In The Tank

 

(SCROLL DOWN FOR THE 55)

 

 

 

 

 

In The Tank

 

 

 

In the tank, watching

the last foam ascend,

no rockets from

this wet womb, nothing

left but the sinking

still

the spirit seed

warm-curled in rainsilk, is

a spark self-shielded,

a voice unheeded

untrained but turning, a

desire piercing

paper-dead husk

with green.

The birth cord was tangled,

the roots softly angled,

a woven squared circle

of sticky heartweb.

There in that secret

float of penumbra

I felt you move.

I felt myself

blowing, unwrapped and golden,

in the tears of the sun.

 

 November 2020

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 posted for

The Sunday Muse

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images: Artist and title unknown, manipulated,  via internet, Fair Use

Seedling  ©2017, joyannjones

 

 

Friday 55 February 16 2018

Greetings all. Here we meet again at another Friday dedicated to the pastime, craft and/or art of verbal expression, all in 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less. If you've been here before, you know the drill, you know all about the G-man, and why I do this, and why it matters, and if it's your first time, you are welcome to the table to see how it all plays out. As always, if inspired to write--in exactly 55 words, of course--please link your result in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning, and I will be by to check it out.

My 55 for this week:

Ginger Jar

Love,

the black tsunami--

I think of Van Ness,

a ginger jar green-gold,

plum-smooth

the heart I keep inside it

not a thing of valves and blood

but daylight rain and

cricket-song

all wind-shattered soon

 

when raindrops

 sharper

than chirps will pound

at my feet

 paisley the sand

and the

void's mouth take

 this flower-blown beach.

 ~February 2018

The Ginger Jar, 1926, ©Samuel John Peploe

A Rocky Shore, Iona (detail) ©Samuel John Peploe   
Public Domain

Both images have been manipulated.

The Transaction

The Transaction

When the clouds open their purse

to spill all April's coins,

the rain's too busy 

buying life

to stop and haggle.

The trees join burly arms

in an uncouth peasant dance;

Day seems pleased to let the light

 shortchange her, and green offers herself

at a bargain price.

~April 2015

(Not linking anywhere--just today's poem for day 14.)

Photo © joyannjones 2015

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

Making Bread

Making Bread

Knowing begins

when the page turns.

Peace  comes

while the age burns

a thousand threads

across  the loom;

there's a luck that roofs the room

against the rain that pulls the wheat

into our hands from soil to bread

and back, complete.

~April 2013

posted for    real toads

Challenge: Encouragement

Susie Clevinger asks us to "write the words to bring light into your own life or that of another. Whatever the struggle bring the verses to lift the spirit." While this is not normally much in my wheelhouse, I actually happened to be thinking tonight as the rain lashed the house how very lucky I am to be here in this world, breathing, thinking, doing what I love, mostly.

Image: More flour-underneath, by grongar on flick'r

I have slightly manipulated this photo as allowed under the creative commons attribution only license, by cropping it and rendering it in black and white. You can view the original here.