Forest Dream: Magnetic Poetry

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.

 

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Why Did I Flee?

“The world that used to nurse us

now keeps shouting insane instructions.

That’s why I ran to the woods.”

~ Jim Harrison from Songs of Unreason

 

You wonder why I fled?

Well, what was left?

 

I ran to the woods,

thinking I could be Thoreau

just go–

you know?

Escape the insanity,

the inanity of the world

where insults are hurled

at the weak

and those who can’t speak

for themselves

when life is bleak.

Then I dreamt I had a dream–

well, it seemed

to make sense at the time,

full of poetry and rhymes

I don’t remember,

but wish I could.

So, I decided to leave the woods.

I hiked a new trail out of there—

ignoring the signs that warned, “Beware!”

Why did I flee?

I suppose I just needed to see

what is and was and what could be.

 

Ivan Shiskin, “Forest,” [Public Domain] Wikipedia Commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is for Day 22 of Jilly’s 28 Days of Unreason, poetry based on the poetry and work of Jim Harrison.

The Magical Spring Night, NaPoWriMo, Day 8

Once–

or more

(perhaps a dream that’s come before)

in the silver-glimmered light

the owl soared—

flash of white–

her cry echoing

(echoing)

in the night,

waking the sleeping to the tune

of the luminous, waxing, humming moon—

 

and so, they prance, dance–

as if in a trance

(or maybe not)

they mark their spots,

perhaps a play

to keep the evil ones at bay

like foxes against the hounds–

they stand their ground

 

Final stand?

Here–

 

hear

the sounds

the susurrus of this enchanted ground

magic swirls,

unfurls in unsuspected streams–

unless seen within a dream–

but in the rose-tipped dawn

the golden fawns gambol

on a world pristine,

alive,

breathing,

reborn newly green.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I liked today’s NaNoWriMo prompt—to “write poems in which mysterious and magical things occur.”

 

 

 

 

 

A Day in the Forest: Yeats Challenge

I didn’t get my Yeats Challenge post up yesterday, so here’s Day Sixteen. I’m also linking it to Dverse’s Open Link Night.  

Jane chose this quotation for Day Sixteen:

“Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns?”—W.B. Yeats

 

At dawn the robin sings to greet the coming of the day,

the sun rises then in golden glow to brightly light the way,

across the sky, excited geese soar high in V formation

honking directions and chattering in winged conversations.

 

Young lovers meander in noontime explorations,

declaring their love in breathless exclamations,

taking breaks from work or school for this, a secret tryst,

holding hands, then coming closer, sharing their first kiss.

 

Later, the young white deer gambols in the gloaming

still young without his horns, carefree in his roaming,

but never too far does he wander from his mother’s side

bleating to her when he is scared, listening for her replies.

 

The owl spreads her wings, takes flight in the blackness of the night

she hoots from a branch to tell her mate that everything is right,

nocturnal creatures flit and scurry under the humming moon,

and in an upstairs room, we sleep, dreaming to the tune.

 

Franz_Marc_-_Deer_in_the_Forest_I_-_Google_Art_Project

Franz Marc, “Deer in the Forest,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons