Seas of untranquility

 

Where is the tranquillity

in a world rocked by missiles, mining, murder,

and multinational monsters with Hydra heads?

No water runs clear,

nowhere does not bear our mark

the dirty paw print of the half-thing

that slouches from one broken dream to the next.

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The voiceless

A very grim quadrille for dverse this time. Life is like that, not all beer and skittles.

 

The land is silent,

sealed in concrete skin,

the orphans of elephants

murdered for their tusks,

the circus acts,

the dogs and calves in cages,

waiting for the knife,

the falling forest trees—

for those that cannot speak,

if you care,

be their voice.

 

 

Speckles and dappled freckles

A quadrille for the dverse prompt.

Dappled light falls soft between the leaves,

like spots on tabby coat and speckled frog,

and in the meadow bright awash in motley,

wildflowers blow.

 

Sun spots scatter sparkles

on the dark lake swell

till night falls and solemn stars

fill the freckled sky.

And then there is always

Dverse is back with a quadrille using the word, sun.

There are worries,

bureaucratic

and those sitting, watching with unquiet eyes;

there are dark nights full of anguish

for those close, those too far away,

sadness in the stagnant pool

where traffic drone drowns

the song of the birds,

 

and there is the sun.

Trick of the light

 

They pass so slowly,

the endless days,

blurring into dusk then night.

 

I watch the hours passing,

shadows creeping,

till sun and moon are out of sight.

 

I see you hurrying through the crowds,

the empty fields, each time,

a trick of the light.

Anguish

For the dverse quadrille, including the word, fret.

 

Gnawed and worn to the bone

to a frazzle

threadbare boned

and run ragged

black dog dogs

and the cliff s’effrite

sand blasted

and worried by the waves

billowing mist of sea fret

gnawing with death cold

dog teeth bone-cracking

to reach the marrow.

Dragon-flying

Another dragon quadrille for dverse.

Photo ©Jörg Hempel

Winter memories cling

like ice fringing ferns

of mornings when birds

are too cold to sing,

but spring shoots slow

from the roots like a burning fuse

bursting into flame flowers, glow

splashed in the sky

and instead of slow worm-creeping

I am dragon-flying.