Tuesday, October 4, 2022

Last Light

 
 

 
Last Light
 
 

"All changed, changed utterly:   
A terrible beauty is born..." ~W. B. Yeats 
 
 
 
 
 
 
I was born
in the black and white,
a changed place still living what had been,
a winter child in a fossil's spring of
sun and shadow, war's unmercied clarity
and the trampled mud of peace,
 
its empty whiskey bottles
and gardens of shaded violets, deep
black soil, black thunderclouds, 
white winter sky, blackened medals,
white gauze veils packed away 
in crackled trunks.
 
Now I live my last in a red dirt country
where the heat-song of September changing
dips the fading wheat in ginger honey. Wind-weary
trees lace still-green leaves thru the soft
reaching fingers of clouds, holding tight
before their scarlet fall.
 
Earth is whispering her love words
in the rustle of sundried grass
and blackberries tumbling over with
thickets of banquets in seedy puzzles.
When I turn to face the setting citrine sun
it's you I call to the open door
 
to sit beside me in the shortening days
drunk with bees and crow-call,
rich with the gatherings of every flower.
Won't you come, beloved,
before January rimes the windows
with its deep blue loss. 
 
Come to the place 
where you can't be forgotten.
Bring your cinnamon september skin
and your wild silver-grass hair to these ruins,
and your campfire eyes,
alight in the night of dreams so far
 
beyond the black and white.
Lace your fingers with mine
as trees do with the sky,
separate and one
where the fire of what was
in the hope of what may never be
 
is the only light left
before the scarlet fall.




October 2022
 
 





 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Posted for earthweal's
 
 
 
 
 
With thanks to Brendan for the poetry of W.S Merwin and others which inspired this. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: My mother with myself at 2 months of age, Evanston, Illinois March 7th, 1949 
House North of Nash, Oklahoma, 2022  photo © Terry Wassan   via internet   Fair Use

Wednesday, September 28, 2022

Fairy Tale

 


 
 Fairy Tale





Princess Moonzumi and Prince Heart-of-Ash
were betrothed as children through a looking glass.
She never knew him. He never saw her,
just a shadow that moved in the mirror's blur.

Prince Heart-of-Ash learned bard song and sword,
to jest with a blade and kill with a word.
Princess Moonzumi went out every day
to dance with the Sidhe where the dogwoggles play
 
down in the mud, up in the scud,
around the green tree that sheds no blood.
She knew every fae in the wild dark wood
and they taught her to fear the evil in good.
 
Princess Moonzumi and Prince Heart-of-Ash
were married in autumn when the east winds thrash
as the leaves fell like fire on earth's mirror-face,
and they loved each other for a year and a day.
 
Then Prince Heart-of-Ash took his sharp bright blade
down to the wood where the dogwoggles played.
The princess died like a mouse in the leaves
for a lie in the heart only ash could believe.
 
 


September 2022










posted for earthweal's
 
 
 

and 
 
 
 
dVerse Poets'








Sidhe/SHē/noun, plural noun: Sidhe: the fairy people of Irish folklore, said to live beneath the hills and often identified as the remnant of the ancient Tuatha Dé Danann.









Note: I wrote the seed of this poem while running a fever a few weeks ago, but the prompts shaped it to final form. Apologies if I have stretched the boundaries a bit on what was requested.



 
 
Images: Mammal in Leaves, author unknown, courtesy of earthweal   Fair Use
They went hand in hand in the country that smells of appleblossoms and honey,  © Arthur Rackham, Irish Fairy Tales
 Fair Use

Friday, September 23, 2022

The Scarecrow's Sister

 
 
 
 

 
 
The Scarecrow's Sister
(a 55)
 
 
The scarecrow's sister
feels the breath of November
scans the valentine of Winter
sees her brother surrender
his Eden again to Martinmas weather,
mocked in a cornfield
crestfallen with crows.

Tho his overcoat's empty
as her sentimental replay
of Romeo reborn,
she knows Spring will raise him
high on his stick
alive in the corn.








September, 2022






posted for



and



earthweal's 


















Images: In The Fields, Evening  © Jules Breton circa 1900   Public Domain
Pumpkinhead--Self Portrait © Jamie Wyeth, 1972  Fair Use

Saturday, September 3, 2022

Lonely As A Dream

 
 
 

 
 
Lonely As A Dream
 
"Everything's a dream when you're alone."
~Wes Craven
 
 
If
you come through the door 
you see at once it's an old woman's house
smelling of apples, eucalyptus
and yellow books rhyming by size.
Nothing is new.
 
