Messengers

Messengers

The wind's given up

polishing the moon's face;

she pushes instead for

an avalanche of umber,

her dustdevils reborn 

to a grey-marled sky.

Dawn slips in short of breath;

the color it paints on is water

tumbling not falling,

night-tossed, twisted, taken

fast as kites scoop stunned bugs

thrown homeless into the storm,

all to make that flash, those stings

that wear the names of gods.

On such indelible filaments, such

lineaments of wind, we find 

our last flight, my love,

still hunting with hearts of kites

who feed on the turmoil of air;

just so we catch adam by atom

the tiny life that lets us soar.

Before we drown in the wash of years

before rain beats us flat as black matte,

rot-wet as winter leaves,

let us play blue-winged angels, 

silhouettes cut in a burn as bright

as the sun's heavy heart,

running messages 

between the worlds.

~August 2014

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Weekend Challenge: Feature Artist Kelly Letky

Kerry O'Connor has induced the multi-talented Kelly Letky (mrs mediocrity, the blue muse ) to share her other thing she does so well (besides poetry) with us at the pond this weekend, so that we can be inspired to write something to her work. It was very hard to choose a photo from the images she generously shared with us. Thank you Kelly.


 If you'd like to hear the poem read by the author, please click HERE

Top Image: November Sky, copyright Kelly Letky, at  the blue muse   

Used with permission.

You can find Kelly's exceptional poetry at her blog

that's mrs. mediocrity to you

Stone

Stone

I know I'll be measured

by the thing I couldn't help,

ruled by an epitaph:

'all-my-fault' on a headstone

completely unneeded; stone enough I've been.

Set upright in light with bloodshed and pain

to show 

there's no safety in darkness,

still, still 

I cover my eyes.

 ~August 2014

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Challenge: Words Count with Mama Zen

That woman of few words, Mama Zen (Another Damn Poetry Blog) asks us to examine if --and how--we are weird. Not far to look for me. Words have been hard to find of late, but I did manage to drag out 46.

Image: Unidentified standing stone between Millstreet and Ballinagree, County Cork, Ireland

Public Domain via wikimedia commons

Starspeak

Starspeak

In the sky, things grow wild:

pulled smoke, amber cotton

feather fretwork, light benighted,

silver spears, iron rattles

wind dances, night battles

spun sugar races of air rushing air,
vapor tails braided 

from a palomino mare,
the silver-flecked maze

round the withering moon,

gibbous face given glimmer

by her mirror of clouds.

Down here, things twitch like time:

the goosestep and the swansong,

the good life, the hard death

green-gold carpet, separate breath

black feet in the dust

black steps over lime, 

the opening door

framed in falling night, 

the short flight

the long walk up the stone hill

where stars finally talk

where blood grows still.

~August 2014

 posted for    real toads

Fireblossom Friday: Lists

The inimitable Fireblossom (Shay's Word Garden) asks us 
to consider the poetic possibilities of a list.

Photo: Mares'-tail moon, copyright joyannjones 2014 
Footer Image: The Open Door, by Henri Martin (slightly manipulated)
Public domain via wikiart.org

 

Gifts

Gifts

Even the bee is lazy when it rains

humming in her fitful dry hive-dance 

while the hungry dust turns mud

and liquid silver rinses out her cups.

These clouds, so high, so wild,

because they want to, come.

They play instruments of earth,

wind section, tree-cellos, stone drum

but make the music of a soul;

if we hear, it's not because we paid.

These gifts--each breath, each note

each bee, each yellow bell on fire

for ruby throat, each handful of bending blades--

outline the coast of a country never mapped

and like every gift that comes without a cost

or a desire, it stays unwrapped.

~August 2014

I will be offline for a while as various things in my life work themselves out. See you on the flipside of all that, and may all of you enjoy the gifts of summer.

Photo: Redbuds, Grey Sky, copyright joyannjones 2014

The Girl In The Purple Sweater

The Girl In The Purple Sweater

The girl 

sat drooping,

dressed purple-pink

 as the wall of a liver 

in the sun, ciphered eyes

 weeping black seeds

 into the frozen.

Each one

grew a pointing finger,

wiggling-white,
worm-curving,

denying
forgiveness
for dark matter
shadowed 

on silver plate,
for snowy eye or yellow bone,

or crab within that crawls

from home to home.

~August, 2014

55 bad seeds from the children of dreams

 for

real toads

where the incomparable Fireblossom (Shay's Word Garden) 

once again hosts the monthly 55-fest

Images:Portrait of Mademoiselle Jeanne Roberte de Domecy, by Odilon Redon

Study of Crabs, by Leonardo DaVinci

Public domain via wikiart.org