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How come?

 

How come the wind

blows so high

when leaves are dry?

How come the rattle

of their bones

is dark as winter’s moans?

How bright the sky

on autumn nights—

why these silver lights?

I watch the earth spin,

the end begin

and wring my hands

in helpless pain,

hoping spring and sense will

spin round again.

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The call of the sea

Another new form, the quatern, for the Secret Keeper’s five word prompt. Based on the Selkie story I’m finishing off.

CLOSE | SAND | DEFEND | STEM | LINE

 

 

I tried my best to keep you close,

Oh child of mine so like to me,

You spring from salt and sand and spray,

In the bloodline of the sea.

 

I sheltered you from those who’d harm,

I tried my best to keep you close,

But you wandered like a wind-tossed gull,

You loved the sea, so grandiose.

 

You found your skin one high spring tide,

Seals day and night they called you, though

I tried my best to keep you close,

You slipped it on, I let you go.

 

I’ll leave the shore and follow you

Among the reefs where our folk chose

To dwell and dance in kelp-strung halls—

I tried my best to keep you close.

Are they shadows?

A bit of madness for the #OctPoWriMo prompt in this triolet. I’m taking ‘free write’ to mean I choose the form.

Are they shadows running through the trees,

On feet so swift? Flickers of the light,

Leaves silver-shivered in the fitful breeze.

Are they shadows running through the trees?

I am the only one that ever sees

The things that run when twilight turns to night.

Are they shadows running through the trees,

Leaves silver-shivered in the fitful breeze?

They told me wrong

For the dverse prompt. Beauty in ugliness.

 

They tell me you were ugly

that your head was squashed,

your eyes were out of line,

that the forceps had marked you

with bumps and lumps and swollen lids.

They said you were red and angry

and clenched your fists in rage,

as though you’d thump the one responsible.

They told me long afterwards,

and I was amazed.

Ugly? You?

My golden downy chick,

solid as a seal pup

blonde when I had imagined dark,

too big for the hospital clothes,

a piglet in rompers,

healthy, loud, and raring to go.

You kept that mug,

of a miniature prize fighter

until you walked and ran,

and tossed your blonde pigtail,

like a cocked snook, at the wind.

Hanging to the edge of autumn

For the OctPoWriMo challenge, a terzanelle. I’ve slightly modified the last lines, as in a villanelle. This is the first time I’ve tried a terzanelle, and I quite like this form. I’ll probably try it again.

 

When hanging by my fingers to the edge

Of autumn and the golden falling year,

Red berries jewel garlands in the hedge,

 

Flutter of feasting birds is all I hear.

Clutching in my hand the last warm rays

Of autumn and the golden falling year,

 

I look for you—ahead are cold dark days.

Must I face them without you by my side,

Clutching in my hand the last warm rays?

 

I wish I was a hare to crouch and hide

From slings and arrows that the darkness brings—

Must I face them without you by my side?

 

Somewhere in the last dusk blackbird sings,

I hear you calling not to cede and fall

From slings and arrows that the darkness brings.

 

Sunburst through the clouds lifts night’s dark pall,

When hanging by my fingers to the edge,

I hear you calling. I’ll not to cede and fall

Like berries from the garlands in the hedge.

Haiku challenge: Rise & Fall

The news this morning was of flash flooding in the Aude—13 people dead and another still missing. I don’t know what the exact reason is, whether building on a flood plain is to blame, the weather, climate change, deforestation, but we’ll probably find that man mucking around with nature is behind the tragedy. This haibun is for Ronovan’s haiku challenge. A bit of despond and a bit of orptimism.

After a sleepless night of anguish over things I cannot change, images of sadness that bring tears of anger and compassion, I walk in the still damp air, beneath trees dripping drops and acorns, and find pheasants again by the stream, on the edge of the trees. They must have fled here to the safe side, the buffer zone. Hunters have never been welcome here and they stay on the other side. I cannot keep the whole world at bay and a broken fence will keep no one out intent on harm, but it’s here, the buffer zone, for pheasant and deer, badger and hare if they will only stay. Perhaps they know.

sky water falling

meets earth water rising

flood unstoppable

nature rolls roars in fury

life threads snap dull clouds weep