Peacock prisms angle through window cracks
making visible. Sills warm and silence bows
the wizened damp mumbles cold won’t thaw, once
cold won’t thaw, won’t thaw won’t thaw–
One sock’s soulmate is in shavasana under the table,
children’s chirping artwork is mute. I feel visible
playing mash-ups with my coffee grinder
and Rossini’s William Tell. There are calls for prayer:
his father’s heart surgery, their grandmother’s hospice.
Leaving December behind, their mysteries hold us
steadily naked trees homing barely dressed sparrows,
our own invisibility looking to be seen.
Mangelwurzel’s dark perfume escapes
the hedge’s pulse, earth’s groin
feeds least bloody of the beets to
livestock from winter perfect palms.
Across the field, a golden maple bonsais
the dead center of a sawed-off tree,
denies its peril, forgets its crimson
tips, its wetted cardboard brown
and supple twigs turned brittle bone.
The optometrist told me
I have distance vision to die for.
Limpid speckles in an eagle’s aerie,
the fine pin feathers on a molting gull. I see
dead grandmothers at births, and long lost
lovers in the etheric field.
She said my life depends on
sharpening the details with a lens.
Needle-thread stitchery, black inked
ingredients on the vitamin vial, dust mites
in the down comforter, and old fir’s splinter
underneath my thumbnail.
I watched a high rock gull on statue stilt legs
wear nothing but feathers and rain. Thunder
grumbled around us and his winter-white plume
shone bright-faced in the mess of sky. Unblinking,
he watched storm’s beginning to end,
and saw its entirety through the individual drips.
Poet Joe Hesch at dVersepub asked writers how we capture poetry. This one was captured in parts: jotted on a business card in the parking lot outside the optometrist’s office, and spoken into my ipod while running along the shore. The better part of the writing was spent at my computer.. joggling words and lines around until the topic became more clear. I hope to be out and about reading poetry later in the day. Cheers, poets! I always enjoy knowing I am not in this alone.
A small grey breast fatigued, a beak
the shroud of song, a pulse
at fail to wanting wings whose
tail tips pinstripe her gratified tongue.
It is her offering. Here, she seems to say
with wide eyes and full maw, this
still warm beauty, this kill, this skill hunted,
this sublime vignette is for you.
I feel wild for a moment, hungry
watching a single downy feather
lift with the passing breeze.
Linked to DVersePoetsPub w/ Tony Maude. After reading Tony’s prompt, I lopped the first stanza off of a poem I posted yesterday. The first lines contain technical information, and I wonder how it reads without them. I’d love to hear your feedback. Try not to read the first 7 comments as they give too much info. Cheers, poets! I am headed out to your blogs.
The call of the wild
in the skin of a lion.
in the flesh
stalking the wild asparagus,
the woman in the moon
out stealing horses.
A poem created using book titles as the lines (and poem title) Check out the other Spine-Poetry @ Dverse where Samuel Peralta of Semaphore offered a prompt I couldn’t refuse. In order beginning with the title, I used works by: Annie Proulx, Jack London, Michael Ondaatji, Charles Bukowski, Clive Barker, Euell Gibbons, James Riordan, and Per Petterson.
a warm panther lifted me in her teeth,
carried me upward the rock face’s jut
and dropped me cool on the white tile floor
to somewhere else.
her golden eyes and mine–
sticky palms and small wet dimes.
We watched the shredded sky
laboring towards dusk and lowlands
rolling patiently under tractor greens.
she was lying in a pool of chestnut red, a pool
half-dried, half-still. How could I lift her
silent spine and opened-eyed, as she for me
to somewhere else?
bleed the planet
for ancient wisdom,
orbs, and discern volition
in the faces of strangers, but
the orchids and jades needed water
and the children were hungry for breakfast.
At Imaginary Garden for Read Toads, Hedgewitch of Verse Escape introduced a form called The Etheree: an unrhymed, syllable-counting form with 10 lines. Each line has the same syllabic count as its place in the form. For example: line one has one syllable, line two has two syllables, line ten has ten syllables… you get the picture.
I’m also linking this odd little poem to Dverse poetspub where the wonderful Karin Gustafson of Manicddaily has us contemplating water.