Questions for the night

Questions for the night

Where did the wishes fly, when did they go,
the longing for something that speaks deep and slow
in the whisper of oak leaves, the voice of the thrush,
that sinks with the sun in the late evening hush?

If I knew, would I follow the path where it leads,
though it wander through fire and where the heart bleeds,
though it end with the breath of a life at its close,
the pain of a dying, would that be what I chose?

I wish and I long and I watch in the night
for the stars of your eyes, their unquenchable light,
will I see them again, and the owl on the hill,
as he calls to the sky seems to tell me, I will.

A babble of memories

attic

In a corner of my head the light is soft,

And heat falls, a gentle hand

To coax cold lizard blood.

In a corner, dark as all the past,

A memory, blue and green

Swells and sways to a fluting song

And flutters with a thousand birds’ wings.

Though I am not there to see,

The trees grow tall and throw a summer shade,

The grass coarse and dry beneath the sun

Flickers with insect dances.

Life squirms and laughs with quiet joy

Uncaring of my absence,

But if I close my eyes tight against the glare

And stop my ears against the brutalising din,

I can see jays swoop across the meadow

And hear the babble of the brook.

Of green fields and falling stars

For the last dverse open link night for a couple of weeks, a villanelle.

Photo©Zach Dischner

1024px-Starry_Night_(4828962598)

I can hear the voice of green fields calling,

On the rippled edges of my hearing,

See the fiery tails of fierce stars falling.

 

When all around me the sounds of brawling,

Clash with the cackle of brazen jeering,

I can hear the voice of green fields calling.

 

On the night dark streets where moonlight’s palling,

I watch for the signs of dawn appearing,

See the fiery tails of fierce stars falling.

 

When the skylark sings his songs enthralling,

In the morning sky where dawn is peering,

I can hear the voice of green fields calling.

 

I would trawl the sky with my net’s hauling,

To brighten the place of sad souls’ cheering,

See the fiery tails of fierce stars falling.

 

Too slowly the city days are crawling,

Too long the waiting, fraught and wearying,

For I hear the voice of green fields calling

And the fiery song of fierce stars falling.

When all the leaves

Photo©Tiia Monto

922px-leaves_on_ice

When all the leaves have fallen,

The gold all turned to lead,

Will all the lies be spoken

And all the liars dead?

Will winter turn to springtime,

The branches green again,

Or will our loves be washed away

In cold and heartless rain?

Birds still flock the treetops,

Stark black beneath the sky,

While sorrow drifts before my eyes,

Flint-faced, my tears are dry.

Sea of night

I wrote this second Fifty poem just to check that I could, and have just read Sarah’s poem. The rhyme words are almost exactly the same, but the results are very different.

1084px-constellations1

Without a word you slip away from sight,

I yearn to follow, long for wings and flight,

But shadows fall in gardens filled with night.

You took your love away with evening’s light,

I watch the lonely sky with stars ignite.

Drive away the summer heat

The Daily Post prompt is: Drive

Gauguin_1881_Un_Coin_du_mur_(effet_de_nuit)

Drive away the summer heat,

Wind that blows from out the west,

Carry storm clouds from the sea,

To break upon far distant hills.

 

Cover up autumn remains,

Winter cold from northern seas,

The crisped and straggling paper leaves

With fur of frost and falling snow.

 

Snuff out the mocking candle light,

Darkest night, the sunlight bright

That lights with baleful clarity

The empty space now you are gone.

 

Dust motes drift

A kyrielle poem for the Daily Post prompt: Glass.

822px-'The_Mirror'_by_William_Merritt_Chase,_Cincinnati_Art_Museum

Dust motes drift through golden air,

My palm upturned I catch them where

The breeze through open window blows,

Where it comes from no one knows.

 

Palm upturned to touch your face,

Though you have fled this special place,

The mirror glass, a memory shows,

Where it comes from no one knows.

 

I still recall the happy hours,

Spent beneath these scented bowers,

The mists become a ghostly rose,

Where it comes from no one knows.

Voyage

A cascade poem for the Daily Post prompt. I know, I use this painting often.

Miranda - The tempest, by John William Waterhouse
Miranda – The tempest *oil on canvas *100.4 x 137.8 cm *signed b.r.: J.W. Waterhouse / 1916

 

Waves curl green upon the sea,

Foam sprays salt upon the leaves,

I watch the line of night come near.

 

Setting sun turns red the rose tree,

Crimson stalks the summer wheat sheaves,

It will not light your boat, I fear.

 

No sail shines out despite my plea,

No boat bobs home to one who grieves,

The ocean keeps one I hold dear.

 

Still I wait and watch in sorrow,

My last voyage starts tomorrow.