Franz Marc, The Tower of Blue Horses,” [Public Domain] Wikepedia Commons
They ask,
and we arm.
There, see the blood spraying,
our heaves and screams?
But my ache—
I dream blue beauty
showing light and life
after all—
a why pictured
to shadowed if
Poignant words from the Oracle, who apparently is a Franz Marc fan–
or perhaps Martian sunsets.
How to explain the surrealism of my dreams—
the talking sheep—
she holds a menu
and politely requests seasoned breads.
I’m not confused that she can talk, read
or walk upright—
I only regret
that the bread is unavailable,
and that the menu should say seasonal
instead of seasoned.
I wake laughing,
but later ponder,
who knows what talents a sheep has
or what desires?
We see the flock, the crowd,
not the individual
yearning for something better,
until they take a stand.
Franz Marc, “Sheep,” [Public Domain] via Wikipedia Commons
This is a late offering for dVerse Open Link night, where Mish has asked us to post one poem on snow or anything else. I went for something else. I’m still catching up with reading others’ posts. I’ll try to catch up before latkes and wine on Sunday! 🙂
Leaves crunch underfoot,
above red planet rises–
owl hunts unconcerned
Thrusters fire, and a ship lands securely in a sandy crater. Passion burned in the heart of the war god; his namesake is rust-hued, barren, and frigid. But–once water flowed here, and perhaps life flourished, too.
We look up, wonder
see fiery stars, and ponder–
elsewhere, sun sets blue
Image Credit: NASA/JPL/Texas A&M/Cornell
On May 19, 2005, NASA’s Mars Exploration Rover Spirit captured this stunning view as the Sun sank below the rim of Gusev crater on Mars. This Panoramic Camera mosaic was taken around 6:07 in the evening of the rover’s 489th Martian day, or sol.
My poem was inspired by the Mars Insight probe that landed this week. This Haibun is for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday using synonyms for cold and safe. And for dVerse, where Victoria asked us to write any type of poem using fire.
I’m sick, my face is broken-out, and my slender body swells large over a period of nine months. Outside snowflakes fall, but I am cocooned inside where there is no time or seasons. Days of labor, and she finally appears, tiny and bald—the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. We’ve waited nearly ten years to have her. Three years later, we’re back at the same hospital, again in the February cold, again the wait to be surprised, to be exhausted and overjoyed. Now we have two daughters. Some things are worth waiting for.
robin trills in hope–
beauty rises from the snow
snowdrop sprouts and blooms
This Haibun is for the dVerse Haibun Monday prompt. Imelda is guest-hosting. She has asked us to write about waiting.
“So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.”
From Robert Frost, “Nothing Gold Can Stay”
“The sky is already purple; the first few stars have appeared, suddenly, as if someone had thrown a handful of silver across the edge of the world.”
Alice Hoffman, Here on Earth
The leaves strive to stay,
pops of color dot the landscape
brightening the grey
but falling, flying, drifting so
as autumn grows colder,
they must go
Red Bank Battlefield
as does the day
soon the shadows lengthen
silently sliding their way
along pavement and ground
above bare branches wave
without a sound.
Violet turns midnight blue
and a glimmering filigree of light
dots the sky, like morning dew.
Twilight—this magic time
when fairy tales sprout
in the mind—and so I rhyme
Once– if tale be told–
my arm up a turkey,
the day frigid cold
I shoo away a sniffing cat
look at the bird’s freakishly long neck–
wonder what kind of dinosaur was that?*
Survival and extinction
I continue the job
I won’t eat it but some
will, it’s the family holiday deal
a mixture of traditions and love
along with the holiday meal.
Our lovely sommelier
And so, we gather together
unmold the cranberry squirrel—to cheers–
bask in weirdness, warmth in the cold weather.
On this night of full beaver moon
we eat, drink, laugh, and talk
though ever present the tune
of what will be and what was past,
we try to stay in the moment, mindful
that we cannot know what is cast
by the auger’s stones
our fate with the stars
unknown, until felt in our bones.
We eat leftovers for days–
and drink more wine
walk and sleep in holiday haze,
then we sleep and dream
of a million things
forgotten at dawn, the theme
who knows? I hear the birds sing
amidst November gloom–
a little winged thing
can achieve wonders, I think,
cat on a lap, a book, a cup of tea—
yes, back to food and drink.
In sunny weather, we go to see
a Swedish film, not comedy,
a fairy tale, of sorts, it seems to me
border can be taken in many ways
as can gender and eye of the beholder
much in the world and nature may amaze
a fable may hold truth—
no matter about who or what is told
shy or bold, cultured, or uncouth
Magic all around us
in glowing leaves and laughing speech
known and unknown worlds, ever thus–
And so, we talk
drink our coffee and catch our train,
then our shadows take a walk—
and soon we’re home again
to sleep under the silvered sky,
to dream of wondrous, magic things,
to ask without answers all the whys,
to hear the stars sing and to them fly.
*I read this article on Thanksgiving.
