When Winter Goes and Spring Arrives

• 

  Marc Chagall, Blue Fiddler

She hums with cool beauty,
her whispered notes a silver stream
where trout-stars swim, or so I dream–

roof-fiddler in sky-blue; red-dawn’s flight
through charcoal-grey, the sight
of honeyed light

as winter goes, and now–
flowers color-pop their petal-heads, stand
to say hello

For Quadrille Monday at dVerse, where De asks us to use some form of the word go in a poem of 44 words.

The Brilliant Blush, and the Stars

The brilliant blush—

fire dancing and

 

the sky warms,

Ghost remembers this—

 

morning and joy

here awakened

 

in champagne clouds

breathing ocean air

 

I was like you—

so young–

 

haunted and not—

the sad slow whens–

 

but sail on

looking at the stars

 

embracing eternity,

almost

I had to get a message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle before really getting started with my day.  But you can see that sometimes I do it in stages.  🙂

 

Almost Summer When the Mockingbird Sang

I’m not quite sure of the difference between a cleave poem and a contrapuntal poem, but this is one or the other. It’s for Jilly’s Days of Unreason, Day 1 based on this quote from Jim Harrison.

“Spring day, too loud for talk
when bones tire of their flesh”

 

Spring day, almost summer               when the mockingbird sang

when the air was heavy                       warning of threats—or promise

too tired to sigh                                   seeking an answer

in fragrant breezes                               in curtained windows

but letting go finally                            as the rain fell

whispering, then shouting                   beating a tattoo

calling children to skip and jump       into rainbow puddles

 

 

 

Spring Magic: Tanka Tuesday

She dreams of springtime

sunshine kissing seeds and buds,

a season of hope

ensorcells her once again

to drift with cherry blossoms

 

John William Waterhouse, “Windswept,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

 

This is for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday—using synonyms of charm and time.

Is it, Was it, Ever Thus?

Show me the beauty

beneath mist a thousand pictures,

in shadow whispers

time’s music urges, please

recall when,

and if—

was it so

or no?

 

 

Claude Monet, “Waterloo Bridge, Effect of Fog,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

 

The Oracle was being coy today. It took me a few attempts to coax anything from her, and then apparently she looked outside my window to see the misty day.