Night Ride

Night Ride

Don't let go the mane of the mare,

the mercury mare married to night.

Look down, love, at her wild eye-white,

turn your face to her cinnamon stare,

the jeweler's work deep-set in her skull

bridging abyss, canceling null.

Don't draw back from her wire-harsh hair;

she's your only way in, only way out,

my Dancer on memory, Rider of doubt.    

Fill your eyes with her fine Arab air; 

the delicate leg, the hooves henna-bright

pacing the years from sundown to light.

You know she'll toss you, but not just where--

which rippled well, which beckoned bend.

Only let go where the fall never ends.

Lay your hand on the mane of the mare,

bury your face in her cinnamon stare.

Comb the wind from her wire-harsh hair,
fill your cup with her fine Arab air;

you know she'll toss you, but you don't know where.

~March 2015

 

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Challenge: Play it Again with Margaret

The discerning eye of Margaret Bednar (ArtHappens365) once again winnows out three selections from the plethora of past Garden challenges . I have chosen to try my hand at one of Kerry O'Connor's form challenges, The Constanza, explained with all Kerry's usual clarity HERE.  
Caveat: I have not, however, stayed completely faithful to it.

Images: Bathing Horses, by Volodymyr Orlovsky    public domain via wikiart.org

Rearing Horse, by Leonardo da Vinci, 1503   public domain via wikiart.org

  

Wolf Wind

Wolf Wind

She wears night

for a bonnet, winter

her black pelisse, hood flared

in the wolf wind.

She never looks

anything in the eye;

it's all done with

the shrug of a shoulder.

She carries grey shadows

to term in the flare of her hips,

breaking them from her skirt

in eddies as she walks.

In the snow of her petticoats

dawn lies stillborn;

the cricket's fiddle is iced

in the drying rushes.

Every door is barred

against her,

yet she comes and goes

as she wills

in the same dusty clothes

and behind her,

darkness pushes.

~March 2015

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The Tuesday Platform

Sometimes you see something, and it makes you write.

pelisse: 1.an outer garment lined or trimmed with fur. 2.a woman's long cloak with slits for the arms.1710-20; < French < Late Latin pellicia: mantle, noun feminine of Latin pellicius: of skin...pellis:skin   Dictionary.com Unabridged

Image: found on facebook, author unknown

no copyright infringement intended

Dining In

Dining In

You looked at me across

the brimming glass. I seemed to see

a butterfly on your plate,

a meal on wings in a web too blue to be.

Serve yourself, you said, as sweet

as summer almond on the spur,
for what you've fluttered for

is blooming here.

Nibbling the small absurd
crustaceans of indifference well-assumed,

followed by a toss of  salad words,

fatigued in vinegar and oil to bite and blur,
till appetite on top at last flicked off
the garnish, two soft-curled buds
beside the tart smooth cream;
wine spilled on scarlet linen stays unseen.

Next there came the twist,
main course surprise,

all salt and sauce and judgement over-ruled--
the steam of it rose humid in our eyes;

in the end we had the dish we each would choose--

brief, delicious, light but quite forgettable,
with endearments for dessert, so green
so indigestible.

~March 2015

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Weekend Challenge: Poeticizing Out

The multi-talented Karin Gustafson (ManicDDaily) asks us to write something inspired by a meal at a restaurant. I have kind of run a bit wide and wild here, but that's where I started.

Top Image: copyright Karin Gustafson,

Used with permission

Footer: Still Life Of Fruit And A Plate of Oysters, by Osias Beert

Public domain via wikiart.org

Blue Egg

Blue Egg

I remember

when I was origami

so folded, so

representational,

remarkably flexible

for paper,

my outside jayfeather blue

as an egg, lifting uncrumpled

careful wings (those

fleshless parts of the fowl

left behind when

the breast is devoured.)

Such a successful simulation,

patiently tucked and rolled into

a song, a resemblance

made into a bird, unfortunately

flightless and now

extinct
in the shredder.

~March 2015

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Challenge: Interpretations with Margaret

Margaret Bednar's (Art Happens 365) artistic eye lights this time on the work of Toril Fisher. All rights to the image above belong to the artist, who has given  us her kind permission to reproduce it.

Top Image: Baby Blues, copyright Toril Fisher
Used with permission.
Footer: Wing of a Blue Roller, 1512, Albrecht Durer
Public domain via wikiart.org

Skin Of Fog

Skin Of Fog

Fog furs the new-thawed ground,

felts brown husks in grey

as if winter had never been

or freeze.

A self-disguising spray

blurs the letters on my wall

as if there'd been no scarlet scrawl,

just a wound of air rough-covered with

a gypsy's laugh,

fog's soft uneasy peace

dead at the first sign of heat.

~February 2015

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Weekend Challenge: Flash Fiction 55 Plus

Kerry's plus this month is to add a color. Mine is the color of fog.

Image: The Pont de Courbevoie. 1886, Georges Seurat

Public domain via wikipaintings.org