How long will the clouds?

This cascade poem is inspired by the photograph taken from the train just before La Réole on the Garonne.

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How long will clouds drift over in glory

The river, placid in afternoon light,

When the world has turned into darkest night?

 

Reach up to the burnished blue of the sky,

Touch the wind for its breath will soon sharpen,

How long will clouds drift over in glory?

 

Here in this moment of peace and still beauty

Is where I would live, where golden light falls,

The river placid in afternoon light.

 

All things will end, as geese leave the northlands,

Leave, so will we, but the dream will remain,

When the world has turned into darkest night.

I will live

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I will live

where I can see the stars,

taste the rain,

hear birds sing,

and water run,

and smell the sweet scent of dog roses.

I will live

where the cold bites,

and the sun bakes,

and draughts sweep beneath the door,

where the water’s cold,

the walls aren’t true,

bathed in sunset’s golden hues,

and the night is silent, no music roars.

There will be no laughter over the wall,

no barbecue on summer nights,

no passing cars,

no evenings out,

no train,

no tram,

no car,

no road.

It will be hard to run from bed across cold flags,

to splash cold water on my face,

and dream of steam and hot water gushing.

But I will live.

Poetry challenge: Dreaming trees

It’s poetry round up day and another crop of lovely poems. First though, I’m posting the link to a late arrival for the previous challenge, the message in a bottle. Thanks Pat—better late than never 🙂

https://thoughtsandentanglements.wordpress.com/2016/05/25/perspective/

And another late arrival from Helen Jones for the Dreaming Trees challenge that I’m adding up front. Thanks for the addition, Helen 🙂

The road runs soft into the night
Bathed bright in silver-gold moonlight
But hold! Be wary where you tread
We know not what might lie ahead

The way is clear, the path is true
A journey set for me and you
To take us far from home and bed
We know not what might lie ahead

Swaying branches, a voice unseen,
Are we awake? Or do we dream?
The stars are bright, the darkness dread
We know not what might lie ahead

A secret lies where daylight meets
The dark of night in sunrise sweet
A shout of light to raise the dead
We know not what might lie ahead

We know not what might lie ahead.

 

Here the entries for this week’s kyrielle challenge in order of arrival.

Sarah from the south west with a lovely, uplifting poem about the untold possibilities of a shared future.

Moonlight Kyrielle | fmme writes poems

 

Sri with an intriguing refrain line that makes me think the trees and the moonlight might not be in agreement with the poet’s hopes and wishes.

https://srisudhak.wordpress.com/2016/05/26/decission-right/

 

Kat Myrman reflecting on life’s journey and the importance of living it well, and not accumulating regrets.

Lone Journey | like mercury colliding…

 

An new contributor, Fantasy Raconteur, whose name I’m afraid I don’t know 😦 with a poem that captures the unsettling and rather hostile atmosphere of those moonlit trees.

Dark Skies – Fantasy Raconteur

 

Ken’s poem also picks up on the enigmatic nature of the moonlight and the path through the trees. Is it a dream? And if so, who is dreaming?

Dreaming Trees | rivrvlogr

then a revised version of the same poem to make a kyrielle sonnet

Dreaming Trees – Kyrielle Sonnet | rivrvlogr

 

The crow with a typically double-edged poem—a classic study of how to take a rhythmic, song-like form and fill it full of sharp jagged bits and a nervous staccato. I love the effect though.

shard (20160526) – Caw!

 

Sue Vincent’s poem takes the reader into the dream world where things are not what they seem and even the innocence of trees can be misleading. The twist in the tail here is hopeful though and leaves a sense of fulfillment rather than impending disaster.

Dreaming trees | Sue Vincent – Daily Echo

 

Harula’s poem also catches the enigmatic role of moonlit trees. Are they simply bending gracefully in the wind, or listening with evil intent? Thanks for joining in!

