Not words

For dverse. Still pondering this question.

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Not words

a poem is fragments of frost

and wave-washed glass

image of sun on water tasting of spring

in rills running through new grass

wild garlic buttoned with daisies

earth shapes poems with worm casts

intricate mounds snuffled and scuffled in night dark

eyes caught in a flashlight turning away

a poem is stars

glitter sparking off iron-cored rocks

taste of iode sea-spume kelp draped Victorian crêpe

redolent of storm wreckage from the dolphin-deep sea.

Poems feel like silken threads falling

through summer air feathered and trilled with song

winging soaring falling falcon-fast

into a thought tentatively reverently

painted onto a page.

The secret

A bit of formal rhythm and rhyme for the dverse prompt this evening.

Photo ©John Fielding / A Mountain Hare Leveret / CC BY-SA 2.0

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There is a tree where apples grow,

And in the bank a spring;

There is a wall where roses blow,

A hedge where blackbirds sing.

 

A secret in the tall grass lies,

So still you’d not look there,

To see the soft brown anxious eyes

Of spring’s first newborn hare.

 

Stone tears

Rebel response to the dverse prompt. Rather than including a whole chunk of Maya Angelou’s words, which are hers and hers alone,  I have just borrowed three of the words that could be anybody’s words, including mine—the rock cries.

 

There was a forest here and rivers and lush green. There were birds and deer, and owls and foxes in the night. There were flocks of finches and skylarks in the day sky, and summer nights were full of stars. There were.

Instead we preferred our meat twice a day, our cruises round the world and phones and a new car every two years, a new kitchen when the fashions changed and monochrome went out. We wanted novelty and new and more than we needed because it was comforting to be able to throw things away.

It killed the earth and now it is just a rock and the rock cries.

Rain and the world

Too tired last night to think of soliloquising, and today’s thoughts are not as bright as yesterday’s. Yesterday was a beautiful warm (yes, warm in January) day but the wind has brought rain and the heat has gone. Soon, winter will be here for a few days, and we will forget how the beginning of the year felt like spring. Here is a soliloquy, a bit late for the dverse prompt. As Frank points out, that is what most poetry comes down to anyway.

 

Rain fills the winter world, wet weeping

from the eaves, and I watch, wait.

 

Will the spring ever fill this grey veil with green again?

It’s what they say, but I wonder, not in wonder,

 

rather in despair. The world is grey grinding stones

and concrete blocks beneath no sky, and cold creeps

 

into sedentary bones. All bones feel the cold, sedentary

is their destiny, premonition of mortality and the endless night.

 

But to end it all when drab is colour? For all the song

of the cold rain and the cold clouded sky says,

 

there is no more than this, I hope in a lie, cock a snook at

ephemeral gloom. I know there are flowers beneath the sod.

 

 

At last

For the dverse prompt.

 

She thought of the rows of beans and the scent of the bean flowers. She thought of the small window that looked west. “I think we can live there,” she said.

Tehanu, Ursula K. Le Guin

 

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Lakes and islands, lake isle and burgeoning

bean rows busy with bees. Lake water laps,

 

and somewhere distant the ocean beats. Pink falls at

dusk, deepening to purple when the last bird falls silent.

 

Dreams wander this open field where no beans grow

but a vine in four rows between oak and elder.

 

Hope grows thick as beans with the scent of roses,

and a brook ripples with water clear as any lake.

 

Here is the place, the last place perhaps, where we will

root, and the last leaves falling will cover us in gold.