Just a note to everyone I haven’t replied to, first to apologise, second to say that I might not be around for a while as my computer is in its death throes and getting a new one at present is mission (almost) impossible.
That’s all folks. See you on the other side.
For the dverse prompt.
The masked faces keep their distance but all I
want is the bread for the week and then I will
fly back to the leaky nest where birdsong filters
beneath the doors and mice pitter-patter
in the cupboards and dog and cats will come
out curious even pleased to greet me home.
So much might change but it won’t the masked
faces will change to bland indifferent ones
the moon will swell give birth to the stars
and shrink and tomorrow the hoopoes
will boom their spring beat as if the
world’s rhythm had not changed.
A haiku for Colleen’s weekly challenge.
Photo ©David P. Howard
no time for singing
eaves aflutter with bright wings
I love this place with its layers of song
and the traces of criss-crossing hoof and paw
bird voices calling taking it in turns
to send echoes racing.
I love it as I love Redon colours
the tragic beauty of a Marc
brushed with fingertips never seized
always the onlooker.
We think we own because we have measured
signed papers handed over cash.
Sunlight stretches leaves unfurl
blossom scatters in the wind.
A shower patters, ringing wild garlic bells.
The blackbird looks at me with bright eye,
tugs at a worm.
I watch the world whisk by
in the flash of a white scut.
For the dverse quadrille prompt.
At close of day the light falls thicker,
golden syrup honey dew,
and shadows deepen in the hedges,
woodland, maple, oak and yew.
Remember when brash jingle- jangle
rattled every summer night?
The notes of blackbirds’ singing now
fill with wild beauty each twilight.
Evil writhes in glistening coils in the
scaled and furred hoofed and clawed
glistens in luxury and concupiscence
the moistly slip-sliding of nakedness.
Women tempting with apples breasts moon-
buttocked laugh at the pure eyes averted.
The paintbrush probes scalpel-like beneath
the skin delighting in entrails devoured
and the charred flavour of flaming hair
a dab of the branding iron the flaying knife
all the devious instruments for prising out pain
you paint with delectation. Only a priest-painter
clothed in the hair shirt of purity and self-
inflicted pain an artist with an aura of sanctity
could weigh in the balance
and find so many wanting.
Pity the censorious for theirs is the arid desert
of ash the blood-soaked sand of Golgotha.
For Frank Tassone’s weekly challenge.
Wind sighs among new leaves
stream babbles water words
sun draws gold from deep in the meadow
and the blue air sings
with the bustle of bird twitter