Waterfalls

More waterfalls. A cascade poem.

Water falls in echoes of the spring,

the rushing crystal tide that soaked the earth

and flooded green and growing seeded soil.

 

Beneath the summer sun, the ripples run

in ghosts of rivers, pattering of rain-

water that falls in echoes of the spring.

 

Ditches dry as dust, now hard-baked mud,

shaded by green spears, deep roots recall

the rushing crystal tide that soaked the earth.

 

I listen to the hiss of poplar leaves,

the susurration of the torrents past,

that flooded green and growing seeded soil.

A thrush, the first bird

 

The restless, storm-tossed night was long,

dark filled with wave-hiss, snapping boughs,

a ship moored in a sea-rocked berth.

 

No stars, a heavy quilt of cloud

pressed down, oppressed the swaying trees,

the restless storm-tossed night was long.

 

When rage along the river swept,

storm carried north across the hills,

dark filled with wave-hiss, snapping boughs,

 

a thrush, the first bird, broke the calm,

a rush of song sailed through the dawn,

a ship rocked in a sheltered berth.

Dark dawn bright dreams

 

Days still too short and dark,

though the nights are shrinking,

trees stretched stark against the clouds

that hang suspended on the world’s edge.

 

Cold breaks, sending waves

of chill, splashed spray and

frost furs—these winter

days still too short and dark.

 

No birds sing the sunset unseen,

bleak blanket suffocates the flames

and their red and purple veils,

though the nights are shrinking.

 

Tomorrow may come in golden

glory or colour of dirty snow and

drape with fog and dripping rain

trees stretched stark against the clouds.

 

Dreams still gallop through the dark,

the soft shadows of blue horses running

across the green and red meadows

that hang suspended on the world’s edge.

Another world, same war

Kerfe introduced us to a German artist, H. Schlagen with her Saturday visit to the Oracle, and his painting of a consultation of Oracles. Another of his paintings, im hyperraum inspired this cascade poem.

You can see the painting here.

 

Honour treads heavy in our hearts,

lift them high and sing the songs;

blood and bone were made for this.

 

Hear the soldier songs your father sung

and taste the rats and bloody mud;

honour treads heavy in our hearts,

 

so wear with pride his medalled scars,

remember all his hatreds deep,

lift them high and sing the songs.

 

I see my own dead face, not Father’s agony!

His pride, his war is yours, my son,

your blood and bones were made for this.

 

Frost beauty

For dverse

 

When wordless winds wail, cold their desperate cry,

we huddle round the glowing stove and wait

for frost to festoon eaves and window glass,

 

the chill to reach deep into flesh and bone.

Yet in the meadows life goes on the same,

when wordless winds wail cold their desperate cry.

 

The netted stars hang frozen in the black,

unseen, though glitter fills the night with light;

we huddle round the glowing stove and wait.

 

Sunrise will come and break the fastest hold,

the longest night ends diamond-prismed bright

in frost that festoons eaves and window glass.

Red

The painting is Franz Marc’s The fate of the animals.

Among the trees a flash of russet red,

The gentle sound of sleepy bird-chirrup,

And insect voices throbbing in the heat.

 

Can I take this earth into my hands,

These roots and rivers take and twist, and light

Among the trees a flash of russet red?

 

Land can be stripped and bridled like a beast,

Branded deep; its roar of suffering drowns

The gentle sound of sleepy bird-chirrup.

 

Among the trees, red greed devours the heart,

The only sounds the shriek of flames, last cries,

And insect voices throbbing in the heat.

When only cloud

 

When only cloud rolls dull, no shining tide,

and swallows dipping in and out of silence,

the morning trembles on the edge of sadness.

 

After shadow-clustered nights, no moon to light

the underside of worries, I slip deep,

when only cloud rolls dull, no shining tide.

 

There is flatness where the meadow bristled

golden-stalked and bent beneath small bird-weight

and swallows dipping in and out of silence.

 

Stars die unseen when steel-light billows west,

a swollen mottled river, city drain;

the morning trembles on the edge of sadness.

Two ravens from out the west

For dverse, a cascade poem inspired by this painting by Jackie Hurlbert.

I saw them at the break of day,

Two ravens flying from the west.

They settled on the roof ridge, waiting.

 

Watching from the walls, impatient,

Peering where the sentries pace,

I saw them at the break of day.

 

You’d been long gone, I wished you home,

Hoped to see a messenger not

Two ravens flying from the west.

 

Harbingers with ill luck bearing,

Stench of battlefield in their wings,

They settle on the roof ridge, waiting.

I ask how

I ask how could there be more than this,

How to fit inside and let the blue tide wash,

Feathered soft as song and honeyed sunlight.

 

So many half-light yearnings ebb and flow,

Dawn to dusk with no star map travel guide;

I ask how could there be more than this.

 

The key is twisted stems and rain-gnarled bark,

Bird singing and water rush; just listen

How to fit inside and let the blue tide wash.

 

Through half-closed eyes taste shadows, sift the sun,

Drift on ocean billows drawn by the moon,

Feathered soft as song and honeyed sunlight.

We toss roses in the river

A poem using repetition for the NaPoWriMo prompt. A cascade.

 

We toss roses in the river,

Running to the sea,

And it leaves us both behind, you and me.

 

With its cargo of dead litter,

Scented sweet and tasting bitter,

We toss roses in the river.

 

Once we laughed like children,

Digging castles wild and free, we went

Running to the sea.

 

Time’s relentless, rolling river

Has love’s cargo to deliver,

But it leaves us both behind, you and me