Storms at my fingertips

Instead of one poem from each of four sets of words, I took a second poem from the first set. I had a feeling the oracle had something to add.

 

But blood is lazy,Screen Shot 2017-10-21 at 14.57.32

it sleeps still and cool,

waxes only at madness,

moon-urged.

Like the storm shadow

on the sea,

beneath, lies smooth water.

 

Sea rocks,Screen Shot 2017-10-21 at 15.16.35

bitter black,

crush ships

like eggs.

I wade in the shallows,

storms at my fingertips.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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There is a road home now

One of the last Jim Harrison quotes from Jilly.

“We walk the bottom of an ocean we call sky”

WordPress is being funny today, tells me I don’t have any media and asks would I like to upload something, then tells me an error occurred, tells me I can’t upload any media, tells me I don’t have anything in my gallery, then uploads a monster version of a normal sized file. I should maybe have turned WP off and restarted.

Road home

There is a road home now

That we never trod before,

Where we walk in tree shadow

As we’d walk the ocean floor,

To woodpecker music,

And the drum of acorn rain

On the musky, minty earth,

That beats a wild refrain.

Beneath green branches scented

As any rocking sea,

It sails our footsteps homeward,

Where we were meant to be.

Pale-coated hound

Going out night-walking is a new experience for us, new and a bit unsettling. There are no street lights, no houses and no cars, so it’s dark—very dark. For the dverse open night.

 

Pale-coated hound in the moonlight,

Silver-haired and silent tongued,

Listens to the sounds of the shadows.

Beneath the thin moon, acorns tumble from the tree,

Branches crack and the music of the poplars

Is like waves on the strand.

I peer into the darkness between the moonbeams,

Where the hound sniffs and pricks his ears,

Where a subtle world of half-tints and whisperings

Creeps and pads through dew-damp grass,

An orbit, parallel but never touching

The banal and sharp-edged, puddled reflection,

That is our meagre human realm.

To the heart

For the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt. The words to use this week are:

RIGHT | ARROW | HEAR | CHILD | GOOD

The subject of the painting doesn’t fit the poem, but I like the image

620px-Evelyn_de_Morgan_-_Boreas_and_Oreithyia,_1896

To the heart,

a dart,

straight as a die.

I would fly

if I could,

but it would be no good,

you would follow my flight,

to the end of the night,

reel me in like a fish,

take my hands, make a wish.

In the newborn,

star-speckled dawn,

I hear you whisper low,

words fall, soft and slow,

our life as one

has just begun.

Autumn acorn rain

An autumnal poem for the dverse prompt.

Photo©Muffet

1024px-Acorns_falling_onto_the_ground

The sound of acorns raining on the roadway,

The dry leaf-whisper as the sun goes down,

I hear wings beat in the last light of the evening,

And colours fade to misty grey and brown.

You said you’d find the long road through the oak trees,

And make your home with me where blackbird sings,

But all I see are drifting leaves of gold and flame,

And all I hear is the beat of parting wings.

When winter grips the drifts of fallen leaves,

And the acorn rain is rotted on the ground,

The blackbird huddles on the bare oak bough,

As hope and this cold year both die without a sound.

Progress report

Grazing

Trixie found a baby mouse,

Scared it half to death and watched it quiver,

Hunched over its fear.

Bored, she stretched and let me take it,

Put it on the sill in the quiet sun.

No sport in babies, she said,

Let it grow.

Then we’ll see.

 

Finbar found a toad,

He’s good at that.

He never sees the pheasants or the hares,

Or any largish prey.

He hunts toads.

At night, they lumber from the ditch

Climb the banks and hunker down

Among the brambles.

Finbar spots them,

Overcomes his fear and pounces,

Perhaps because he is on a lead

And knows we’ll hold him back

So he’ll not take any harm.

Still, he finds toads for us,

Even if we choose to leave them be.

 

Ninnie hunts cobwebs

And dog biscuit.

She finds lots of both.

Life is good, she says,

When there’s a barn and an attic,

And the dog biscuit tub

doesn’t close properly.