Maybe

For the Daily Post prompt, a trilune poem.

Johan_Christian_Claussen_Dahl_-_Moon_kveld_over_Dresden

Maybe you meant it all for the best,

Maybe the stars had reason to hide,

Maybe the moon was elsewhere that night.

 

Maybe the wind’s song helped you to sleep,

Maybe the night was too dark to see,

Maybe you were just being polite.

 

My tears were real though hid by the dark,

The stars and moon saw what you did not:

Heartbreak that will not heal in the light.

Tournesols

The Daily Post prompt is: Paint. I’ll add the link in the vain hope the pingback will work…

These sunflowers are our neighbours—and the lack of an apostrophe is deliberate.

roadside view

No painter, I,

against the sky,

sunflowers glow

where soft winds blow.

I catch the sense,

light intense,

with one word

often heard,

swirling parasol

tournesols.

The wind blows lonely

The Daily Post prompt is: Wind.

I thought I’d try a new form, the tilus, and came up with this:

 

The wind blows through the sedge

Bittern calls

Dusk.

 

But being a wind bag at heart, it seemed rather short, so I wrote a minute poem (what else) as well.

Kitty_Kielland-Sommernatt

The wind blows lonely through the sedge,

My teeth on edge,

Winter voices,

Dark rejoices.

 

Bittern calls across the reed bed,

What the wind said,

Cold is coming,

Winter drumming.

 

Will the moon be full tonight or

Will the owl soar

Cloudy feathered,

Stormy weathered?

 

Wind blows darkly, moaning lowly,

You walk slowly,

Cries unheeding,

Love lies bleeding.

 

Red is my heart’s rushing river

Two birds with one stone—this week’s poetry challenge based on the Marc painting, and the Daily Post prompt: unstoppable.

Franz_Marc-In_the_Rain(Im_Regen)_(1912)

Red is my heart’s rushing river,

Grey the regret in your eyes,

Lush is the world of rain falling.

 

Clenched fists grasp a torrent of pain,

Clenched hearts squeeze a rainstorm of tears,

Red is my heart’s rushing river.

 

Apart yet together we walk,

Relentlessly dogged by our past,

Grey the regret in your eyes.

 

Dead love cannot stop life teeming,

Nor still the wild pulse of freedom,

Lush is the world of rain falling.

Time and roses

The Daily Post prompt is: Clock

1024px-2007_rote_Rose

Spring nights when we’d meet by the lake,

I’d watch for the first stars to wake,

Impatient for vespers to chime,

The clock on the wall marks the time.

 

You planted a seed that would grow,

As fast as a spring river flow,

Such true love could not be a crime,

The clock on the wall marks the time.

 

At midsummer you would return,

You told me, but much as I yearn,

The rose trees are furred with cold rime,

The clock on the wall marks the time.

 

Time passes

The Daily Post prompt is: Slowly

Painting ©Tagesfleiss

BerlinMitte

Rush and push and watch the time fly,

Last train goes by,

Late as ever,

Catch up never.

 

Meal times rushed, the sports coach won’t wait,

Always irate,

Race the red light,

Deadline too tight.

 

Always running just to stand still,

Deaf to birds’ trill,

Blind to sunrise,

When the night dies.

 

So much fury, so much time lost,

Winter brings frost,

Year turns, life slows,

Buried ’neath snows.

Desert glass

The Daily Post prompt is: carefree.

Carefree doesn’t suit my mood, so I’m using the whole set of 21 words so far proposed this month as an oracle of sorts.

Carefree, feast, frail, unpredictable, storm, guest, nightmare, drive, journey, false, autonomy, desert glass, darkness, cowardice, glass, forbidden, layers, island, burn, pleasure.

This is what they gave me

Photo © Ji-Elle

1024px-Fulgurite-Adrar_mauritanien_(2)

Storm-driven,

darkness layers

above the island.

The glass desert burns:

nightmare guest

at the feast.

Famine and feast

The Daily Post prompt is: Feast.

'Brittany_Couple_and_Sheep',_oil_on_canvas_painting_by_,_1908,_private_collection

Feast and famine, we live,

the great cycles of life and death,

the yearly dearth when reserves run out

because the summer was wet,

the winter precocious,

or the spring is late.

Those blustery springs

when, the crops not ripe,

we watch the shoots with empty bellies

and avid eyes.

Cold sun and rain on rain,

and the bones arch across childish chests

like buttresses.

In the big house, the lords and ladies,

the bishop and his priests,

are fat and greasy with mutton and beef.

So it was, and so it is still.

We wait for the grain to swell,

the turnips and the chestnuts,

envying the grass grazers, the beasts.

While in the short spring twilight,

shaking off the winter cold,

the fox follows the mice,

lingering in the warming sun,

and makes a royal feast.