The Rose In The Maze

The Rose In The Maze

From night's peak the color-thieving haze

came blowing down just before the dawn

pulled hissing thru a deep brown camel's eye,

desert's shifting face deskinned and drawn

three thousand miles across the sea to daze

anew the eyes already fey, to grey each face,

salting every indrawn breath with lye,

hiding the rose in the center of the maze.

No different than the incidental drape

of caustic fog upon the casement of the times,

another baffling slap to the heart's blind bird

whose only instinct ever was to fly

uncaged, to make her thousand mile escape,

to give her feathers to the wind to break

or hold, to find somewhere a living branch unburned

and sing to the hidden rose no one can take.

June 2020

posted for

The Sunday Muse

Process note: There is a massive cloud of Saharan dust covering a large portion of the southeastern US and other areas at the moment, causing hazy skies and respiratory problems for some. Here is a link to some info, and pics of how it appears in the Caribbean, from BBC.

Images: White Rose in Pink Smoke, artist unknown, courtesy of Sunday Muse   Fair Use
A stylized textile book covering from the Netherlands, circa 1615-1650, depicting a rose  Fair Use

The Foresters

[SCROLL DOWN THE PAGE FOR THE FRIDAY 55]

The Foresters

We gathered wood for

a winter we'd never see;

not to keep others warm

but so each stiff tree's arm

yielding to the saw with a whistling sigh

would sketch a rune of twigs, a ghosted fire

to magic into being our desire.

We gathered fuel against a

north-blown frost, thin-sliver shavings

to take the match of want

to a bed of coals where we'd transmuted lie,

fuel for the flame as the flames rose high

from our wedding pyre,

ash on the smoke-rise snapping in the sky.

We tore that chainsaw through a scrub-oak sea, 

worked wedge and maul ignorant of what bleeds

at the quick mistake, at what would fall, 

gathering sticks

for a hearth we'd never be,

any more than the promise

of saw-dusted seed,

the marriage in the trees

dropped unburied in the broken green.

June 2017

A reboot of an oldie never blogged, 

 a twist on Monday's theme of culture and nature

posted for earthweal's Open Link

Images: The Wood Sawyers, 1850-52, by Jean-Francois Millet  manipulated    Public Domain

Landscape with Stump, 1892, by Ivan Shiskin      manipulated                       Public Domain

Friday Flash 55 for June 2020

Welcome all. 

I know this is a difficult, even overwhelming time for many of us, 

especially when it comes to writing. I offer the 55 as an aid to composition, as a celebration of times gone by, and for my own spur to write, and I have no expectations of anyone but myself, so if you wish to participate, that is great, but if words do not come, not even 55, I understand that as well.

The rules are as always: 

write a poem, prose poem or piece of flash fiction on any subject in exactly 55 words, no more, no less. Post the link to your entry in the comments, and I will be by to read and comment on what you have written.

Having a kickass weekend is not obligatory, but always advised.

The prompt will be live from midnight Thursday til Sunday at 4:00 PM.

~*~

My 55:

War Of A Thousand Battles

Here's the war

of a thousand battles,

a hundred years,

war of roses

and dust.

Fight to standstill

ten dozen champions;

sometimes a win

if winning is

fighting again, 

sometimes a loss;

but always on guard in

the bloody brawl

til old soldiers

throw down the gun

and wait for

the last wave to come.

June 2020

Images: Head of an Old Peasant, 1874, by Ivan Kramskoy      Fair Use

The Night Guard, by Odd Nerdrum             Fair Use

January House

January House

Fierce-As-Red-Hair and Fly-As-A-Fox

from the liminal's edge came to pick the locks

dressed in their frills

for thrills and kills

they opened the door

and live here still.

Fly-As-A-Fox and Fierce-As-Red-Hair

can spin windershins and dance on green air

with nightshade brows

and bones of mouse

they climbed the steps of

the January house.

Fly and Fierce have a skull that sings

have pleated blue smocks and onyx rings

on the balcony standing with little sharp things

that gleam by moon's eye

where you cannot pass by

unless you dance

 with Fierce and Fly.

Don't splash through the mud where the lily nods.

Don't go to a church where you don't know the gods.

There's no time to pray

and the blood has its way

when Fierce and Fly

come out to play.

June 2020

 posted for

 The Sunday Muse

 Note: The flowering plant below the girls in this picture is agapanthus, or Lily of the Nile, native to South Africa. It is not a lily, and not from the Nile tho it does like a warm climate and a moist soil.

Image: color (not colorized) photograph from 1908, author unknown, manipulated