The slow rush of the comet

Poem written early this morning. Later, in Blue and blue and blue the Oracle picked up the same images and gave them a slightly different interpretation. And again, a painting by Odilon Redon illustrates it.


These long, languid days of relentless blue,

slow moving as the sluggish stream,

that flow one into another seamlessly

stitched with the hot breath of invisible night,


hurtle into oblivion,

a morass of dead moments,

molten and merging into gold,

slipping like quicksilver from the tightest grasp.


Time pours silently over the edge

with the places we never visited,

the unknown cloaked in the mists of intrigue,

the pebble dropped into the bottomless pool,


comet-rushing, the slow days that seem to drag,

dead march, strike sparks from our flying heels.

Blue and blue and blue

I wrote a poem this morning, something that came to me shortly after I woke, and visited the Oracle a few hours later. What she gave me was the same decor, different interpretation. This is the Oracle’s poem.


Languid nights of no moon

no wind among the peach trees

just dreams of

blue and blue and blue.


No red and purple sunsets,

spilt blood

across a tranquil landscape

of hilly waves,


but whispered music

from the roses,

rising in salt spray,

pearl pale, dull silver,


that hails the ship of sleep

to sail a sky

shot through with stars,

to carry us where diamonds grow.



Ekphrastic Review poems

One of my poems, The Poverty of the Affluent, was selected in the bi-weekly challenge at the Ekphrastic Review. The painting was this, Still Life, by Giorgio Morandi (Italy) 1956, which I like very much.

Screenshot 2020-07-31 at 14.10.05

You can read all the selected poems here

The poem of mine in the review is the second one I wrote to the prompt. Below is the first one, which I think I prefer, though it doesn’t have the social commentary dimension of The Poverty of the Affluent.


Pane e vino


Pane e vino

and a round of cheese

in the end there’s not much more you need


chalk white and linen

the hush of a clean sparse interior

dark green glint of bottle glass


hot air billows over the sill

cool shadows where a cat watches

unblinking and voices murmur low


beneath the beat of the cicadas

and the milky-soft breathing

of a sleeping infant.

gogyohka for summer pause

bright chicory and cats ears

such a feeling of completion

when the meadow returns

in a froth of white lace

above yellows and purple pinks

blues and tender greens


scars of haymaking washed away

in the flowing tide of vegetation

hay bales slump

rooted by climbing tendrils

of more growth


spring is not yet done

with the furious pumping of the life force

slower but still potent

the meadow rises

to meet the sunfall


heat pulses and bakes

dries the coaxed grasses

kindles fireflowers

an oriole refuses to sing

but squawks in complaint


and summer twilight fading

the imperceptible transformation

of the distant whooping of children

to the fluttering hooting

of the first owls

Haiku sequence: Birds in a hot sky

A haiku (hopefully) sequence for the dverse prompt



bold as brass echoes

with summer


swallows at sunset

flicker in elegant flight

winged evening dress


heat throbs

woodpecker-laughs while we bake

with tree envy


still hushed air

grasped in an iron fist

hot as a cat’s breath


too hot to sing

sparrowhawk ever ready

to pick a fight

Another element


Many fingered like the sea

a heaving mass beneath the coping of the sky

sopping up the clarity with spongy paws


it wrings sweat from the veiled air

puddled in vague yellow unclear green

dripping dry and crisp beneath the tread


this heat slows the workings of the world

like syrup in the wheels and cogs

silencing even the irritable crows.



Here come the swallows

as light is swallowed by night

in the half-light dusk light between

they flit



a conversation of the mad


the single-minded

mosquito hunters


light fades


then the bats


the whoosh of displaced air as they rush

brushing faces



mosquito hunters


as the light

is swallowed by the night




Sevenlings: chicory among other things

cool meadow2

Morning warbles

beneath soft grey clouds

gentle as pigeons.


Morning oriole whistles

she squawks back

domestic banter.


Cool morning bustles before sky-gong sounds brazen-hot.


cool meadow1

The camera is not a pair of eyes

one eye perhaps and selective

it sees a single plane not the depth


I see a froth of white lace on a green sea

pools of sunlight in the troughs between waves

reflections of sky through broken cloud


becalmed in a child’s caught breath of wonderment.


cool meadow3

Distant chaffinches converse,

a buzzard wails, ignored,

wood pigeons flutter-call among the leaves,


all soft and low,

a murmur, flowing background, like streamwater,

a moving hush, all listening­—


a warbler is singing.

chicory field


Bluer than blue eyes

scraps of sky perhaps

morning chicory before the sun


Waiting for the heat

watching the sky

but then the blue will fade and close


Time flows a river each moment perfect.

chicory queen anne's lace