the fussy decoration
that spoils perfection.
no heating windows wide
room full of bees.
roses’ exuberant growth
I weep for the loss.
on a winter’s day
with the lizards.
the clearest blue lace-edged
with black boughs.
Then the rain came
on the back of the south wind
and we saw summer running away
in rills of bright water
summer drowning in rain
the sky too high and diaphanous
for its battleships of cloud
cooling the earth
the crickets’ beat—listen
the robins are singing.
For the dverse prompt.
Sinking sun sweeps
with broad brush
dip drinking deep
of rain-washed air
into dusty dusk
of gilded light
night brings wings
I watch the first star wake
rocked in the cobalt cradle
of the cosmos.
For Sonya’s Three line tales prompt. A poem. I loved the image.
photo by Claudio Schwarz via Unsplash
She raised her arms and leapt into the morning sky
breaking bonds that fluttered useless
in the wind of dreams
treading free air with feet
that dripped with the centuries
of mud and blood of her cage.
Another golden day
and blackbirds duel in their singing
fescue waves like banners
an oriole a flash of buttercup
yellow flutters in the willow tree
light is soft
when rays slant low
skimming daisy heads
I wonder is the blue
too much too bright and hot
a steel drum
the tractor trundles home
and bird silence falls
a cascade of quiet.
Thoughts inspired by John Masefield.
I miss the sound of the sea
the smell of salt
the wash of waves on silver sand.
We were all water once
woven warp and weft from ocean whisper
and the deep dreams of whales.
I will go back at the end of the day
before the dying of the light
and linger in the salt blue sun.
Once when we were water
we knew what was true and what lie
why we must go down to the sea again.
Can I write words of more than peace,
other than the hush of evening,
when the sounds of people cease?
Will the blackbird finish singing,
when the sun sets in the west,
and all the birds are homeward winging?
Can I, will I, should I, want for
more than hush and evening falling,
to hear the dark in owl-voice calling?
There is a place among the grasses,
where hares sleep and flowers flourish,
time’s last golden moment passes.
Time hangs, a kestrel poised
while winds blow, the river flows,
and I wait.
I wait for the widening gyre,
the ripples and dipples on the stream,
the grasses that bend.
All hang, waiting for time to pass,
the moment and all the wealth that is in it,
songs, scents, sights,
so we can regret, mourn and look back
and in regretting make sense
of what was, is, and is to come.
Owl glides, nightingale sings,
stars hold their breath,
and I watch for the dawn, hoping.
Days of rain and nights of storm
the world is spinning, water flowing
while in the dark the rain clouds swarm
Nights of rain and wind trees blowing
storm of clouds and glow-worms glowing
hear the restless night birds crowing.
Rainy nights of moonglow hidden
memories that come unbidden
all are worms in dark earth growing.
Photo credit: Taco Meeuwsen
from dawn the thrush sings
repeating trills with touching
crawling among delpiniums
from his concentration
ocean of wind
sways the poplars—thrush’s song
flows never ebbs