Wildfire

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wildfire

 

 

 

Time is a wildfire loose in the willows

burning soft-stemmed boughs to hissing smoke.

Their weeping won't save them, or their green hearts,

nor the pleading of oxen, burnt out of their yokes.

It runs its red leg 'cross the suck of the slough

to harvest sheep's breath in its ragged pillows,

to garland the branch with burnt black buds.

Time is a wildfire loose in the willows.

Time races, time flies, time burns the bridges.

It eats church and saloon out of house and hope.

It's tongue licks the moonlight off the moon's mirror

and boils rainy hours to hissing smoke.

Time is a fire, time is a melting

that feeds on the whole and ashes the parts.

Time burns up May-brides into sere widows;

their weeping won't save them, or their green hearts.

And when black-cloud crows show to pick my bones

I'll say come, children come, and don't come slow.

Time's a quick flame, and we are its smoke.

Time was my harness; I'm soon out of its yoke.

April 2022

 

 

 

 posted for Fireblossom 

at The Sunday Muse:

Word Garden Word List #19:A.E.Housman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Note: This poem is in the cascade form(with a few liberties,) which I felt fit in with Housman's general style, tho since it has been invented since his time, of course he never used it.

 

 

 

Images; Landscape Of Ruins And Fires, 1914 © Felix Valloton, manipulated   Public Domain

Wheatfield With Crows, 1890. © Vincent Van Gogh  manipulated,     Public Domain

A Brief ode To Coffee

A Brief Ode To Coffee

in two cups

I.

I had two cups

and two cups is enough

if not too much

some people say

but I took more;

what if my stomach roared

or I began to slightly

shake,

 

because O

for quite awhile

I was awake.

II.

Silk vanilla hazelnut,
sweeter than a slipper of champagne,
I had two cups.

Two cups were not enough,
you made it plain.
Silk vanilla hazelnut,

one kiss was not enough
to make it plain;
quicker than a slipper of champagne,

we drank the pot
we brewed, grateful in the main
I had two cups.

~April 2015

posted for

National Poetry Month with Magaly Guerrero
 Write a sensual poem dedicated to coffee or tea or to both. 

I was unhappy with my first effort--not very sensual, and a bit dry for one of the loves of my life, delicious hot fresh brewed coffeee, the elixir of Life, so I rewrote a bit of it and made another cup in the cascade form.  I really wish I could tackle something more ambitious but my April beans are running low.

Image: rock coffee 3D abstract wallpaper, via google,    source

Rain In The Night, Revisited

Rain In The Night

I hear it raining, raining tonight

or is it the singing of water

that everything empty be filled,

effulgent, if only with tears?

High up comes the shadowy spinner

to wind up the wandering flood,

to weave away yesterday's orphans;

I hear it raining, raining tonight.

A storm sent to midwife disaster

turns the howl of the wind in its womb,

brings wildfire and blood to the birthing

or is it the singing of water

dropping in petticoats of ash

dappling the mirror faced border?

The lightning-struck bodies on fire

let everything empty be filled

thinking that which is broken and battered

can be smoothed into glimmering bits

shining rounded and faithfully polished,

if only by infinite tears.

~February 2013

posted for   real toads

Open Link Monday

This cascade poem was one I originally wrote for my chained-rhyme challenge last year at the Imaginary Garden. It was thrumming in my head this morning, I have no idea why, so I am re-sharing it, just to get out of a winter frame of mind.

Photos shared courtesy of Flick'r Creative Commons
Mouse-over for attribution, or click picture to go to the photographer's page.

Rain In The Night

Rain In The Night

I hear it raining, raining tonight

or is it the singing of water

that everything empty be filled,

effulgent, if only with tears?

High up comes the shadowy spinner

to wind up the wandering flood,

to weave away yesterday's orphans;

I hear it raining, raining tonight.

A storm sent to midwife disaster

turns the howl of the wind in its womb,

brings wildfire and blood to the birthing

or is it the singing of water

dropping in petticoats of ash

dappling the mirror faced border?

The lightning-struck bodies on fire

let everything empty be filled

thinking that which is broken and battered

can be smoothed into glimmering bits

shining rounded and faithfully polished,

if only by infinite tears.

