From the forest
languid language soars.
You watch the rain beating
on rocks,
say my skin smells of dreams
and water runs fast beneath my feet.
A ship screams at the lake,
“who is driving death?”
And I cry,
aching if and why.
Henri Rousseau, “Le Rêve,” (The Dream), [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
I haven’t consulted The Oracle in a couple of weeks. She gave me this bit of surrealism. It fits my mood.
“I took a nap and wept for no reason”
~ Jim Harrison from Songs of Unreason
My sisters and I
sat at my father’s deathbed
he, though unconscious, raged–
we held a vigil through the night,
waiting for the dawn,
and light
to see him released,
the raging ceased.
I napped then
for days it seemed
dreaming
I heard his voice,
crying when
I realized
it wasn’t real,
but love
disguised.
This poem is for Day 13 of Jilly’s 28 Days of Unreason, using Jim Harrison’s poetry for inspiration. I guess this is an early Father’s Day poem.
“Her nights are full of the red teeth of death”
–Jim Harrison, “Life,” Dead Men’s Float
Blue is the color of sky and sea,
green are the blades of grass in spring
when the world is born again, and new
shoots raise their heads to the golden sun
whose chariot flies till day is done.
But no less vital is the color red
that drips at birth and stops when we’re dead.
The color that men fear to see
afraid of its power—or destiny.
For though Death may arrive gentle and pale,
her teeth are like spikes, or the sharpest nails.
When she comes for you in the dark of night
she’ll smile–as if to say it’s all right,
but her teeth are scarlet within her grin,
and life is soon gone—after she slowly leans in.
Apparently, Death is a vampire. Who knew? Mysterious messages and some truths come from Jilly’s 28 Days of Unreason, based on the poetry of Jim Harrison. This is Day 6.
It is also the anniversary of D Day, June 6, 1944, and the 50th anniversary of the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy on June 6, 1968. I suppose blood and death is on my mind.
I stand at the open window listening to the robins, sparrows, wrens, and cardinals twitter, tweep, cheep, and trill as they tune their instruments, getting them just right to perform the sun salutation. The mockingbird rehearses his aria, long warbled phrases, chirrups, and chirrs. The birds perch high in the tall oaks and maple trees so that their voices echo, breaking the quiet of the early morning. I savor the moment. Soon, black clouds will come, the sky will weep, and the birds will take shelter in those wind-whipped high branches. I will gather then with others; together, we will express our sorrow to a grieving widow and children, and, say good-bye to a friend.
Spring a chimera–
rosy petals bloom, then fall
silver tears of rain
“Seen on KSC grounds, a robin pauses in a Brazilian pepper tree filled with red berries.”
NASA, via Wikipedia Commons, Public domain
For Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, using synonyms for belong and dream
For Frank’s Haikai challenge, using “twittering.”
This is for Frank Tassone’s haikai challenge. He asks us to write about ravens, but he also says “kangarasu translates as ‘cold crow,'” so I’m going with that. I really like crows. When my daughters were little, there was some sort of illness that killed many crows. I knew not to touch the dying crow in my yard, and I called animal control. They collected his body at some point while I was away.
I hear the sounds of crows cawing, over and over. They have gathered in the trees around their fallen friend, as he lay dying on the ground in my backyard. I stare into his eyes, which seem to plead with me. What is he asking? How do I answer? I want to comfort him. I wish I could. His eyes still haunt me.
windows to the soul
dying crow’s thoughts never voiced
winter without spring
Mikoláš Aleš [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
This is for Jane’s A Month with Yeats Challenge. Sorry for so many posts today. I’m doing them while I get a chance before I’m back to projects and before Thanksgiving.
This quote is from “The Old Age of Queen Maeve.”
“out of the dark air over her head there came
A murmur of soft words and meeting lips.”—W.B. Yeats
Once she was young and fair of face,
she lived life as if it were a race
where she was the brightest and fastest, and before it stopped
she would need to make it to the top.
But now she was confined to a castle tower
so far in time from her bridal bower
and instead of those who loved her well,
it was to her a sort of hell
with only servants and guards who gaped and glowered.
And so, she sat, and sometimes she’d spin,
sometimes ponder, or wonder about her sins
(of which she thought there were many
but as with her life, far from ordinary.)
