Haibun for snapshots of home

This is what I should have written for the dverse prompt, since the illustration was a gift.

In the house where I grew up there was a print of Seurat’s La Grande Jatte on the sitting room wall. I used to think it was Batley Park. In the hallway there was a print of the Madonna from de la Tour’s Le Nouveau-né. I used to think it was a picture of my mother. It looked like her, and she also had a red dressing gown. Funny how for children there is nothing new under the sun.

paintings chime

with memories

like spring flowers

Well water

For the dverse prompt. I wrote a first poem, and it was too long so I wrote another. The first poem below is the quadrille, the second is same theme but just a poem.

 

I dip a bucket fill it full

Of dancing, silver mirror water,

Ask the silent fairy’s daughter

For a seeing, bright or dull.

 

In the mirror-silver deep,

I see my love upon the field,

Lying on his broken shield,

Willow, clouds and blackbirds weep.

 

*

 

I dip a bucket in the well

And fill it full of silver water.

On my tongue are rowan berries,

Sailing clouds a story tell

 

Of wishes granted, curse stones cast,

Of mad hares leaping in the meadow.

Yet are these clouds of future dreaming,

Or are they clouds of dreaming past?

Three spring haiku

 

wind blows a hornpipe

through gusty boughs

sky ocean rocks

 

tree sighs

in the wind for lost leaves

thrush finds a snail

 

beneath dewdrops

frogs blink sun-dozing

a restless spring stream

What they do not see

1.

The thread of compassion is

broken, their hearts lie bleeding,

drained pale, and yet they never

know, those who scrute the skies, gun

muzzle raised, never see when

some small craft of light bone and

feather falls so far from home.

 

2.

Tell the wind the story of

how you followed your passion

for death (the death of others)

into the coverts, where life

lay trembling after a night

of cold rain, and snuffed it out.

Dare its cold disdain, minable.

 

3.

And when the stars look down and

the sun sends light into each

covert where those feathers and

scraps of fur cold as night lie

stiff in reproach, do you see

a stolen life in that soiled

beauty? Are you the wiser?

Nights of no moon

One of the poems I wrote for the Ekphrastic challenge and forgot to send it. The painting is by Cristobal Rojas.

 

Nights of no moon

 

Nights of no moon,

it’s easy to hear the voices.

When the wind winds rags of dying sun

among black branches,

we hear the hiss of flames.

 

We share the fear of darkness,

wear the same chains

of upbringing and blindness.

Our eyes pits of obscurity,

desires crass mediocrity,

hands full of futilities

grasping for more.

 

We look for salvation

in hypotheses,

in the flight of angels.

 

Nights of no moon,

an owl passes on silent wings,

feathered in forest fronds,

all-seeing—eyes deep and dark

as the night

when there is no moon.

 

Seeds of spring

The Oracle is in close touch with one of the characters in my WIP.

 

Come, cloud,

soft as flowering rose;

I follow the path to the lake.

Fall, dusk,

on this lonely world.

Grow, gentle darkness,

sow seeds of spring

in our winter hearts.

 

Wind from the south and the north

It’s been a long time since I wrote to twitter prompts.

 

Nothing is certain,

the path lies beneath the brambles,

sky is full of unfallen rain

and the blackbird’s song falters,

but there are infinite maybes.

Perhaps the rain will fall

the sky will clear

and I will see you

pushing through last year’s thorns

to meet me.

 

Between the soft rain of dawn

and the fierce sun of midday

lies the shallow time that flows

stream-babbling and bright

where you and I watch the world

through the same eyes,

and the same dream drapes us both

in promised tomorrows.

 

Sun-gaze withers the summer grass,

the deep shade shrinking

to a tepid green puddle

and hollow frog-voices,

while in the north, winter waits

with ice in his breath,

and in his eyes

the withering gaze of death.

 

Wind from the south

and the stars are flickering

the leaves are whispering

on swaying boughs

while a hunter’s moon

climbs slow and glittering

owl cries twittering

as the south wind soughs.

Haiku: Barely spring 2

Another haiku for Frank Tassone’s ‘Barely Spring’ haikai challenge. Not sure if this is a true haiku. My grasp on the rules is fading.

 

Sky full of pale sun

misted ice crystals—listen,

warm life stirs.

Raw is the rain

 

Raw is the rain

that sings on the lake,

blue the mist music playing,

red sun shadows

the light of the moon,

storm waves

black rocks pounding.

 

This day is over

for you and I,

the morning star

that haunts the sky

is hard as glass.

Yet we two make magic,

soft and slow,

for all eternity.

 

Light in the night,

and wings open

like flowers.

Day dances, dew-touched,

pink blooming.

Keep trust, friend,

in sun and stars,

the songs of the sky.

 

Rain, cover with grass

this murmuring mountain,

pour poetry over these stones.

Dusk falls

on the wandering river;

wind breathes gently,

Night is coming.

 

 

 

Drunken symphonies before dawn

I do like this week’s clutch of magnet poems. The oracle is in thoughtful mood.

 

The rain is red today,

with sun spray

blown in the wind.

Light flickers,

shot through with shadows,

a drunken symphony

screamed at the moon.

 

Come dance with me

and be my love

hold my hand and keep it always,

together we soar

to the dreaming stars

of the quiet evening

and the morning sky.

 

 

Ocean growls

in a wild voice,

from ghost-haunted morning

to dark, velvet night.

I dance in red fire-dazzle

on salt green waves

till the stars wake.

 

Green dusk thickens;

rain rustles

through the roses.

I walk the cold mountain

while night breathes darkling,

and the lake murmurs:

Listen to the moon,

dawn will follow.