how the gloom of rain sky drips
from pale flower faces and from leaves
in a monotonous whisper,
seeps, sinks or swims,
clings to the spirit and drags it
into the wet weeds,
until the sun
the sullen, sunless mood of gloom
and dull, dripping melancholy,
rippling in pools rain-stippled,
to a forest, emerald-treed, glimpsed ruby petalled
among subtle pastels,
with a slash of light,
brush of butterfly-gold powder.
Could it be blue
the answer to the question this time
or a blow crushing the head
the tearing of hair
like rags of mist rising from the lake?
We tongue words
who when what
but life is no less purple-red
the sky still glows brazen bold and
you you you
beneath it still gaze at your feet
making shadows that scream at the light.
I I I
peer through distant rain to the sea where blue blows
longing to soar on sail-wings over diamond-spray
and curling wave water.
toss you a rose
urging asking willing
you to raise your face to the sun
to smell the wind full of salt and flowers.
Take my hand and we will go there
into the blue
And the deep dark follows us into the earth
along the path to the mountains’ roots,
no warm wandering in the sun,
blossom to berry, dawn to dusk,
a river of light.
Watch the fruit fall from the horns of the moon
and the stones bloom with the colours of happiness.
Will they seed-spring, tendril-twine,
or will all wither on the vine and
water run dry, bird, bee fall silent
and leave the rain-quiet glade?
The air still breathes gentle in the grass beneath the shade of
forest trees, singing the songs of why and which, you and I,
making poetry from frost flowers
and the rustle of rose petals
falling though a summer night.
Blue is gone
swept up by bird wings
and sky-glitter drips only
in the bright trickle of bird call
sun yellow lapped up by buttercups.
Wind blows from the north
cold is coming
red as ice
cutting bone and marrow
and what will poor robin do then?
Hands flutter scattering food
we watch fear pass along the lane
listening to the ocean roar among cloud billows
a a a
dream cries from the depths
run please the black is coming
breath belching where the tractor rumbles
over the wild hill.
Sleep whispers from her blue yellow boat
(waves heaving rain streaming)
the storm is close
but but but
there are cracks in the sky
we can see the stars.
A cry in the night,
dark of the moon,
the sky is sleeping,
and we are in this purple bed barque together
at at at
sea beneath the rain.
Listen to its music,
smell the blue beauty of coming day.
Still, even shadows hide only peace,
darkness and owl-cry, mystery.
s s s
What did you dream?
Is it still running behind your eyes?
I remember no raw sloe-scratching bitterness,
only your breath tongued by the wind,
urging my wings through the light,
s s s
soaring with red rose petals
into the pink-flushed waters of morning.
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.
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.
The wind rises with a fiery voice
like angry hornets,
swelling the rising oceans that roll
over people risen against their empty bellies,
and others against the rise in petrol prices,
and I, weeping,
I will arise and go now.
This is for Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt. The standing stone looked eerily familiar to me. There has to be a link somewhere.
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.
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.
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.
Tanka for Colleen Chesebro’s Tanka Tuesday using the theme words: Rise & Craft.
The painting is by Odilon Redon.
Sunrise on the sea
dawn tints white sails in colours
of rainbow mornings.
Wave-rocked, your craft weaves a path
broidered with bright foam flowers.