Pictures of a Failed Exhibition

Pictures Of A Failed Exhibition

From the days of my religion

when men were gods

and trees were prophets

painted tall and straight

till the  witches'-broom showed,

I took nothing in the end

but the relic in the bone box

framed by black velvet,
lid so carefully carved

with all my fables.

I set it on a scarlet altar

with seven priests and seven 

blessings, where canvas cherubim 

genuflected with a smirk.
In times of great need, I took it out.

I overlooked its sour smell,

its shriveled  form, and

fervently adored it as I

prayed its intercession
in my damnation.

But each year it just

grew blacker, crackled, smaller,

till opening the casket one day

I saw only a brimstone dust.

Then the incubus came

to please and torment me,

the spoiled trees

were felled, the priests

unfrocked and the cherubim fled,
never having truly felt at home

All that was left
hanging in the chiaroscuro
at the alter was a memory-shadow
shape of a severed thing decayed

pointing out the way

to dissolution. From these pictures
I learned two things:

that evil is good's bad dream;

that evil is insane

for it cannot dream at all.

~June 2015

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Challenge: Fireblossom Friday

The perpetual framer of original challenges, Fireblossom (Shay's Word Garden) asks us to write a poem on any subject, her sole stricture being that the title begin with the words 'Pictures of..." 

Optional Psychedelic Garage Band Accompaniment

Process note: "...witch's broom or witches' broom is a disease or deformity in a woody plant, typically a tree, where the natural structure of the plant is changed. A dense mass of shoots grows from a single point, with the resulting structure resembling a broom or a bird's nest..."~wikipedia

Iamges: The Relic, 18923, by Joaquin Sorolla

Public domain via wikiart.org

Witch's-broom on Birch, via wikimedia commons

Shared under a Creative Commons license 

Cave Light

Cave Light

Darkness is safety

when the eye won't shut;

what can be seen

in the dark warm

where pillars of salt

turn ebony and

 the far sound 

of ocean licks

at time's feet?

Without fail

 I see two

you

myself

the 

twisting meet 

of  stalactite 

and 

stalagmite;

the fallen

also raising

a bridge from 

dissolution,

conduit and 

collapse 

columned, fused, 

shadows in the light 

at cave-mouth that sends us

its  own soft arms as we span

the rock room and shelter night.

~June 2015

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Challenge: Caverns of Thoughts

Corey Rowley (herotomost, at Mexican Radio, and  recently published author of On Hunter's Wash ) takes us spelunking in the caverns of the mind, our quest to report back on what we see. This was a quick and spontaneous write, so thanks, Corey, and all my patient readers for putting up with whatever happens when there is not the usual excruciating editing process.

Images: Cave Dwellings Near Sperlinga Sicily, 1933, by M.C. Escher
Magic Grotto, 1942  by Remedios Varo
Fair use via wikiart.org

Violet Crush

Violet Crush

"Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it."

~Mark Twain

Your hope's a hoop

swallowing its tail, your

forgiveness a rosewood

casket, shut   

on the smell 

of something gone.

You can't peddle your

punk beacons here

as the peace of light,

buzzing the moon's ears

with one-eyed drones.

Here I build silence

with the end of strength

so there will be time

for the truth.

~June 2015

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Weekend Challenge: Flash Fiction 55

Kerry's Plus to the 55 factor this time is to use a quote from Brainy Quote's Quote of the Day archive. I have pulled mine from their vast reservoir of the master of quotable quotes, Mark Twain

Image: White Violet, copyright joyannjones 2015

Dream Of The Golden Monkey

Dream Of The Golden Monkey

It was the time

of the Golden Monkey, dancing

down a stairway of petals and coins;

a flourescent idyl of creamery light

sinking sweetly into the indigo cup

of black coffee night.

We reached up to
the little gold god as He dropped
a basket of yellow-eyed anemones;

He was more real than the Golden Calf

(of which you'd politely taken half,

when I'd refused to eat.)

A voice in
my monkey mind

laughed and told the rose

to fold me in her clothes;

when I picked the lily's child, she gave
no more fragrance than your smile

while the Monkey blinked His

peonie-pink eyes, quite pleased 

to caper despite His fall,

lightly balanced on a gracile haunch

just one opposable thumb away

from the Golden Branch.

So we sat for
an age between day

and past,
beneath the swinging sign at last

of the Golden Monkey,
flowers in our pockets, pollen on our lips

watching the moon reflect His shine,

gilding the curled petals floating 

on our summer-flowering wine.

~June 2015

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Challenge: Floral Explosion
Susie Clevenger (Confessions of a Laundry Goddess) showed us some images of an amazing rainfall of flower petals flooding an area near the Irazú Volcano in Costa Rica as a promotion. Stunning.
 I'm not exactly sure how this poem appeared out of that, except to say it was originally a dream, and therefore hopefully doesn't require a logical explanation.

Process notes: The Golden Branch is a French fairytale about the sometimes illusory but transformative powers of desire, and also a play on the title of Sir James Frazer's comparative study of myth and religion, The Golden Bough. Zen often refers to the distractions of our senses and superficial thoughts and desires as the monkey mind.


Images: Palazzo dei Priori-Assisi--Grotesque, by Wolfgang Sauber
Shared under a Creative Commons License, via wikimedia commons
Detail of Annah the Javanese, by Paul Gauguin, Public Domain