We celebrated Thanksgiving with family (missing older daughter and her wife) and friends. For those who are new, our cranberry squirrel is a beloved family tradition. The unmolding of it is part of the tradition, and this year my sister made a very funny recording of the event. We saw the Swedish movie, Border. Trailer here. As the trailer says, unlike anything you’ve ever seen. It is definitely unusual, but my husband and I liked it. Coincidentally, I’m reading a book that is also a sort of fairy tale but that is set in the area of the world where my ancestors came from. Perhaps more about that in a future post.
Above, Moon sings
of honeyed times
her music rose-gowned
in sweet summer winds
sifting shadows
over the sea.
And we watch—
asking why of water-pounded rocks
as the sun
drives mist away–
there still sleeping –
the language of
a thousand loves with you.
I’m not quite sure I understand what the Oracle is saying, but I like the poem she gave me.
Guillermo Gómez Gil, “Moonrise,” [Public Domain], Wikipedia Commons
as sun set and the stars did rise?
Bound to go, but I wondered why.
Hands clasped fast, we said our good-byes,
now the leaves rustle, the moon sighs.
The sea whispers, and he would go,
his family calls from ocean deep.
Before the cold of winter snow,
he would go, his promise to keep.
Sleep, my love, he said, dream and sleep.
Summer leaves wither and then fall
but my belly swells, what will be?
I wonder if he’ll hear my call
return again for child or me?
Tides ebb and flow, constant, the sea.
And did you hear a love-felt cry
as sun set and the stars did rise?
Hearts torn twixt, under midnight sky?
Hands clasped fast, we said our good-byes,
now the leaves rustle, the moon sighs.
Grace has asked us to write a Quintain for dVerse. Mine uses the English rhyme scheme, but perhaps it is a cross between English and Spanish. I was in the mood for a ballad– it was only after I started writing it, that I realized it was about a Selkie.
Count the place settings,
fifteen gather for dinner
on Thanksgiving night,
ghosts sit amongst us—hear them?
They are welcome, too.
Franz Marc, “Deer,” {Public Domain], Wikipedia Commons
This is an untraditional tanka for Frank’s Haikai challenge, using the prompt Thanksgiving, and Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday challenge using synonyms for celebrate and number. I’ve been busy with work and Thanksgiving prep, and I’m behind on reading posts. I’ll catch-up over the weekend. Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate the holiday, and happy Thursday to everyone else.
Caspar David Friedrich, “Owl on a Tree,” [Public domain] Wikipedia Commons
and then she soars
silently, in pursuit
of prey, explores
the land–still unspoiled—
glides with serrated wings
over territory still unsoiled
by the sighs and zings
of manmade things
seeking oil or gold.
But tonight–
only silent wings in flight.
This is for dVerse where Lillian has asked us to write a quadrille using some form of the word “spoil.” She mentions movies, so I’ll say—and this is not a spoiler—that there is a prospector and an owl in one of the “chapters” in the movie The Ballad of Buster Scruggs.
“Listen. .
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
And fall.”
Adelaide Crapsey, “November Night”
“In the burned house I am eating breakfast.
You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,
yet here I am.”
From Margaret Atwood, “Morning in the Burned House”
The sun sleeps
in shadow now
the ground prepares
to slumber, too
covered in brown
then sprinkled with white
golden-leaved boughs
glowing bright
in defiant display—
this they say—
remember this day–
we will return
when the sun burns
the frost away.
So, we stay inside
watch a movie of sly wit and song,
there death seems to come along,
a bit of jokester, it seems
for which we’re never prepared,
still we turn the pages in a book,
hoping for a happy ending
He is fascinated, watching The Ballad of Buster Scruggs.
And in the night
I dream of petting a sloth
(in a park)
then accompanying a pretentious hipster
dressed all in black, dark
like the restaurant where no food is consumed
but I outwit him and his friends
and wake laughing at the dream’s end.
Score one for the old lady
there’s life here still–
and more to be penned.
We venture out to see another film
unfolding tension
(a few jumps in my chair)
metaphors and
things that are not there—
a tangerine,
perhaps a cat—
and there is burning—
of various kinds—
and yearning–
what is in their minds?
What do they feel,
the young woman,
the would-be writer,
and the mystery Gatsby-rich man?
What is real?
We walk and talk
buy spices
to simmer in the cold,
then in the chilly day
creeping into shadowed night
savor the warmth of wine
consumed in cozy light
life enjoyed despite what may
transpire, gloom kept at bay
undesired here and now
and our fate unknown anyhow
so, we gather rosebuds—or drink
fruit of the wine, laugh and think
but not too long about the future
instead we nurture
ourselves and one another
cuddle with cats, dream of the moon
enjoy one snowfall, but wait for June
still we prepare soon
with family to gather
as the seasons turn
burn only candles
yet, seek the light
in every room.
We watched The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, a Western, Coen Brothers style, in theaters and on Netflix. We also saw Burning, Korean movie, a psychological thriller. We liked both movies very much. Wonderful acting in both of them.
