A ballad poem because I wanted to.
Stars strain at their moorings,
Ships that pass in the night,
On vast oceans of darkness,
And a path of pale moonlight.
Above the sleeping meadows,
And the stilly mirror lake,
The tide has washed the swans ashore,
and nothing’s left awake.
Stars that ride at anchor
In the harbour of the sky,
Wait for dewy morning
And the snow white swans to fly.
The morning star has faded,
And the swans flown from the lake,
The ocean that took you away
Rolls on though my heart break.
In the dawn damp
at the forest’s edge,
a red shadow glides.
Bird hush breaks
bright as the brush
of a sleeping fox.
and mist blows in from the sea
coating my lips in salt
and the electric tang
of unseen vastness.
In the night,
a bark wilder than any dog’s,
and the sterile concrete of the streets
shivers at the sound.
There is a window in the wind
that blows across the river.
Look carefully and you will see
wild swans flying home.
Swans there were in the sky, a skein of nine,
silent and white as driven snow,
a perfect arrowhead, pacific and pure,
pulsed with hot blood and smooth-feathered muscle.
One accord binds them on the paths of the air,
above the slow-flowing river, bound to its bed,
one accord, wing tip to wing tip, slip-stream rowing,
strongest in front, breaking the way.
Bonds as sure as any fraternity, buoy their passage,
surging on pure white power and gentle compassion.
The fascinating photo is for Sue Vincent’s photo prompt.
The conflagration grew in intensity as it swept across the planet, each exploded reactor, refinery, pipeline and chemical plant adding to the unquenchable fury of the flames. Shallow seas evaporated, tidal waves faltered and dispersed in monstrous clouds of boiling steam, and the oceans shrank, exposing fantastic rock formations that glowed red before crumbling to ash.
The wave of fire rolled over the earth in a final infernal embrace, reaching the cold waters of the north. In its wake, the forests of the great landmasses were reduced to glowing charcoal, their inhabitants to grey ash, but the great fire faltered over the black ocean. A tower of flame shot into the sky, sending its reflection miles out over the waves, to where a lone swan made a magic circle and said, Enough.
The fire roared but it advanced no further. The waves threw back the fiery reflection and the swan sailed in a widening circle, cold and black, drawing up the remnants of the first life until the darkness teemed with movement. The earth shivered and rolled, pushing up rocks from the ocean bed, and the swan left the water, settled in a comfortable hollow and waited for the grass to grow again, and for her mate to join her.
A circular poem based on today’s magnetic poem
Quiet as stone falls the light,
bright and glacier cold,
folding the world in clouds of frost.
Bifrost the bridge of violet and blue,
hues of the rainbow,
slowly arching across the sky,
flying on swans’ wings from rooted earth,
berth of sky ships, soaring,
roaring with the winds voice.
Rejoice in this sky-reaching and spanning space,
race, white swans with this dead heart,
part the clouds for I see the journey’s close,
rose scented, blue horses joyful riot,
quiet as stone falls the light.
Another day’s twitter poems that seemed to follow the same theme.
From the otherworld you come,
mist-wrapped, blue-eyed, smiling,
and in your hands
all the love that ever grew
in either world.
Thrill of the sun on my skin,
your eyes in mine,
and the sky above.
Waves lap about our feet,
while the gull carries our song.
In the sky above the shadows,
in the last light,
before the dark inks in the blue
and their wild dance
bows out before
the stately minuet
of the stars.
Is there poison in this sweet honey
that drips so slow from your red lips?
Take it away, and I am left lonely,
longing to be the bloom
where the bee sips.
The touch of your hand enthralls,
your soft words enchant,
but when you kiss,
the sun stands still,
and no shadows grow.
Gulls, waves, sun,
glint and shift,
and in the bright air,
stolen from the dusk,
we rise, swans enlaced,
to follow the path of dreams.
Still on the theme of swans, and the Children of Lir (forget poor old Leda), here is a tanka, or at least a short poem in tanka format.
The painting is by Arkady Rylov
Beating white wings fly
from lake to sea, storm to calm,
white plumes ’gainst black sky.
May the winter gales that howl
carry you to safe haven.