One step forward, round and round, the labyrinth circles. Go? Or stay in the in-between? Are answers found when past finds future? Which is the way?
The labyrinth circles—go or stay? I’m a shadow figure lost in blues, when past finds future. Which is the way? Where should I go? Where are the clues?
I’m a shadow figure lost in blues, within my mind-forest, I search in dreams– where should I go? Where are the clues– nothing here is as it seems—
in the in-between. Are answers found within my mind-forest? I search in dreams– but nothing here is as it seems– just one step forward, round and round.
I’ve revised this pantoum originally written in April for Paul Brooke’s Ekphrastic Challenge inspired by the above artwork by Kerfe Roig and Jane Cornwell. I’m linking this post to dVerse Open Link Night. Live today!
Do we ever truly get over such events? War, death, destruction—the thousands of ways humans hurt each other and the Earth? As Nighthawk I had to be cool and calm. It wasn’t only my life at risk, but the lives of many others, too. I had to be calm when the man with shiny black boots and a cruel face entered the restaurant. I had to keep my face blank when the officious manager met with him, and then declared, “So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.” Calmly, I smiled at our oppressors, poured drinks, and served food while residents starved. Calmly, I plotted to destroy them–until the night you didn’t show up.
I still have nightmares.
Prosery for Ingrid’s prompt at dVerse, using the line “So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm” from William Blake’s The Chimney Sweeper. This is a continuation of my non-linear spy tale.
The night breathed hope, or was it wrong of me to think the moon hummed tunes for us alone. We left, or fled, or magic-led, to see new worlds across the sea—we’d be unknown. But will the stars so brightly shine beyond world’s edge? And will the air smell sweeter there? And to the sun, will bright-hued birds respond in raucous song? Or must we not compare, new worlds to old? So bold we go—somewhere.
This is for dVerse, where Laura has asked us to write a noveline, a poetic form invented by Sarah Rayburn inspired by the Spenserian sonnet. You can find more details about the form and the prompt here. I may continue this one at another time.
The wind whispers, storms over river dreams, the river seems awake and wild, shimmering—riled by ancient breath or humming moon.
The wind whispers, storms— too soon the blue, the hue of water-sky. So high the ospreys fly through shifting clouds, the rustling loud
as the wind whispers, storms, through trees, bent but proud. The squirrels chitter, the deer skitter, while blue becomes slate grey–
they hide or stay. The wind whispers storms, but the sun, bright-rayed comes out to play.
And the wind whispers, the storms have gone away.
Ingrid is doing a dVerse prompt on oral poetry. I’m not sure that I did it exactly. I often read my poetry out loud and adjust it. This is not the best recording, but here it is. 😀 I finally figured out how to post it here.
How would I tell you— the beauty of the morning sky, the bird-swept clouds, the hummed goodbye of moon still high
there, my eyes reflect the shine. To be or not, is not my question–here I am, not angsty youth, but rather longer in the tooth—
how would I explain, how the colors fill me with joy and light— grey or bright, the taste, the sight tawny gold, rose, and peach, the foamy white of churning waves? The winter river’s cool mint blue? The delight
of it–me and you.
My thoughts—my mind’s eye– how do I explain? There is no why— only what is the beauty of the sky, the light, the birds in flight
winging, singing star-breathed dreams, the colored streams web-woven in my head, released someday to fly in iridescent blues and greens—peacock-eyed— around the sun, then seeded in the ground–
how would I tell you any of this– thoughts, if not profound, yet unbound—the bliss.
This is the kind of stuff that goes through my head, so I guess it can be considered a soliloquy for Victoria’s prompt at dVerse.
The earth murmurs ancient heart-songs. Hear them in root-rush and rock-rhythms tapped by sea-spray rainbows. The eagle’s whistle slices the peached-tipped clouds– life and death balanced. Hand-in-hand, we watch the light glide through love-grief fault lines, as the ghosts dance at the river’s edge.
A quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words) for dVerse where De asks us to use the word heart. I could have gone in so many directions!
Is it realistic to believe I can think like Nighthawk again? The war is over, and I’m a different person now. I stare at my reflection in the river–it’s me, but these clouds are clearly foreign. Such an exotic clutter against the blue cloth of the sky doesn’t happen anywhere else. I’ve tried to forget the beauty, along with the horror.
But the memory of that day insists on surfacing. That day–when the sun shone in the azure sky dotted with cotton balls, and sunflowers reached up for honeyed streams of golden light. We made love and scraped together some scraps for a meager meal. We thought it a feast, washed down with some local wine we had found in the shed. Oh, Paul! If only we had had more days like that. If only that safe house had truly been safe.
I’m continuing with my story of wartime spies for dVerse, where I’m hosting Prosery today. I should mention that anyone can participate in any dVerse prompt, as long as you can post a link in the Linky. This Thursday will be Open Link Night–live.
The lines I’ve selected for today’s prompt: “But these clouds are clearly foreign, such an exotic clutter Against the blue cloth of the sky” –from “Clouds” by Constance Urdang