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

Icestorm!

Those of you who follow me on facebook have already seen most of these, but for those who are wondering where the hell I have been lately, it is cleaning up after the Black Friday ice storm. Thankfully, no damage to the house or pick-up, and we were spared the power outages, too. Lots of work, but on the plus side--we won't have to buy firewood this year. ;_)

First, the beautiful part:

Next, the destructive:

which turned into the work part:

So, bear with me friends--we still have a lot to do, but I will be by whenever I can drag myself out of my Aleve-permeated post-hauling torpor.

The Leaf Lover

"...And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun."
~from The Song of Wandering Aengus, by W.B. Yeats

~*~

The Leaf Lover

Amber, cinder,

buckwheat, silver;

wind-back barque, jade-veined sail,

cloud my trail; songbird table

blackbird's cradle;

south wind bides where sparrow hides

and none can follow. My arms are roads

for squirrel and swallow.

My toes are curled

in earthen codes.

 Love me, love,

in drape and dapple

in darkness or in sun's accord.

Love  me, love;  

I'll show you apples

no one has ever

 seen 

before.

~April 2015

posted for 

National Poetry Month with Magaly Guerrero

I, Tree

Summon the green within, and write a poem from the point of view of a sentient tree who gets to address his or her keeper.

Slightly late to the party, as usual...

Images: Pattern of Leaves,  by Georgia O'Keefe

Fair Use via wikiart.org

Footer Image: via internet, title and author unknown
No copyright infringement intended. Will remove on request.

Tree Of Shadows

Tree Of Shadows

I dreamed we lived

in a tree of shadows, growing

leaves that were eyes

bugs that were leaves

of birds

or water

and each leaf was perfect

{as each smile was perfect

from you, my love.)

The eyes crawled, the insects

fluttered like lashes.

The leaves blurred, cooed,

curled around us,

the fingers of a god,

winged as an angel.

How did they become

fluff withering, 

and withered

fall?

The hand of god 

dropped me, a seed

a feather

twirling 

from the highest branch,

a parasol of pulse and cry

blown on a wind dark

as heart's secret

(a bloodshadow heart, my love)

and laughter came

from where you watched,

your eye inside the twigs.

~May 2014

posted for     real toads

Fireblossom Friday

Challenge: Seraphine Louis

That indefatigable cultural explorer, Fireblossom, (Shay's Word Garden) has chosen the art of "naive" painter Seraphine Louis for us to write to today.  Louis began as a housecleaner, had a brief flaring career as a painter, then ended her days in a lunatic asylum's mass grave. This is what I got from reading her story and looking at her paintings. Full details (and lots more paintings) at the toads link above.

If you'd like to hear the poem read by the author, please click below:

tree of shadows by Hedgewitch O'theWilds

Image: Unknown Title, by Seraphine Louis

Public domain via wikipaintings.org

Mimosa Afterburn

Mimosa Afterburn

After thought after hope

after pink and blue divide,

after the rain, after the slide,

twilight remains

light washed from the sky,

a grey tide dyed. Curled

in leaf and branch,

unbutterflied,

alone,  heads bent,

mimosas finely drawn,

pulled as purse strings,

gather dawn; autumn

bagged in a crumpled
Escher sketch.

Mimosas, like the old

already feel the cold;

chilled closed as yellow

bedsheets

in a house about to fold.

There used to be a paper made

for typing when I was young,

crinkled, nubbled, stiff,

translucent, easily torn; now that's

my skin, not parchment

made from sheep, 

but the overworked

soft detritus

of trees.

~October 2013

posted for     real toads

Weekend Mini-Challenge: Denise Levertov

 Kerry O'Connor has given us the poetry of Denise Levertov, born in October, to work with today. This is not particulalrly written in her style, as I'm fairly sure she seldom if ever used rhyme, but comes from the mood she left me after reading several of her poems, linked above.

Photo: mimosa yellow,  © joyannjones 2013