Moon Fluff

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moon Fluff

 

(a 55)

 

 I found the moon last night

thrown down in a puddle,

kissing with clouds, a peppermint undone

fished from your pocket-fluff, 

sticky

but still sugarsweet, 

still shiny

with its two-toned jewel-jazz glaze

like that one clean note you'd hit

in your sax-fiasco blues,

tasting of 

lemon and light and

 cold

December 

rain

in the night. 

 

 

 

December 2024

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

posted for Word Garden Word List

at Shay's Word Garden

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images: The Moon, 1929, © Salvador Dali     Fair Use

 

Blue Drown

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blue Drown

 

 

I've been too long

in the blue drown

to feel again now

 

too long under

the mirrorglass glowmoon

that tides me apart

to answer your voice

 

too many waves

with their concrete hands

on my throat

their sucking salt drench

in my eyes and mouth

to ask who's to blame.

 

There's no pain left

on this sand 

swirled trashed beach

where I've come to meet

 

the last falling star,

the hungry crabs.

 

 

 

 

July 2021 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 posted for Open Link Night at

d'Verse Poets Pub

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images: Looking For Crabs Among The Rocks, 1905 © Joaquin Sorolla  Public Domain

Two Crabs, 1889  © Vincent Van Gogh       Public Domain

I have manipulated both images.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Watching

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Watching

 

 

I am the witch of dying things

of things that cling

to a life that's passed,

custodian of the broken-wing

who shakes in the bush

and tries to sing.

I soothe the stings

of the white-nosed pup,

his few days left like clay that clings

to the potter's hands when the pot is thrown,

wagging his tail, eyes growing dim

unsure on his feet, afraid of alone.

I was the watcher 

as life leaked away, you

winding off slow as a traveling snake

loose in the snow, slipping into the maw,

dead at first frost like a turnip top,

grey dust on a root both bitter and raw.

There's none left to be

my watcher, my witch, 

to soothe the sting 

when they see me there

remembering the sun, pretending to live,

old knots of love caught in winter's hair.

 

I am the witch of dying things

learning their ways

while midnight sings.

June 2021

Posted for 

The Sunday Muse

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image via Sunday Muse, Fair Use

 

 

 

 

Haunt's Road

Haunt's Road

You resurrect

on the long road rolling,

with your homeless soul a

prairie schooner full of dull copper

 blood and moonshine, nightmares wild in 

the harness, their snaffled tongues slipping

into dreams with a slow-steeped poison, 

changing sun to eclipse, good to bad, 

alive to dead in a bone-shaking shock,

down along the wheel ruts

 where the wagons 

used to pass.

By 4:00 a.m. 

you're in the house.

The sound of your last rasping

 breaths liquid with suffering still

floating your medicine show, barking

on the mattress-midway the subtle

vibration of your restless shifts,

 a moan and a gasp on the empty

 crater of our bed, hawking

a snake-oil brewed 

for love, or

death.

I put 

your ashes 

out on the hill by

 the dog who loved us

so you may leave

 this haunt's road,

this dead-end.

 Run with 

her 

beloved, 

painless, free,

 green in cloudy  forest,

prairie wind to wrap

you in a place of

 naked stars.

If you 

knew who I am

you'd never
have come.

 August 2020

posted for

The Sunday Muse

*This poem has been edited since publishing

Images via internet, artists unknown     Fair Use

Friday 55 May 25 2018

Welcome to another careen of words, carousel of craft, caravan of form and fuss--the G-man's meme, originated by a host remembered for bringing laughter and support, the flash fiction 55. As usual, there are no rules except the word count, 55 of them, no more, no less, poetry or prose, satire, lyric, or narrative, whatever brings a gloss to your ink. Link your effort in the comments below between Friday and Saturday at midnight, and I will be by to see what you have come up with. Please bear with me as I will be off in chaos country much of the time.

My 55 this week....

Absence and Dismay

By nightlight

your face withdrawn

paler than pillows

than appleblossom

warmed open

blurring for the bee

stilled in the comb.

Here, darkening

red spit of annihilation,

black ash of the curse,

 joker's smile

on mimewhite skin,

thin snow of an off-year

over the stubborn skull

and a nightbird to

sing to us

whatever is left.

~May 2018

Images: Detail, Apple Tree In Blossom, Gustave Caillebotte, 1885, Public Domain
Night, c. 1953 ©Marc Chagall, Fair Use

Truth Of The Mouse

Truth of the Mouse

What they do to you

I dream they do to me.

The knives come out

the tubes go in

to the piece of meat

nameless, once sweet,

test tube tissue

over-scanned and analyzed

and the bugs are in

the bandages again.

The nurse can't come; 

 she's

double parked at the casino

where the chips come down

like needle rain

where the dealer's a junkie

because the rules broke again

and the mouse

that chews the truth

knows 

it's not safe to come out.

~January 2018

 

Images: Illustration from The Tale of Two Bad Mice, andThe Mice at Work Threading The Needle, by Beatrix Potter   Public Domain

Friday 55 Comprehensive Holiday Edition

It's that season, dear readers, when everybody is rushing and pressed for time, so I am offering poetic dispensation to any and all of you who may not have the leisure or the inspiration to construct a 55 for the next few weeks. As always there are no rules other than the word count, so please feel free to participate or not as you see fit, and please bear with me as well, as I may not always be available or online myself.

That said, this single post will remain active for Friday December 22nd 2017, Friday December 29th, and Friday January 5th 2018 with comment moderation off so everyone can come by when they can--be patient however, since as I said above, I will not always be around, especially the week following  New Year's Day.

That said, a very happy Yule season to all, and a deep thanks to all of you who make this Friday journey so memorable. Have a kickass holiday, and let's all hope for at least a saner New Year.

I have written two 55's for this combined edition...

Ruins

"...I have let time pass, which..helps more than reasoning.”

~Queen Elizabeth I

I.

I wake in the night

thinking of ruins;

not the makers

but their leavings: fort,

church, graveyard,

house, each

with no tomorrow of its own, yet

a casket full

of glass for magpies,

scroungers' stones,

writers' plots,

lovers' verses, shadow beds

for weary ghosts

and so must be content

to watch the walls fall down.

 

II.

These rainy ruins

where ravens ride wrinkled sky

where nightfall black-backs silver-mirror moons

however weak you are,

you can stroll forever, 

muscular past for a walking-stick,

hear a hundred private jokes

the ghosts still tell/will tell

to you or the next one

for nothing's

as constant as a ghost

or more hopeful

than a ruin.

~December 2017

Optional Folky Musical Accompaniment

Images: Carpathian castle ruins, author unknown, via internet. Fair use.

Hope From The Ruins, ©Joshua Smith,  All Rights Reserved. Fair use.