Friday, June 24, 2022

Crow Call

 
 

 
 
Crow Call
(a 55)
 
We always wear black
the crows and I,
call our skies
with a half-born crack,
shadow nests where our treasures lie,
 eat skeleton suppers with glass-star eyes.
 
Never look back.
Never look back
 
at bones we've picked
bleaching dry,
at red we've beaked
with black tails high,
dead in the darkwood
with summer's sigh.





June 2022
 
 
 
 












posted for dVerse Poet's Pub

















Images: Satellite 2014 ©Bryan Holland, via internet, Fair Use
Antlers, author unknown, via internet, Fair Use

 

Wednesday, June 8, 2022

Green Summer Country

 
 
 
 

 
 
Green Summer Country
 
 
"The sea turned to plain land, the snow on the mountain disappeared. In my eyes thousands of years fade like dust yet my heart is as before...I thought I had forgotten, but I remember everything" ~unknown, from the Mandarin

 
 I walk there in dreams,
the old summer country,
nave of a worship
where ice dies to green fire,
where we tended the world tree
whose roots wrap around
the well of the word;

where we bound the Great Wolf
with the trust of a god
made one-handed,
in the time when the mistletoe
was too young to swear oaths.
I walk there now, with
snow spirits warmed

in green shadow,
where the deer
sigh and surrender
to the arrow and its prayer,
where the Great Serpent gentled
belts the water around the wide land,
waves married to shore.
 
Where to eat is to be blessed
to love is to be whole
to suffer is to gain wisdom,
where bees make our wine,
where every leaf
hides the saga of a king.
My feet

wander lost, my throat blisters
when I wake to the Serpent unloosed,
the sea spoiled and untied,
the Wolf's bite tearing the snow 
from the mountains. My eyes
hold the dust of a thousand years
yet my heart

is the same.
I thought I had forgotten this;
I've forgotten nothing.



June 2022
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 posted for earthweal's
Dreaming In Green hosted by Sherry Marr
 
 
 
 
 




 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Notes: The poem references figures from Norse mythology; Ygdrasil, Fenris,Jormungandr,Tyr, the story of Baldur. The transcribed quote at the header I heard last night while watching a serialized Chinese television drama.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: The Glenn, 1936, ©Maxfield Parrish  Public Domain
Jormangand, the World Serpent © Aleski Briclot  via internet Fair Use
 

Sunday, June 5, 2022

Breaking The Stone

 
 

 
Breaking The Stone
 
 
When I left the forest for a wilderness
of pillars, hexed by a tinsel covenant,
the moon cried for me. Pines sparked with
white gems of her longing. Minerva's owl
called my name three times; still
I chose the thrown shadows of a fire
that burned just out of my sight.
 
Sixteen years I followed shadows,
ate them, dressed in them, became
what was cast in front of me instead of
its birthing light. Stone I owned held no fire,
only chill when my foot left its face.The
pulling promise that scorched my hand
never could be grasped.

At last like a widow's first laugh,
there came the reaping breath of what is,
carousing down columns to lift
my short hairs with the brush
of owl's wings above me,
spread wide to carry me home.
Then the orphan moon

put away her tears
and blazed in the lavender sky.
Pine-wind recited in the meter of stars,
and I was their matchstick,
Gaia's fuse for a flameless firework
filling the amaranthine wood
against the dark end.
 
In my hand
I took the gift-feather
from the owl that called my name
and with it, wand and talisman,
without any heat at all,
I broke the stone.
 

June 2022
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
a draft poem for
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Note: This poem could use some additional work, but I am posting it in its infant form til I can find what else it needs.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Owl and Pillars, author unknown, via Sunday Muse Fair Use  Image source 
Owl and Moon, ©Alan Perry, via internet Fair Use

Tuesday, May 31, 2022

Philosopher By Moonlight

 
 
 

 
 
 
Philosopher By Moonlight
(A quadrille)



Life is a crinkle in the matrix
lapping at my edges while
ghosts browse the tombstones
eating names. Night covers me
with her firefly illusion
and her singing moon.
At daybreak we fold
like painted fans 
of Shaolin warriors, all
landscapes
and paper-covered blades.




May 2022













posted for dVerse Poets

















Process Note The Steel or Iron Fan: The Chinese have a saying regarding weapons, “The shorter it is – the more dangerous.  The more ordinary looking, the deadlier it is.”...The steel fan is ...easy to carry and is inconspicuous.  When the weather is warm, you can use the fan to cool yourself and chase the flies away.  When you are in danger, you can use the steel fan as an effective weapon for self-defense because the ribs are made of steel...The fan is considered an “internal” weapon, because it uses the “soft” to overcome the “hard” and the short to overcome the long...”





