Showing posts with label the dead travel fast. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the dead travel fast. Show all posts

Friday, February 7, 2025

Maleficium

 
 
 


 
 Maleficium
 
 
 
 
By dark lantern, by crimson candle, in
an absence floating in wine without bread,
the Necromancer toasts in mandrake hopes
the golden miracles of his dead.
 
His chamber is fumed with dubious pasts, an
offering's smoke where the last choke occurred.
His breath has gone dry as his corpse-woman's eye,
ceremonially opened with a theurgic word.
 
But that eggshell gaze is blind as stone, her
songs of the oriole fluttered away.
The nods of owls and mnemonic howls
work a brittle sequence no cello can play.
 
The final shriek puts grit in the lens, so
it never divines what time's drown erased.
The owl and the oriole dice for his soul;
every spirit that rises wears his own face.
 
In my dream you've left fetches and dust behind.
You stand by the door of a bridge's arc,
the wild blue river in flight from your quiver,
your shades all spent arrows that killed their marks.
 
 
 
 
February 2025
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
Necromancy: "..the practice of magic involving communication with the dead by summoning their spirits as apparitions or visions for the purpose of divination.." ~wikipedia
Maleficium: "the practice of malevolent magic, derived from casting lots as a means of divining the future in the ancient Mediterranean world"~wikipedia
Theurgy:".. the ritual practices associated with the invocation or evocation of the presence of one or more deities..."~wikipedia
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 posted for Word Garden Word List
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: The Necrophile. 1965, ©Jean Benoit        Public Domain
The Blind Man of Toledo, 1906, ©Joaquin Sorolla       Public Domain
 
 
 

Saturday, February 15, 2020

Snapped




Snapped


Staring blinkless
through the image-hole,
what looks back at you now?

Before you left me
for the yielder's dark,
you braided vapor
into handcuffs, strung
me shackles in beaded
star-strings blue as lake ice

dripping symbols, medals,
seals and skulls, seven secrets
made from sickened pain
and spider's valor.
Your single eye
webbed the mayfly hours
from child's cotton wings to 
landing thud of
my woman's bleeding.

If I
could stick a pin
through the paper moment
numbed with poison,
the abdomen of
exactly when
you began to require
annotations for my
cloud to ground work,

I'd  know exactly
how you froze me
to my snapshot,
ciphered me down
to this subset of myself.
Will there be less of
these prickly pear tears
these gestures of negation
now

that we have no faces,
only hats floating light
while I wonder
if I can ever miss you 
without that forgiveness 
which will not come.

In your shutter's last squeak
I smile flattened: a mist rising up
from the wrong side of the lens.





February 2020



posted for
The Sunday Muse 

and
earthweal Open Link

















Image: Author unknown, Fair Use


Saturday, January 14, 2017

Song From The Underworld



Song From The Underworld




Below the mountain
still 
you were there.
Warm in the dark
my breasts flew out to you
like two ringed doves,
your lips were snowmelt
fading on poppy-fields
white to red, winter to
spring--
springing
soft soft
on my back,
your hands that saved the world
for last,
below the mountain
where the dead abide.



~January 2017












a belated 55 for the new old year..









Photo: © Aurore de Sousa  Fair use via internet