The trees can hear | wordsthatserve

 

Merril’s poem is full of nostalgia and melancholy for a lost time represented by the trees, moonlit trysts and lovers’ secret meetings. Delicate and beautiful.

Moonlight: Kyrielle | Yesterday and today: Merril’s historical musings

 

Janice’s poem focuses on the path that leads through time, maybe into the past, maybe into the future, filled with longing for peace.

Take me home–Let me stay – Ontheland

 

Peter Bouchier’s poem has that nightmare quality of walking and walking and never reaching the goal. Trees, all the same, a never-ending line of them. Not necessarily menacing, but oppressive nonetheless. Nice one 🙂

https://peterbouchier.wordpress.com/english-essays-and-poems-2/road-to-eternity/

 

Tricia Drammeh’s poem seemed so full of desperate yearning…until I read the twist in the tail. Great stuff!

Poetry Challenge: Dreaming Trees – A Creative State of Mind

 

Another new participant, Claire Fullerton with a beautiful poem on the fragility and the unknowns of existence, and the tenuous comfort of another.

Poetry Challenge: Dreaming Trees – Writing Notes

 

Carole is back! with a poem full of the mysticism of moonlight and quiet death.

https://writersdream9.wordpress.com/2016/05/28/moonlitkyrielle/

 

Kerfe reminding me (I didn’t know actually) that we should be thinking of the war dead at this time. For all the ‘Johnnies’.

Elegy (Memorial Day 2016) | method two madness

 

The ‘bashful’ Mr (I think H is a mister!)  Bhatnagar sent these lovely words:

“The moonlight treads a wary way
To where the secret lovers lay
With entwined limbs they hold parley
Swaying passions with every play.”

I was right. Here’s a trickle-in from Geoff Le Pard who likes grand gestures. It’s a great poem too 🙂

Becoming a man

 

Nowhere to hide in soft moonlight

If there’s someone left still to fight

Your mates are there, and me and you

The day we walked that Avenue

Should men, good and true, softly tread

If there’s no one left and all are dead

And our fists are clenched, a wary crew

The day we walked that Avenue

 

There’s a secret to becoming a man

Know when to run, when make a stand

Ignore your mind, if heart be true

The day we walked that Avenue.

 

I have a feeling that more poems may trickle in over the next couple of days, but for now, this is the collection, and a pretty impressive one it is! Thank you all for participating, overcoming your hesitations and aversions, and buckling down to new formal poetry styles. I salute you!

Don’t forget to look in tomorrow for the next challenge.

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Witchwood part two

I was asked for a bit more of this story, preferably with a cheerier ending.
The painting is by Alwin Arneggar

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They stopped, frozen with terror. Feet sank into the mud. Leeches fastened tiny jaws on exposed flesh, drank the strength from weary limbs. The wraiths, yellow-eyed and hungry crept closer, the circle tightening. Thorn bushes rattled and reached out their talons.
“Make it stop,” Billy whispered, clutching her hand tight. “I want to go home.”
She breathed deeply to calm her racing heart, tried to empty her mind, to concentrate on painting a new canvas. But her eyes refused to close, locked into the evil slanted gaze. So she stared back, turning the bilious yellow to golden sun. The beams softened, falling soft and warm about them. She heard the change in Billy’s breathing, coming in quick gasps of anticipation. Where the beams fell, the grass grew, glowing green, and she began to hope.
“The sky, Madgie, make it blue,” he urged, tugging at her hand.
The yellow sun that poured through the slanted eyes, slanted through the trunks turning gnarled, rotten wood young and silver-smooth. A squirrel darted out of sight into the foliage. Billy gave a quick, nervous laugh. She squeezed his hand and thought about the bluest sky she had ever seen, making patterns with wisps of white and pink cloud.
“There,” she sighed. “Nearly done.”
The yellow eyes were lost in the day dawning. The death song sank to the murmur of the breeze. Faint, but growing stronger, the breeze carried the sweetest sound of all, and as the blackbird’s song filled the air, Madgie made the dream end, and they woke.