Images: Philospher Illuminated by the Light of the Moon and Setting Sun, 1939 © Salvador Dali 
Fair Use
Shaolin Iron Fan, artist unknown, via internet Fair Use

Wednesday, May 18, 2022

Cat's Cradle

 





Cat's Cradle
 
 
All that summer you stalked me
with your tiger-flower eyes 
yellow as saffron,
ochre-flecked with 
an unknown pollen,
 
shining
blood-bright in
your weathered face,
and those few words you owned,
more rough than real.

Under the windy moon
light was as fickle and brief
as a glimpse of truth,
a falling star. Fish slid by
like lost ideas
 
dark as omens
beneath the emerald lake
that deepened the closer
I pushed towards shore,
their flat eyes swiveling back,
 
noodled to piscine
laughter;
they waited like me
for the hook
to pull them up.
 
We watched the sun
burn its last amber coal,
and gave back its mirage heat
to the night like the
pave-stones of Babylon,
 
all that jungle summer
when I closed my eyes to time.



May 2020
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 posted for dVerse Poets
 
 
 
 
 
 
 





"Noodling is fishing for catfish using one's bare hands, and is practiced primarily in the southern United States. The noodler places their hand inside a discovered catfish hole in order to catch the fish...the origin of the term is unknown." ~wikipedia



My compound words for the prompt were moonlight, starfish and sunburn. I also used an abundance of additional ones not carved to order, just for fun.



Images: Night, 1905 © Mikolojus Konstantinus Ciurlionis    Public Domain
Tigridia pavonia 'Aurea" (Tiger flower) photographer unknown, via internet   Fair Use

Tuesday, May 17, 2022

In The Still

 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 In The Still
 
 

In the still
of the silenced
so deep, I can hear
the gestation of dew, 
the guard-bird's desperate heart
at her nest, the moth's sibilant fumbling
where she lays her last egg;
 
yet not the padding
soft-footed sleep
that carries us empty
into tomorrow.



May 2022





 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
posted for earthweal's Lessons from the Wild
hosted by Sherry Marr 
 
 
 

and dVerse Poets'
by sarahsouthwest
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Night Hill, © Andrea Kowch All Rights Reserved to the Artist   Fair Use
Remember, © Zdzisław Beksiński        Fair Use
 
 

Saturday, May 14, 2022

The Little God

 
 

 
 
The Little God
 
 
 
 On,
into the soft-gelled 
distance of a gentled day
after dreams of storm and blood
where war gods walk the night
 
opening every door
eating whom they will.
But it was you, belly-up
who turned the knives
to scraping in my brain,
 
your suffering
that is an offering;
a worship
I can't watch
to a little god
 
who cuts up hearts
to sew his cap 
and boots
and the black mask
that shades
 
his razor smile,
your ever-burning
icon.
 


May 2022
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
posted for earthweal's
 
 
 
 
 
also using words from qbit's list
derived form the poetry of Anna Ahkmatova
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Personal note: I've been having a dead spot, but I miss reading everyone's writing and will be around soon to catch up. Thanks to all of you whose support keeps me putting pen to paper.
 
 
Images: Gentled Day, ©joyannjones, 2016
The Return of the Flame, © Rene Magritte, 1943     Fair Use

Tuesday, May 3, 2022

Stormlight

 

 
 
Stormlight

Rain-giver, hail-maker, tornado-farmer,
May's black hammer mesocyclone bouquet
falls into the world; 
a twist and wrench
of chaos-stacked air that knows
only one gamble,
hanging its fate,
its otherworld gate
over wheatfields and wiseacres
it will strip down to skin
in a boiling of sky,
where one will be wrecked
and another spared
by the luck
of the drawing wind.

After the storm,
the crash gasp flash drama,
light is softened,
sky-wrapped in puff-clouds
like a newborn in crochet.
Trees stir and push
to their wild/calm lover.
Birds streak back in sepia
down to a world
neither colored
nor monochrome.
 
We ride these last days
between daggers,
between fear and relief,
between the holy
and the unholy,
the quick and the dead
 
watching domestic
disputes of drunk giants
from a mousehole of hope.


 
 May 2022








posted for earthweal's













Mesocyclone: A storm-scale region of rotation, typically around 2-6 miles in diameter and often found in the right rear flank of a supercell (or often on the eastern, or front, flank of a High Pressure storm). The circulation of a mesocyclone covers an area much larger than the tornado that may develop within it. Properly used, mesocyclone is a radar term; it is defined as a rotation signature appearing on Doppler radar that meets specific criteria for magnitude, vertical depth, and duration.~NOAA Weather
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Binger, Oklahoma F4 tornado of 22 May 1981. Courtesy of National Severe Storms Laboratory, NOAA Public Domain via wikimedia commons
Stormlight, May 2, 2022 ©joyannjones