Incense
burns in the bedroom
for the sake of a man's memory
smoking and braiding in soft light
that slips through heavy drapes
like a thief. There is silence.
 
Peace
is there, and emptiness.
The ghost has learned to
keep to its corner, and seldom speaks to
the woman who gambles with words
in the hunger before dawn. 

She's
 the laugh no one hears
at  the midnight carnival,
the road no one takes
winding back on itself, the sprout 
light's pulled too thin, too tall
in its mirror, shadow.

Besides 
the dream, she knows only 
a sky flat with heat
that eats birds and rain,
a plague without cure
that stretches its dead skin
to infinity.

But 
everything passes. To all things come
this tension of maximums
just before the breaking
and the letting go.
 
 
 September 2022










posted for




and earthweal's









 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Doorway © Suzanne Moxhay, All Rights Reserved   Fair Use
Dangerous Laisons, 1926,  © Rene Magritte  Fair Use
 
 

Monday, August 15, 2022

The Feather Seed

 
 

 
 
 The Feather Seed
(a 55)

There was a feather;
it grew from my eye until
it was my eye.
There was a word.
It grew from my quill until
it was a wing.
There was a seed;
it grew from the soil of
every word decaying, until
it was a tree where 
quilled birds sang
like candles in the dark.


August 2022
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 posted for 
hosted by Carrie Thackery Van Horn


and 
 
 
Sherry Marr's 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Saturday, August 13, 2022

At The Hospital

 
 
 

 
 At The Hospital

 
 
Pendants of light
reflections reversed
bent on slick white tile
random voices
in chained rooms
living out their untold
fortunes. Are fortunes told
or are they read,
written in a book of days
all numbered
not visible except
through curving crystal?
Or are they droned
the same tune every time
inside the skull,
mortality's earworms?
I am indifferent.
The gypsy broke my cup;
my tea leaves spilled.
 
 
 
 
circa 2019, rev. March 2022 















posted for earthweal's











 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Sun In An Empty Room, 1963, © Edward Hopper   Fair Use
The Fortune Teller, 1933, © Brassai            Fair Use 

Wednesday, August 10, 2022

Firefall

 
 

 
 
Firefall

 
 
 Lightning falls tonight
along the border of change.
Summer made a brass mirror
hot as Hell's floor to flare
the prairie grass to fire. 
Now her demon child
walks the storm.

We built a tall white tower
a colossus to catch the wind
for us to eat. With a flick of
staggered shot the lightning felled it
melting it
like an interrupted dream.
And so it was

when you and I
met to hold the lightning
in our palms, flaring in
a mutual fire, to give back
the reflection of love
from eyes of brass. Too much
heat cracks the shell.

Too much
of the electric touch
and towers melt,
lightning falls singing
a crackling song that says:
no one can own me
only the end I bring them.
 
 
August 2022
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
posted for earthweal's weekly challenge:
 
 (with apologies to Brendon 
for shamelessly using his theme title)
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Note: Last night we got one of those wild storms that pop up along an advancing front. Most of it missed us here at my location, saving some very welcome thunder and rain, but parts of the state got flooding downpours, downburst winds up to 75 mph, and a lot of lightning, a bolt of which melted this wind turbine in Custer County and set it on fire.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Volcano and lightning, author unknown, via the internet. Fair Use
Burning Wind Turbine, Custer County, courtesy of Oklahoma News 9 Weather, Fair Use 

Wednesday, August 3, 2022

August in America 2022

 
 

 
 
 
 
August in America 2022
 
 
August is
a box of eyes
closed
pretending there is no
stab of light
a beach of scalded feet
of knees scraped raw on underwater sand
bleeding a string of dead flowers
and too many ants.

May sang once I remember
November wailed but August
holds a hot hand
over summer's mouth stifling sweat-damp
nights of thirst with silent fever 
like a rash
of rumors
 hallucinations of
drowning rain.

No one wants August
to do anything but leave
even if it means red winter
but it stays
only peeling like old paint
spreading like the sour smell
of smoke
in a burned house
backbuilt from blood and sickness

where even the ants
die by fire.
 
 

August 2022
 
 





 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
posted for dVerse Poets Poetics:
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: The Enchanted Beach, 1950 © Salvador Dali   Fair Use
Ants © Dunja Zubak via satchiart.com   All Rights Reserved   Fair Use