Friday, September 27, 2013

The Kitchen Mouse

The Kitchen Mouse

You're in my dreams like mice in a kitchen
when the cooking's over, the cook
is sleeping, the stove is cold.
You make a skitter under the fire-crackle,
shadow warm,
at a noise

I hear you eat through sacks
and wrappings, small brighteyes;
working your delicate bones
behind blue-painted plates,
alive in the crumbs, stark
on the stones, always

Everything's spoiled in the morning
where your dirty feet have
danced, but there's no poison
here, no baited iron jaw. Live
and let live, I say, for
in my kitchen I will have
no death.

~September 2013

posted for     real toads
Challenge: It's All About Place
The ever-sharp eye of the multi-talented Margaret Bednar saw some inspirational potential in a series of  exquisite historical miniature room exhibits at the Art Institute of Chicago, and  kindly brought back pictures for us(see link.) She has asked us to write about the kind of place they might be.

Process Note: No actual kitchens were infested in the research for this poem.

Photo by Margaret Bednar,  used with permission.
(To suit my theme, I have cropped and manipulated her original photo for the header here, so blame me not her for that.)

Thursday, September 26, 2013


New Year Moon

My body was deep
all god's cast up
when it caught the last
dusty angel
in its lungs, hacking till
I finally
coughed her out.

The feckless moon
spent her last coin  
above the hill
where red stars twinkle; I
wonder why it is
twinkles here
but stars and
your dark eyes.

~September 2013

Dime Luna/Tell Me Moon

55 dusty moondrops for     the g-man

Hover mouse for image attribution, or click on pic to go to photographer's Flick'r page
Shared under a Creative Commons license.

Thursday, September 19, 2013

Remember To Forget

Remember To Forget

I remember things
that never were
in dreams,
in every dark room
your laugh the nightlight;
no need to promise
what's in plain sight.

I forget the things that are
in dreams.
Doppelgangers know
to hold me slow, tell me fast
words too low to hear.
Love that isn't there 
comes home at last 

~September 2013

55 recurrent dreams for     the g-man

Photo © joyannjones 2013

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

End Times Of The Cailleach

Untitled, Zdislav Beksinski

End Times Of The Cailleach

The world winds down,
the spirit seeps
out in a steam of boiled bones,
my bright bones that once
danced up the sky.

I look for you still
in the wheel of rain,
the bruise-smoke of rosemary's skin
burnt on the licorice black
forehead of night.

I see you in the wind-made wave
that is not blue but running ochre
sand through my sleeve,
pooling strontium drifts,
calcified dunes.

The idiot roar
from the gun's dead mouth
kills the walking flesh
but never me. Hands so busy with gold
make a snake around the throat.

Come stroke the white knives
in my ebony hair;
of all I've lost in faith or fire,
the last blessings, these few
I've saved for you.

~September 2013

posted for   real toads
Kerry's Wednesday Challenge: The Old Gods 
Kerry O'Connor offers a hard-to-refuse challenge today over at the Garden, to select a Celtic or Roman Deity…"…and write in the first person perspective of the god or goddess, but as if he (or she) were contemplating existence in the present era. Allow your imaginations to dictate what has become of the gods' personalities and relationships with humanity." I have chosen my old friend, the Celtic figure of the Cailleach, who is also one of the other faces of Brigid or Brighde, the goddess of fertility, poetry, spring, high places and all high endeavors.

Image: Untitled, 2004, by Zdislav Beksinski
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