x5000

Puffball

Poor little

puffball in a patch

of  deathcaps

poison left

and right hallucinations.

Who’d want to pick her?

Muffin-capped,

fat, brown and sturdy,

dark spores ripe

and pushing,

she twirls her black umbrella;

out they fly past death.

Resting now

she sleeps unknowing;

clouds gather,

soft rainfall

springs up far away children

anyone can pick.

June 2011

Three linked shadormas

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

"While most puffballs are not poisonous, some often look similar to young agarics, especially the deadly Amanitas, such as the Death Cap mushroom." ~wikipedia

The shadorma is a Spanish verse form. It has six lines with a syllable pattern:3/5/3/3/7/5

Image: Puffball spores in SEM stereoscopic, by Secret Disk

courtesy wikimedia commons 

Weeds

Weeds

Out 

of its quirky carapace

comes the green shoot

comes its partner root

questing for place.

Out

of the fumbling cotyledon,

with its rudimentary

green spurs the opening fist,

come the true leaves

born for the light.

Down 

through the sharp sand

the hardpan clay

the barrier stone

uncaring which

tendrils dance and turn

with the malleable earth,

in elemental shapeshift

 ever ductile ever smooth

powered by an infinite fuel.

Above 

and below

unity of purpose

one mind of being

all choices made

before the push begins.

Then

in a haphazard ordering,

the casual digits

of the giants

pluck them out

again.

May 2011

will be

Posted for  OneShotWednesday  at the inimitable OneStopPoetry

Image: Sprout, by myriorama on flickr

myriorama's photostream

NOTE: We  had severe storms and two powerful tornadoes come very close to us last night, but we are all okay and no damage done here. We  did have a power outage so my computer was off, causing withdrawal pangs, but otherwise all is well.
~hw 5/25/11