~February 2013

posted for   real toads

Sunday Mini-Challenge
I'm hosting today, for the second  and final part of my chained rhyme extravaganza. This time we're doing cascades. A cascade is a poem where each line of the first stanza serves in sequence as the last line of the following stanzas. For the full lowdown, follow the link above, to real toads.

Photos shared courtesy of Flick'r Creative Commons
Mouse-over for attribution, or click picture to go to the photographer's page.

Train Time

Train Time

I’ve made my accommodations,
set my watch to the new time zone
for this journey rolled on the tumbling wheels
of an iron horse rocking in darkness
as the wind blows the flying flag whistle.

The last ticket crackles in my pocket
a faint fire on my skin as I
try to forget the dead girl I left
tied to the carousel, round and round;
I’ve made my accommodations.

Out the window the night’s a film
come sifting down in haze
through clouds' warm rich milk
sieving back secrets like kept curd;
only skimmed wastelight falls in the new time zone 

where we chase the hours through the lengthening night
with a cawing louder than a lunatic crow’s
up and up the spiral way through rockbound trees
before the snow, the long descent to the sea
as the journey unrolls on tumbling wheels

unwinding a silkscreen I barely can see:
bright and flashing dawns, white cabins
malachite forests, yellow-eyed owls
beginnings and red tulips overtaken, outrun
by the night horse rocking in darkness.

The sum of what I want is not where I must go
but all the places this train will never stop,
while the sleepless wheels whisper: no drugs no drink
no magic trick can ever take
the  flying whistle back from the wind.

January 2012

Posted for   real toads

where the prompt today is the photography of Daryl Edelstein

and also submitted for

Poetics   at dVerse Poets Pub
hosted today by Sheila Moore and Karin Gustafson, and where the theme is undercurrents. I'm pretty sure there are a few of those lurking here somewhere.

This poem is written in the Cascade form. The first stanza sets the number of lines per verse (it can be any number) and also provides the end lines for the subsequent stanzas, in sequential order: first line ending the second stanza, second line ending the third, etc. till the final line ends the last stanza. I've played with the word order in some of the repeating lines, just because.

Images: Both photos by Daryl Edelstein
Used with permission


Fireblossom has suggested the following for optional musical accompaniment:

and here is what the poem reminds me of:

The Ghoul and The Weavers

The Ghoul and the Weavers

The house was empty all the while

as they sat and worked the loom

to weave the cloth to sell next spring.

Though something made a bang and boom

that made them jump and the glasses ring,

the house was empty all the while.

Each night one fewer in the room,

each morn one less to pull the weft,

as they sat and worked the loom.

The loom is stopped, the air is numb

with sisters’ screams though none are left

to weave the cloth for springs to come. 

November 2010

Okay, this was just for fun, an extra cascade poem for Big Tent Poetry.

Photo credit

Threnody on the Number XI

Threnody on the Number Eleven

Eleven months she missed him and feared eleven years.

Eleven times she called out to catch the ship that sailed.

Eleven times eleven times eleven were her fears.

But once he called and it was she who failed.

Across the moonwarm seas the soulship fumbled

but never stopped its dizzying careers.

Eleven charts were shredded, canvas crumpled.

Eleven months she chased him and feared eleven years.

Across the crepe black void the echoes scatter,

across each face years caracole a tale.

Across all time, all light, across all matter,

eleven times she set out, but sunken ships don’t sail.

Days dropped down wormholes time sees safely landed.

Quick hands of new craft banners from worn fears.

Smiles lace across the light but night’s more candid.

Eleven times eleven times eleven are her tears.

Soft shadow walls stand fast, their faces shimmer,

piled clouds of knife concrete, white ice so paled

by painted rose, soft sigils scarlet glimmer

where dead days shook their fists sunlight prevailed.

But once he called and it was she who failed.

November 2010

This experimental poem in the cascade form is for Magpie #41 
Uncredited photo provided by Magpie Tales removed. 
 
Also posted for the Monday prompt at Big Tent Poetry, which was to write a cascade piece.