Sod the packing. A poem for the dverse prompt about metaphor. I have a feeling I always do this, so I’m maybe missing the point. Here it is anyway.
And could I make this more than it is,
the vibrant light of morning,
rising to where the clouds cluster in gaudy flocks,
and the falling evening ocean,
bathing grass in pink and gold,
flecked with roistering homing birds?
Nothing I can say or do will change the quality of light,
the sky, a basking sea lit by coral stars its deep dark bed,
the trees that wave wild unkempt hair in the wind,
and in the dappling shadows,
the rust red, white scut flash of hart and hare.
You will always be the anchor in this wild sea,
the mirror, delicate as the clean washed strand,
and make me more than I could ever be alone.
A morning of enforced idleness. Too many people coming round to fill boxes. The usual Indian summer that starts at the beginning of September and lasts well into October just hasn’t materialised. Rain, rain, rain is all we get.
This rather miserable poem is for the Secret Keeper’s prompt. Written in French with English adaptation.
SAD | WIND | HUG | MOOD | TAKE
Triste, ce temps, ce ciel de traîne d’un gris profond,
Soumis les arbres embracés par ce vent du nord,
Qui se tortillent en murmurant des mots de plainte.
Je laisse mes doigts effleurent la peau si lisse de soie liquide,
De mon lac perdu parmi les bâtiments indifférents,
Et le vent emporte ces larmes, ces rêves mal dessinés,
Dans un ciel de traîne, pleurer sur le dos solide de l’océan.
Sad, this changing sky of cloudy grey,
The trees that bend beneath the north wind’s grasp,
And murmur, as they bow, words of complaint.
My fingers trace the skin of liquid silk,
Of my lake lost among uncaring crowds,
Snatched by the wind, tears and unformed dreams
Fall from a changing sky onto the sea’s broad back.
We’re getting there. Another poem then a couple more boxes before bed. This one is for the dverse prompt, rain and its homonyms. And upbeat. Don’t ask me what it’s about—it’s upbeat, that’s all. If I had time, I’d find a blue horse painting to go with it.
It’s raining stars—
though we see only steel-grey water—
and the great sky horses plough their heavy wings
through torrents of molten fire,
and shake their manes at the dog star.
No bridle, no reins to guide and arrest,
no saddle and spurs to tame the beast,
the wild hunt with no hunters,
the race with no winner, no prize.
They hear only the clash of clouds,
dance among piercing spears of lightning
and the rain,
laughing, horse-splashing rivers,
that the last roses catch and dangle,
in the morning sun.
For Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday.
The voice of the stream
is the wind’s voice and the sky’s,
blackbird’s summer song.
I watch reflected clouds pass
in the river’s changing face.
Poetry break. My back hurts. A ‘free’ quadrille for dverse
Freedom is not an absolute,
merely one form of shackles broken,
all the rest remain.
You can hoist your flags,
sing your patriotic songs
and dance in the streets,
but hungry children still cry,
and love still holds your heart
in its unrelenting grip.
I wish, I wish, I wish,
the star, the flying horse, the dancing diamond,
had not shrunk to a simple pinprick of light,
the rainbow dreams grown monochrome,
a mist of rain against black cliffs.
I wish the children had not grown to people
with no need of a hand to hold,
distant as a special field beneath a lark-filled sky,
elusive as rain on black cliffs.