I found these words jotted down at the beginning of a story file. No idea what they were doing there, but they read like a poem.
moon-mystery
myth
river of night swelling
with starfish unnetted
silver world-flood
Photo ©Paul Militaru
I found these words jotted down at the beginning of a story file. No idea what they were doing there, but they read like a poem.
moon-mystery
myth
river of night swelling
with starfish unnetted
silver world-flood
Photo ©Paul Militaru
I’m adding this one to the dverse open link night and the ‘movement’ prompt.
Photo©Michael Apel
dancing dragons
flying in stream shade
green as ocean deeps
feasting on gnats sun-struck blips
in cool water light
gems with wings
flash-flicker flick light
turquoise indigo
black gold blood and russet red
myths in motion
hover then flip
land on the slenderest leaf
water-skimming
machine-hot metallic tints
glint in cool leaf gloom
reptile insect
powdered with fool’s gold
in brittle-winged flight
rapid shutter speed
film of prehistory
deep shade
water trickles
dragonflying machines
brilliant
tricks of the light
For the dverse prompt, a 55 word poem about one of the most insensitive unofficial doctrines of the Catholic Church.
Beneath flat stones,
nameless as the first day,
they lie cheek to cheek.
No forgiveness,
say the black-robed men,
for scraps of life
dead before the holy sacrament
can cleanse the uncommitted sin
from their souls.
Yet any mother knows
original sin
is the rot
in the black hearts of priests
not babies.
Ask one.
Colleen might not be back yet, but that’s not a reason to shirk. An etheree, because she likes us to keep counting syllables. Short enough maybe for the NaPoWriMo prompt too.
They say there is no value in grass or
ditches running with bright rain water;
the sun, the sky, the lark singing
cannot be owned. Yet at the
end, when the last dark falls,
the nightingale’s song,
sweet stream pouring,
will be worth
more than
gold.
Colleen isn’t here for a few weeks, so this Tuesday, I shall profit to post haiku without counting the syllables.
meadow soaks up
golden light returns it
in buttercups
ancient cow pasture
a profusion of flowers
defies time
walking
knee-high in dew
spring mornings
ditch is full again
running to the stream—evenings
is frogs’ chorus
clouds drift
white and soft grey as gulls
I hear the sea
For Colleen Chesebro’s Tanka Tuesday.
Beyond open doors,
the world spreads golden carpets—
flame leaves gently fade.
Beyond the gold, a friend waits
among old embers, still bright.
A series of twitter poems.
By the light of the rain
and the darkness of the wind,
I see you better than beneath
the treacherous rays of the sun.
I taste the sharp tang of the stars,
the fizz of gunpowder on the tongue,
night shadows prickle the skin,
and I know you are there.
Hanging, the centre holding,
the brightest star,
you are,
touching the canopy of the night
with the scent of roses
and tender drops of dew.
I catch them in cupped hands,
drink the distilled music of the stars.
When the stars went out,
chased by the dawn,
the grass was sprinkled
with diamond dew
and the tiny yellow specks
of daisy seeds.
In the alder leaves’ dappled pattern,
the ripples of the stream,
I see your face,
and in the soft call of the doves,
I hear your voice.
Let me gather you,
light, leaves and laughter ,
and keep you safe
from the fickle world.
A sequence of short poems on a dark theme.
Photo ©Rennett Stowe
Black violets clutched in your fist,
Cloying perfume from beyond the dark,
No light in your eyes,
No words on your tongue,
To answer a silent plea,
Hope that claws from a hollow heart,
Take me back to your shadows.
Lunar landscape of my heart,
Crawls with black holes of despair,
Where even screams are silent,
Smothered in fog and filthy air.
The silence between us is heavy as lead,
Black as pitch,
And cold as an arctic wind,
Yet I remember,
How once it was red with passion,
Fierce as a vengeful robin,
And light as a summer breeze.
Water pocked
with raindrops pitted
quicksilver flowing
and filling so fast
I lose track of the reason
you left me here
with empty hands
in the falling rain.
Four short poems.
painting ©mr-art.
No escape, no release
from this dull pain,
from this dark, sunless place
where you are not,
no choice but oblivion,
the leap into the void,
the final abyss.
Which, then, will disperse?
The boiling black clouds of perpetual anger,
or the wind-buffeted gulls,
white winged phantoms of joy?
Hovering on the brink,
undecided,
do I plunge into chaos
where you have fallen,
or soar with the white gulls
into the bright morning?
I drop my heart into the pool,
black water that has with no end.
The ripples widen
to touch the shore,
then nothing.
No pale gleam of hidden light,
the sound of sorrow,
waves lapping.
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