Blue horse dreams

odilon_redon_-_der_wagen_des_apolls

If this cold world were mine to warm

to nurture wounds that dig so deep

and all the nightmares put to sleep

I’d never gather roses

nor the flowers of the field

but I would give you white owl wings

and blue horse dreams so we can fly

and for you pluck the stars

from night’s soft sky.

Things that are lost

A quadrille for the dverse ‘rise’ prompt. A poem which I wrote with Redon’s painting of Orpheus in mind, after he has lost Eurydice I imagine.

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The wind rises with a fiery voice

like angry hornets,

swelling the rising oceans that roll

over people risen against their empty bellies,

thirsty rivers,

dead children

and others against the rise in petrol prices,

and I, weeping,

I will arise and go now.

#writephoto: The unknown

This is for Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt. The standing stone looked eerily familiar to me. There has to be a link somewhere.

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The house has gone now, burned, pulled down, the stones scattered, the park reverted to wilderness and the gate walled up. There is nothing left of the people who once lived and died there, and no living memories of their persecutor. But there is a strange stone on the hill that casts a shadow even when there is no sun, where no grass grows and where frost glitters even in August. And in the local museum there is a painting with no name and no date that is fixed to the wall and cannot be moved.

Strange cries are sometimes heard in the park at night, cries that no bird ever made, and the room where the painting hangs is locked now, the other exhibits removed and displayed elsewhere.

*

In the big house that stands alone beyond the last bend in the lane, the electricity has become erratic, doors and windows stick and locked doors open. There was a guard dog, but after a couple of weeks of howling, the dog has fallen silent. Its kennel is empty. The owners pass, fleeting and white-faced as ghosts. In the village, we watch and wait, and wonder how long before it happens again.

Odilon_Redon_-_The_Monster

 

The place where love sings

Since Colleen is off on her travels, there is no Tanka Tuesday. Since Colleen isn’t around to make the rules, I have used last week’s prompt again (Past and Future) to make an ottava rima.

Odilon_Redon_002

The sun has set on that long ago day,

Hundreds of times—these small deaths of the light,

Snuffed out by the dark, since you went away—

And I walk alone with shades of the night.

Echoes of laughter and sunlight still play

In the halls of the past, bright birds with no flight.

Through mists of tomorrow I search for my wings,

Feathered dreams, flying home to the place where love sings.

Poetry challenge#37: Red boat

This week, I’m introducing the rondelet, a form I’ve just discovered. It’s short and has no rhyme pattern, which should please some people. There is also a refrain, which pleases me. It’s not as easy as it looks though, to get something satisfying out of it, so be warned. Operating instructions are here.

Oops. Forgot to add the bit about posting the link to your poem in the comments below. A pingback is best if you can get it to work. Always best to check I’ve got it.

No apologies for choosing an Odilon Redon painting for the image this week. I love his work and find it full of inspiration. Only one prompt word this time since the poem is very short. My poem follows.

journey

823px-Redon,_Odilon_-_La_Voile_jaune_(The_Yellow_Sail)_-_Google_Art_Project

My love and I,

In a red barque with yellow sail.

My love and I,

Crossing oceans, sunset headed,

Follow a dream or just a gull.

Hand in hand, heart to heart we glide,

My love and I.

Rainbow feathers

A chain of short verses inspired by twitter prompts and linked by this painting by Redon, the other side of yesterday’s coin.

Redon.beatrice

I drink the colours of the world

And give them back in poems,

Light as feathers,

Soft as birds,

Bright as rainbows.

 

Dew falls through the mist,

River winds slow between green banks,

Blackbird sings,

Blind and deaf to the world,

As, enthralled by beauty,

So too am I.

 

And yet and yet,

Years tick by like seconds,

So close, we seem, to the brink.

Beyond, a sullen sea slaps & slops,

Waiting for our missed step.

 

I gather my rainbow feathers,

Hold them tight,

And when the dark wind blows

And the grey sea sucks,

I will fly,

Wind-blown, wave-washed,

And perhaps, if all that’s left is dreams,

Find what lies in the sun’s fiery nest.