Some Etheree-al Ramblings on The Moon

© Diana Matisz, All Rights Reserved. Used with permission.

Moon Storm

(An etheree)

So

the storm

finally

came. Lightning climbed

the tree backwards, head

to the ground, stars tumbled

down in sweet bright sips of light

and the moon rose, kicking off her

slippers of clouds, indigo heart of

 ocean in her palm, drinking stars for wine.

Dry Ice

(A Double Reverse Etheree)

Thru

clouded

sleet sweet lips

the  moon panting

hung her painted tongue

down    to  the  metal  roof

still  hot   enough to melt  hail

or jump-fry plagues of grasshoppers.

Her  rilling  drops  slicked  it with silver

moonspit,  gleaming blind white: ice for fire.

She made a glacier from a light pool, frost

from dry-iced steel. Skating on the shine,

spidery   light-wiggles   wandered

from  the lick of  moon  over
my clockwork hair, to my
 impatient eye,  so

 ready        to

dream  the

 freeze.

~July 2013

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Weekend Challenge: Etheree(al)

I'm hosting our challenge this weekend, which is to write an etheree, a ten line poem which begins with one syllable and ends with ten. I've done a regular one, and then I've put two of them back to back, with the second reversed, just for fun.
Thanks, Diana, for the use of your lovely photo.

Image:  © Diana Matisz, All Rights Reserved. Used with permission.

Diana's photography blog is Life Through Blue Eyes, her flick'r stream is here, and her Redbubble store, where prints of her work are available, is here.

The Unlikely Summer

The Unlikely Summer

It was

an unusual summer.

The heat left town, embarrassed

after a bad opening night.

Sparrows and hummingbirds broke

union rules and danced in the same line-up,

decorating spotlight sunflowers like seeds of glass.

At night, significant rabbits with pocketwatches

came to the back door in top hat and tails, asking

the way to wonderland, but time jumped

upstream wild and fast as salmon in a silver river

and they were ~ always ~ late.

I dialed the broken wheel on the landline

till my digits calloused, to speak long distance to

the empty place where you had been ~  always ~

I got the machine ~ always ~ noncommittally polite

and willing to take a message, but

I knew I'd never hear back, even though

every flower in my garden bloomed

out loud for you in that

unusual summer

where secret thunder on the east

met the lightning climbing out of bowls

of blue cloud, hollow, vast and tortured with swell.

Everything rained and turned to tatters.

I opened my heart to the storm

and it came in,
like Jesus filling a canvas tent,

and the blur and the flicker

fell into my fingers until I became

~all ways ~
dangerous, until

I wasn't safe for birds or rabbits, until

I could touch nothing
alive,

nothing at all.

~July 2013

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Challenge: Friday Night Raw

Corey Rowley (Herotomost) asks us to dig deep into our toolbox as writers and use technique, different devices and styles to engage the reader, to access and convey the intensity of our emotions. He also mentions some bat guano. I think I got that part down. 



This is also posted for my friend Karin Gustafson's prompt 'a body or bodies of water,' at      
dverse poets 

(She said a rain drop was acceptable, so...)

Optional Musical Accompaniment

Images from Fick'r Creative Commons. Hover mouse for attribution, or click on pic to go to the photographer's flick'r page.

Moon Eyes

Moon Eyes

The clouds masking mystic

makes the moon gaze strabismic.

One eye, the red one,

ignites the dry sun;

the other, the right,

puts out the blue night.

Rain still falls gently, so why

the blind burning of sky?

Sinlight's cochineal beams,

 bright as your dagger voice in dreams,

are hot as the cellar of murder.

~July 2013

55  blinking wet eyelashes for       the  g-man

Photo  © joyannjones 2012

The Age Before Sunrise

 

The Age Before Sunrise

I watched the tear

begin in the lace

heard the first crack

of the bone that comes

before the tender runner falls

into the shrill crusher

where surface grit is sliced

from blue heart turned to tar,

every factor extracted

sweetly from its bloody root

to a dead center

for the incurious worm

still gnawing

its own circular tomb

in the thing it killed

forever;

what is it

that growling? What

slips its face up so shyly

over the rim of the past?

~July 2013

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Challenge: Get Listed

Though I seldom work from word lists, I have to admit, lately I'll be happy to shake hands with anything that pries my muse out of her cave. This particular word list, which you can see in its entirety at the link above, was supplied by the poet M, who also blogs as Grapeling.

Optional Musical Accompaniment

Image: The Old Tower In The Fields, by Vincent Van Gogh, 1884
Public Domain, via wikipaintings.org