Dance away

Franz_Marc_Deer_in_the_Forest

Dance away the night fears

and the day fears

and the sunless thoughts

that crowd out sleep and joy.

Listen to the wind lulling blackbirds in the hedge

Look up at the stars

lighting the wild leaping of the hare

know that this fragile, intangible beauty

is the gossamer-weave

of life.

Advertisements

In the reaches of the night

738px-Franz_Marc_009.jpg

Something calls in the reaches of the night, where stars

wash back and forth, caught in the swell of the sky.

 

Its wordless words are saying that this place between

hoof, paw and the netted stars, that stirs in flaring nostrils

 

and tastes of the night, is love and anguish at its loss, is

birth and death and all of life between, muscles sliding

 

beneath hide and feathered flight. It says, listen to life

calling, hear its song in the snailshell of the ear, feel it

 

growing deep in the bones. Keep it close, let it not be

snatched away snuffed out in blood and tears,

 

but carry it always to sing, loud-throated as the blackbird,

into the teeth of death and the last silence.

Microfiction: Destiny

Sorry to take a cynical view of this photo, but that’s life, for some.

photo by Melanie Dretvic via Unsplash

tltweek186

 

‘When I’m too big for my pony, Daddy’s going to sell her and buy me a real horse, an old, used one like you, that I can practice on until I get good, then he’ll buy me a better one.’

‘And when you get a better one, little girl, what will happen to me?’

The little girl shrugged and said, ‘You’ll go to the knackers, I suppose, where all old horses go.’

Life pulse

This poem is the threading together of several small poems that all seemed to lead in the same direction.

Redon.coquille

Life throbs in ocean currents,

the rhythmic beat of rain in the rushes,

the booming song of the whale

and the tremulous heartbeat of a bird.

 

It coils and twists,

intricate as a snail shell,

filled with sand and diamonds and stars,

a capharnaum of treasures

and barbed ambiguities,

 

of things that drive us apart,

roses plucked from the tree,

a caged bird weeping,

contrary winds filling unruly sails,

 

and things that hold us together,

threads of sunlight,

tangles of roses,

strings that net the stars,

and the merest touch of your hand.

 

In the coiled nacre of our shell,

where night is bright as pearl

and day dim and cool as the ocean,

where stars fall and fish leap in the sun,

there is no end to me,

no beginning to you.

 

 

Sometimes

in the night,

to the beat of a double pulse,

I feel my thoughts slipping,

sand through fingers,

from me to you,

your lips,

my words—

oneness.