A poem inspired by this haunting photograph by Paul Militaru. I had thought I would write something different. Maybe I still will.
When golden light’s full of the twitter
Of swallows in dancing air,
And the poplar trees sway in the glitter
Of starlight on meadowgrass where
The hare ventures out of the hedgerow,
Beneath the windy trees
And sniffs in the hazy moonglow
Scents on the southern breeze.
He runs through the willows by moonlight,
Along the rushy stream;
I send him a wish by starlight,
Keep out of the treacherous beam,
For more eyes than fox’s are spying
At the dark wood’s edge.
So keep from the moonbeams, lying
Hid in the kindly sedge,
Where the blundering hounds won’t find you,
In their early morning foray,
May the bold, bitter scent of feverfew
Guard your beauty another day.
A cinquain for the Secret Keeper’s five word challenge/
WAY | CONFESS | PINE | NAME | PARCHED
the lonely way,
revealed its emptiness—
I ache for you to turn and call
Sleep, a dance of in and out,
weaving silver light with shadow,
heat tossing sheets
then curled with chill
until dawn threatens
and weary dancing feet are still.
A satirical little number for Sarah’s dverse prompt.
It’s no game for some,
for the poor and the hopeless,
for the kids with no jobs,
their teeth stolen by crack.
Look how he smiles,
the ringmaster president,
look at the cut of his Armani suit.
He smiles at the man
with the electric cattle prod,
smiles at the hunter, dead hare in hand,
but he never smiles up
to the shadowy gallery
at the unsmiling faces who didn’t see the fun.
And when he is whisked away
in his flash cavalcade,
and the raggedy army creep into the streets,
he never sees how
they root in the rubbish bins—
the circus has gone,
there are no voters here.
Cinquain for Colleen’s weekly challenge.
a joyous dance
of unconscious beauty,
wild health muscle-springs, twisting grace,
Bright these middays still
and hot enough to seek the shade,
but morning mist is long to clear,
and twilight glimmer fades too soon,
a mass of shadows deep.
A tanka for Ronovan’s weekly challenge.
no reason in the
golden evening light you say
why turquoise the sky?
When I race you with colours
streaming from my hands larks sing