Fallen leaves make dapples

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Fallen leaves make dapples

in the moonlight on the terrace,

and the silence falls as heavy

as a leaden Sunday downpour,

for in the nimble silver

of the moonlight in the garden,

there is sadness where the rose bloomed

and now only hookéd thorns shine,

and the dapples swarm like gravespots,

and the silence cracks in cloudbursts

of lead pearls, cold tears, quicksilvered.

Red anger cools

Thinking of the rhythm of a bodhrán brought this poem.

Photo©Steve Jurvetson

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Red anger cools in morning mist,

while doves coo in the waking trees,

slow green and thick the river runs

beneath the bridge that’s stood so long,

it knows each lover’s parting words.

Listen, wind and water to

the mutterings beneath the breath,

beneath the lashes, look and tell me

what is left when all is gone.

Doves stretch and curl their wings about

their only love, most precious gift,

while we who strive to touch the stars,

trip and stumble in the night,

the heart that beats to lead the way,

doused in the dark flood of desires.

No cooing words to soothe the pain,

no winged barque will come for us

and sail into a sunset sky.

Though anger cools, it drips and sets

in livid white like candle wax,

long, greasy scars of cold regrets.

Poetry challenge #30: Peacock garden

The image plus a handful of words prompt is one I like a lot, so I’m doing it again this week. Tell me if it’s getting boring, but I have the feeling it’s a popular idea. First, I found this painting, which made my skin crawl just a little. Is it a dream or a nightmare? Are the birds welcoming or defiant? Is it dusk, dawn, a gloomy day or a moonlit night? Why is her right hand half-raised? You decide.

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Then I thought of a few suitable words to go with the image:

indigo, cry, night bird, fleeting, forbidden

and I came up with this poem.

Peacock Garden

 

The cry of the peacock, his raucous voice warning,

Shaking proud plumes in the indigo night.

She enters regardless, the forbidden night garden,

Fluttering feather heart beating in time

To the ripples of anger, the seething bird fury,

Snatching her courage in hooked beak and claws.

The vision is fleeting, the glitter of starlight,

Falling in cold waves on dark distant shores.

His familiar stride, arms swinging, retreating,

Tossing behind him a handful of blooms.

She knows from the sound as they fall by the wayside,

The brittle, sweet fragments of love she will find,

Scattered like tears on the indigo storm wind,

Useless and vain as a peacock’s gold crown.

 

Leave the link to your poem, any style, any form, in the comments and I’ll post all the entries next Tuesday as usual. You have one week from now…