Monday, April 29, 2013

Basket of Berries

Basket of Berries

When I was a peach
they stood in line to split me.
My sweetness spangled their chins.

When I was champagne,
they stood in line to toast me.
My slipper overflowed their little brains.

When I was a basket of berries
they fought like cats to juice me,
to suckle up a fool's Cointreau.

Now that I'm a stone
it's logical they've left me;
they didn't come to build, after all.

~April 2013

Calanais Stones

Images: Chandon Cremant Imperial, by Alphonse Mucha
Public Domain, via

Calanais Stones, by Kelvyn Skee , on flick'r

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Electric Veil


Electric Veil

We spoke
without moving our lips
in the manner of
the electrically veiled.

We stroked
each others' pixels, pink and plump
on the liquid crystal display,
dry as shed snakeskin

to the attenuated touch
in the febrile flashes
of the tubes of night

Atoms surely collided,
neurons fired in an old dance
but the feet never moved
the fingers never

found the frets or pluck
of the plangent lyre.
Only the synthesizer
thumped on till dawn

when the power failed.

~April 2013

 Hover mouse for image attribution, or click to go to the photographer's flick'r page.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Viking Spiritual

Viking Spiritual

There'll be a morning
to rise up and go,
when wings pink-plucked naked
are finally fledged,
when the wind shows her kindness
not too hard nor too little.
We'll ride on the back
of a valkyrie's song.

There'll be a noonday
forgiven  with flowers
over the battlefield
poppied with stone,
sunlight in a child's cup,
cedars swayed in a kiss,
voices raised in the shield song
for hearts killed in war.

There'll be an evening
written slant in our name.
We'll be its last murmur;
rose summer will glow
on a face now forgotten
and darkness will close
sweet as mead, deep as dream,
long as the serpent
that swallows the world.

~April 2013

posted for   dVerse Poets
Poetics: Trip the Poem Fantastic
Karin Gustafson(Manicddaily) asks us to take a trip without leaving the farm, or about leaving the farm, or having nothing to do with the farm, like this one.

Image: Valkyrie, by Stephen Sinding, Copenhagen
Public Domain by photographer, via wikimedia commons

Friday, April 26, 2013



the firewood was gathered,
before the driftwood hit the sand
even then we knew
we would burn down the world.

On the beach
older than children
younger than men
we ran from it to tidepools
of blue derangement, 

glassy blind to what lived there;
ran to the rush of the unending wave
thinking we could be it,
wear its bitter strength,
forget to strike the match.

That day she was the seal
who swam too far
round the cove bend,
became the dead thing
that should have been a delight

thrown up bloated
twitched and dull in the backwash
of a ministry of crabs, 
a convocation of flies.
Shadows lit the bonfire and danced

without their clothes. The music
walked like moving dunes.
The seal stared in the flames'
flicker, knowing there was
not enough sand on the beach

to bury her, only the darkness
of the mouths of flies.

~April 2013

posted for   real toads
Challenge: Fireblossom Friday
The ever intricate workings of the mind of Fireblossom have conjured up a challenge to assume that one is transformed into a particular animal, and speak with that voice. After grappling with this concept all night, I suddenly realized I'd actually had that experience once, as detailed here. I hope it falls within the meaning of the directive.

Image: The Golden Gate, 1900, by Albert Bierstadt
Public Domain, via

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Botanical Sabbatical

Tongue Orchid
Botanical Sabbatical

Balancing on the edge of air
the orchid has no real roots,
only sinuous fingerlings pulling it
into convenient cracks
shallow hollows, phosphorous cradles
catching the spent in spoony crucibles
cooking each little death
into a steam of phantasmic blooms,
all for fuzzy-faced moths
in a land where
there are not even
of ice.

~April 2013

55 improbable epiphytes  for   the g-man

Hover mouse for image credit, or click to go to photographer's flick'r page