Of late she had begun to tire,
become very cold, even before the fire,
she thought sometimes her husband, her lover,
was there in the night, his spirit would hover
as if to say, soon, though not today
once again, you’ll dance and sway
in my arms—we’ll be together,
it will be like yesterday
when you were young and fair of face,
but you’ll no longer be running in the race,
a few nights later he came for her,
took her hand and opened a door
the glowering servants saw a faint glimmer
that grew bright, then dimmer in the night
and she was gone, to dance in the starlight.
Ford Madox Brown, “Convalescent: Portrait of Emma Madox Brown,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
For Jane Dougherty’s A Month with Yeats Challenge, Day 10.
Today’s quotation:
“And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,”
— W.B. Yeats.
From the cottage window
he watches the winds blow,
scurrying and hurrying
for the day to be through
to turn evening’s dusky violet hue
into the starry indigo of night.
How she had loved that sight,
the clouds dancing in the air
the wispy bits of angel hair
white against the darkening sky.
And still he cried
remembering how she’d died
drifting away at the coming of night-tide.
He’d been there, sitting at her side.
Now weary, burdened with a heavy heart,
wondering what to do or what to start
Then softly he hears her gentle sigh,
and though it waits for no reply,
as the moon hums and the reeds grow dark
he knows she’s there somehow, a spark
in every fox’s bark and singing lark
her spirit roams by house and glen
somewhere, sometime, he’ll see her again.
Edvard Munch, “Starry Night,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
I sometimes write a letter in my head,
“Dear Dad,” I think,
have you heard, did you see, what do you think–
or perhaps a phone call,
like when I called to tell him I was pregnant,
standing in the kitchen of that apartment in Woodbury,
the first floor of a house,
shaded by oak trees,
old enough to have seen
its former glory,
before multiple pairs, young couples
who, like the seasons,
moved in and moved on,
but that day,
door and windows open
the summer
was warm with promise,
(or so I remember it),
nature—and I–bursting with life,
he tried to speak,
but couldn’t,
overcome,
his voice caught,
words tangled in salty threads of joy.
The baby is grown now,
and so is her sister,
they only got to know him for a short while,
he didn’t own a computer,
died before phones were smart,
but I amuse myself imagining him ranting on social media,
calling out the swamp monsters,
and adding heart emojis to photos of children and pets.
“Dear Dad,” I think
I’d love to talk to you again.
Day 16 of NaPoWriMo. The prompt was to write a letter.
Persephone returns, laughs, and the world blooms anew,
yellow-green, pink, and white,
Corn Mother awakens, belly swollen with the seeds of life,
birds sing sweetly as the season turns
till the sky grows dark, crashes, and burns,
the world in flames and children are hungry
The song of ferocious angels lingers in the air
Unchanging, conflicts and battles
besiege the enemy, starve them in ghettos
enslave them, kill them all
(they are not us,
we are not them)
ancient tactics, mad men and fools with their bully cries,
rape the women, grab the prize
the rivers red with blood
The song of ferocious angels lingers in the air
And will it change, and do we care?
you can’t eat gold, or oil,
we can’t live on air
(they are us,
we are them,)
brothers and sisters, children of Earth
The song of ferocious angels lingers in the air
This is for NaPoWriMo: Day 11, a bop poem.
The form is described on the site this way:
“Like a Shakespearean sonnet, it introduces, discusses, and then solves (or fails to solve) a problem. Like a song, it relies on refrains and repetition. In the basic Bop poem, a six-line stanza introduces the problem, and is followed by a one-line refrain. The next, eight-line stanza discusses and develops the problem, and is again followed by the one-line refrain. Then, another six-line stanza resolves or concludes the problem, and is again followed by the refrain. Here’s an example of a Bop poem written by Weaver, and here’s another by the poet Ravi Shankar.”
Kerfe had me thinking of “ferocious angels,” Unfortunately, the rest of the poem is ripped from history and headlines, unless you live in Sean Spicer’s fantasy world.
The flowers bloom upon the hill
and saplings perch beside the rill,
the robin sings his cheery trill,
my love is coming home
The sunlight streams through dappled trees,
chickadee whistles his happy reprise,
baby deer frolics in the gentle breeze,
my love is coming home
From distant shores will come a box
carried across the sea and over rocks,
you’ll rest amid the hollyhocks,
my love is coming home
The drum will play a rat tat tat,
the bugle’s Last Post after that,
somber faces and mourning hats,
my love is coming home
We should have danced a wedding tune,
but you have left me much too soon,
someday we’ll waltz beneath the moon,
my love is coming home
Charles Courtney Curran,” Hollyhocks and Sunlight,” 1902 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
This is for NaPoWriMo, Day 8. The prompt was repetition.
