Monday, August 15, 2022

The Feather Seed


 The Feather Seed
(a 55)

There was a feather;
it grew from my eye until
it was my eye.
There was a word.
It grew from my quill until
it was a wing.
There was a seed;
it grew from the soil of
every word decaying, until
it was a tree where 
quilled birds sang
like candles in the dark.

August 2022

 posted for 
hosted by Carrie Thackery Van Horn

Sherry Marr's 

Saturday, August 13, 2022

At The Hospital


 At The Hospital

Pendants of light
reflections reversed
bent on slick white tile
random voices
in chained rooms
living out their untold
fortunes. Are fortunes told
or are they read,
written in a book of days
all numbered
not visible except
through curving crystal?
Or are they droned
the same tune every time
inside the skull,
mortality's earworms?
I am indifferent.
The gypsy broke my cup;
my tea leaves spilled.
circa 2019, rev. March 2022 

posted for earthweal's

Images: Sun In An Empty Room, 1963, © Edward Hopper   Fair Use
The Fortune Teller, 1933, © Brassai            Fair Use 

Wednesday, August 10, 2022




 Lightning falls tonight
along the border of change.
Summer made a brass mirror
hot as Hell's floor to flare
the prairie grass to fire. 
Now her demon child
walks the storm.

We built a tall white tower
a colossus to catch the wind
for us to eat. With a flick of
staggered shot the lightning felled it
melting it
like an interrupted dream.
And so it was

when you and I
met to hold the lightning
in our palms, flaring in
a mutual fire, to give back
the reflection of love
from eyes of brass. Too much
heat cracks the shell.

Too much
of the electric touch
and towers melt,
lightning falls singing
a crackling song that says:
no one can own me
only the end I bring them.
August 2022

posted for earthweal's weekly challenge:
 (with apologies to Brendon 
for shamelessly using his theme title)
Note: Last night we got one of those wild storms that pop up along an advancing front. Most of it missed us here at my location, saving some very welcome thunder and rain, but parts of the state got flooding downpours, downburst winds up to 75 mph, and a lot of lightning, a bolt of which melted this wind turbine in Custer County and set it on fire.
Images: Volcano and lightning, author unknown, via the internet. Fair Use
Burning Wind Turbine, Custer County, courtesy of Oklahoma News 9 Weather, Fair Use 

Wednesday, August 3, 2022

August in America 2022


August in America 2022
August is
a box of eyes
pretending there is no
stab of light
a beach of scalded feet
of knees scraped raw on underwater sand
bleeding a string of dead flowers
and too many ants.

May sang once I remember
November wailed but August
holds a hot hand
over summer's mouth stifling sweat-damp
nights of thirst with silent fever 
like a rash
of rumors
 hallucinations of
drowning rain.

No one wants August
to do anything but leave
even if it means red winter
but it stays
only peeling like old paint
spreading like the sour smell
of smoke
in a burned house
backbuilt from blood and sickness

where even the ants
die by fire.

August 2022

posted for dVerse Poets Poetics:
Images: The Enchanted Beach, 1950 © Salvador Dali   Fair Use
Ants © Dunja Zubak via   All Rights Reserved   Fair Use