Winter moonlight

Marianne von Werefkin’s work is a joy.  This painting is entitled Moonlit.

An ekphrastic poem in the spirit of the dverse prompt, if not following it to the letter.

In the winter there is nowhere to hide,

the cold strips and splits, and ice cracks on the river.

In the moonlight the shadows are black,

and even old monks with backs bent

by the weight of other people’s sins

have spindly alter egos that trot lightly across the snow.

In the dark by the light of a cold moon,

there is a stillness

that not even the promise of a blazing hearth can stir.

In the moonlit winter cold the world is starved thin

and black as sin.

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When the sun

A poem I wrote last month. Out of season now, but I remember the feeling well. For dverse.

 

I remember when the sun

had lover’s hands

that warmed the skin

and teased the knots

out of bones grown winter cold.

I cover my face from this pale crone

who pinches cheeks

with fingers gnarled

as a dead oak tree.

Winter sunset

This winter evening

when spring creeps and thrusts

through earth running bright

with rainwater,

the birds are singing

their wild songs

of love and battles

and the return of the sun.

Haiku sequence fog and rain

 

monochrome

yet behind the cloud they say

the sun shines

 

sun teases gold

from the wet field sparks dull green

then drowns in cloud

 

torch beam

through the fog glitters

with diamonds

Too cold

 

Winter is always too cold

for those with bones too close to the skin

and blood too deep in the bone.

Steep me in the warm earth

deep as shoot and seed

feathered with owls calling

from tree to star and back again

for the restless spring.

Thrush in a winter hedge

A revised version of last night’s rubaiyat for the dverse prompt. This one is in strict iambic pentametre rather than my usual rambling tetrametre. The second stanza inverts the stress for variety.

 

The frost that lingers furs the hedge where bird sings

At raindrops, snowflakes, all that winter cold brings;

His song, his soul fills our dark days with sunlight,

His heart too full too hear how distant bell rings.

 

Cold cracks the stone that gleams in moon-pale light,

Stills placid water with ice, silver bright;

The thrush is silent as mice in the hedge,

Hopes in the spring and bitter winter’s flight.

Winter rain haiku

 

too much rain

even the thirsty earth groans

ditches run torrents