Sunday, July 16, 2017

Lost At Sea


Lost At Sea



The moon mocks a sailor
on the surface, bobbing and breeching.
Boiling in darkness
the sweet arch of coral
clings with its bones to the breast of a giant,
crumbling to a legend
in its poison bath.

The antic fishes
with their calico colors
paint fading murals in a
melting palace, then rise grey
in their bloat to bleach clouded tides.
The sun's spear drives home
through a broken shield

splits the skin of the ice
so it roams without purpose,
a white wolf with Fenrir's breath
that moving southward slowly starves.
In this wreckage and wrack that's the prize for destroyers
who sold all their flowers to dance in an oil slick
and all the world had

for the price of
a mess of pottage, is there one soul left
who can make a new day?



~July 2017




 For Brendan's changing earth



Images: Untitled marinescape, by Zdislaw Beksinski   Fair Use
Edward G Robinson watches a film of flowers before death, from the 1973 movie Soylent Green
Public domain


Process note: "A mess of pottage is something immediately attractive but of little value taken foolishly and carelessly in exchange for something more distant and perhaps less tangible but immensely more valuable. The phrase alludes to Esau's sale of his birthright for a meal ("mess") of lentil stew ("pottage") in Genesis 25:29-34 and connotes shortsightedness and misplaced priorities..."~wikipedia



Thursday, July 13, 2017

Anthracite


Anthracite


The night was black as anthracite.
The moon was the eye of a fevered child
flickering and far, clouded with fright.
Fate laughed and tossed her coal-blackened globe
against the waves;
day came too late.

In the rubble and rack that sun revealed
no life stirred, no idea of steel
no souvenir of will, forgotten but worn
warm as a gold cross under the shirt, no grace
clean as new snow on
a winter grave.

So it's goodbye to those who burned for peace
and went to war, to flowers' caprice
dried in bloody scoria poured at their feet,
to those dead at the gate
that can't be passed through.
Day comes too late.



~July 2017








for Fireblossom's Bang! you're dead












Scoria:[skawr-ee-ah,] 1.Metallurgy. the refuse, dross, or slag left after melting or smelting metal; scum. 2.Geology. a cinderlike basic cellular lava.





Image: Night, 1890, by Edward Munch    public domain




Sunday, July 9, 2017

Fragile Things


Fragile Things
 

Green stem,  arrow leaf
ivory flower
November cool above the bite of ginger.
The brightening torch

is born to kiss the shadow,
flight and song to validate the meadow.
The heart-tide drumming
where your brow is hollow

fills the eye with dazzle
with the sudden flare
of bluebirds on
a feint of air.


~July 2017





for Magaly's  fragile,natural,wild



(I'm very fond of poppies, but my wayward and difficult muse chose to sport with a different flower.)









Image: Cup of Silver Ginger, ©Georgia O'Keefe  Fair use.


Friday, July 7, 2017

Medicine Bag


Medicine Bag






A bag too small for summer
and not so big as a heart
but sufficient for
crucible's residue
burnt fine, 
ash and
the errata and
the mouse-bones
of dreams.

I wrapped these things
in heat and feathers, 
with the sleep
of flowers laid on them
into its soft doeskin dried in salt,
beaded with the name of dusk, that
kings' song of battleroar
lost to cricket-harps;
my talisman ticket,

my blue rose bag of wishes;
to close
or to open so
the petal that falls
is the drift of your step,
is the corn-colored wind,
the easy air 
that knew your face
by starlight, your bright cadence

your fragrance and the savor
of  meadow moon sun-broken
floating on the slope
before the raven's rattle,
before the long defeat.


~July 2017




for M.'s   summer words














Process note: The phrase 'the long defeat' is spoken by Galadriel in the seventh chapter of The Fellowship of The Ring, by J.R. Tolkien: “For the Lord of the Galadhrim is accounted the wisest of the Elves of Middle-Earth, and a giver of gifts beyond the power of kings. He has dwelt in the West since the days of dawn... I have dwelt with him years uncounted,...and together through ages of the world we have fought the long defeat.” It's become something of a catchphrase among Christians and/or conservatives, but we won't let that stop us from appreciating the metaphor.




 Image: Native American Medicine Bag, author unknown, via internet; fair use







Thursday, June 1, 2017

Brute Hill





Brute Hill




Ula La was a frycook
at Joy DuVeeve's saloon.
Rusty Naylor was a gambler
who overshot the moon.

Two Gun Shogun smoked his long stemmed pipe;
his katana made no sound.
Little Mort the Undertaker put
old Rusty in the ground.

Loup Garou and Bill McKinley
passed Brute Hill on the high noon train
to catch a bite at Joy DuVeeve's
before the plague coach came.


Heart of lead
and heart of black fade out without a sound.


Heart of gold
and heart of green still laugh and still beat on.








~June 2017



Optional Musical Accompaniment








Some silliness for Fireblossom's Paper Moon













Images: Going West, 1934-35, ©Jackson Pollack. Fair Use.
The Women Friends, 1917, by Gustav Klimt. Public Domain