How many?

How many?

How many mornings left
of green leaves waving,
golden blue skies and tender sun?

Warblers sing the coming rain,
hearing the rising cloud-tide,
drops falling far away.

How many?
Enough perhaps to slake the thirst
of these wild throats.

Advertisement

August

 

The year has reached the top of the curve

and is on the descent in fits and starts,

unwilling to relinquish the stifling heat. The sun

bows to the inevitable with bad grace,

with a rolling of drums, hurling storm after storm,

crackling lightning through the night,

breaking the darkness into angry fragments.

 

But it goes, fades, I can feel it in the back

of the air, like the cool light in the eyes,

when the hot tongue promises this is not goodbye.

Rose water

Photo ©Hamed Tahamtan

Picking_rose_to_make_Golab_in_Fars_20.jpg

How did the heat shrink

and blow away in green torrents

of sea-wash, cloud-borne

on thrashing horse winds?

Fissures in the cracked skin

of the earth riffle with downy

bristles, the shrivelled flowers

of summer, filled now, running

with dry dust after the soaking rain.

Earth sighs and sings beneath

the plucked chords of rain strings

yet the music runs through open

fingers, soaking into gaping heat-wounds,

water in a desert of weeping

roses d’Ispahan.

August rain

The Oracle gave me the theme for this one. I think it shows.

 

Rain beats its persistent music

on roof and rippling grass,

misting the meadow,

smearing the window glass.

Light stretches unchanging,

uncontrasted, dull as the sky.

So hard to recall the brilliance of summer sun,

the deep green shade of panting leaves,

the dreams of roses.

Haiku challenge: Time & Grow

This is for Ronovan’s haiku challenge. You can join in here.

The first haiku has ‘bloom’ instead of ‘grow’—not really a synonym, but I prefer it. So, I’ve added a second haiku with both suggested words.

 

Your time will come, rose

to fall in a cloud of scent.

Bloom, now, in beauty.

1024px-WiltedRose

Once upon a time,

the green grass grew all around,

now grey concrete sprouts.

In the long grass

Painting by Maria Oakey Dewing

Maria Oakey Dewing

In the long grass poppies blow,
Glowing embers of summer heat.
Fleet, the failing, fading day,
Stay, the evening star,
Far and bright,
Light in the turquoise sky.
Fly, the southbound birds,
Words in the gusting wind,
Thinned, the leaves in the poplar trees,
Lees of summer wine,
Mine, the last of the nectar sweet.
Fleet the failing, shortened days,
Stays the cold of early morning,
Dawning red where the poppies blow,
Glowing in the late autumn grass.