Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Rosebush, thin


bowed head, she is 
an old woman sinking to herself:  
thorns, stems, hips, perfume-
her bony fingers grasp
tight the last brown-burnt leaf

the soil is hard
stone-bed, mulched  
with twigs & pitted-black petals
milk-dust snow is a knife 
paring her delicate neck

the carbon air thins
hour by hour
knotting each pulse to static 
until only the roots
remain, meager as beggar's cup






My roses during springtime


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Make the abstract concrete ~  Hosted by Marina ~

I am writing less these days because I have to study for my upcoming exams ~  Thanks for dropping by ~

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Grant me my day





I search for myself
not
among the fallen leaves
black
bruised on rain-silted path

But
in stillness of afternoon sun
yellowing
the field, a river serene
sloped
to all echoes of passing birds

Here,
death is the smell of wood
here
earth is red nest, spaded deep with
fossils

Grant me my day
bending
to sip water from the sky
rocks
grass, sleeping trees, depths of
myself



Title inspired by Salvatore Quasimodo (in part):


Grant Me My Day

(Dammi il mio giorno)

Grant me my day;
so I might yet search myself
for some dormant face of the years
that a hollow of water
returns in its transparency
and weep for love of myself.



Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Sunday's Mini-challenge:    Salvatore Quasimodo and Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

The dead man's journal

Grace @ Everyday Amazing


The dead man sits on wooden bench, rained with fallen leaves.
He marvels how sky light ripples the leaves
to cantaloupe gold, to dusky orange, to flaming red.
How the colors speak to him:
music interlude, flare of sunset, smell of overripe fruits-
Today, right now
pierces his numbed bones
as if his skin is made of a thousand dragonfly wings.

He gets a small jar to capture the air & scent of autumn.
He wants to slice & label 
Today, right now
With BIG, BOLD letters.
But the night wind is faster
sweeping leaves to decay & rot, 
wrapping them with glaze of first snowdrop-

Even now
time does not stop nor linger
Even though tomorrow means nothing
to the dead man now  
He feels the weight of his feet, moving as caterpillar
during last of summer nights:   voracious, hungry 
for every leaf, for every color shading the grass

He pens in his journal:  
Today I am hungry
and I have never felt so alive




Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - We are getting inspiration from The Book of Dead Man by Marvin Bell ~  Thanks for the visit ~

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Nightingale


By Fire Painter, Steve Spazuk


To fire painter

Draw me out of flames
Smoke streaking the air
Where there is darkness
Let your feather brush silvers

From out of soot & toxic air
Move your hand 
Etching my face, bones
To life until I am a bird

Singing at night 
Free of poisoned chemicals
Warbling of joy
To gentle moon



Note:  Steve Spazuk works are a reaction to the heavy use of pesticides in North America and the consequential poisoning of insect-eating birds.

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - 55 Words - Hosted by MamaZen
Shared with Poets United

Thursday, October 30, 2014

One maple leaf


Grace @ Everyday Amazing



a leaf falls
into a bed of leaves
bruised-black, yellow-starched, pressed
wet on the city’s ground

perhaps one more leaf
will not matter to the harried pedestrians
or window cleaners high up on the buildings

perhaps it will only matter
to the street sweeper or the corner beggar
where 1 is more than a number
chalked on graffiti-broken walls  

I pick a red leaf  
on my palm it is flaming:
a dragon’s wing, a shooting star, a beating
heart

above the buildings, 
our one red mapled-flag is flaring in the wind
it is raised in half-mast this week in respect
to two fallen soldiers  

red poppies will soon adorn our lapels.
I am grateful for this autumn sky, brushing
every single fallen leaf
with its glorious soul-print, loyal & true      


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Weapons for War


Picture credit:   Colossal

Before war
is the war
                      of words

That burns our mind
That changes our faces to birds 
                      of darkness

Before air
convulses to
                      smoke

& steeps the tongue
with arid bitter
                      stones                    

Before space is a crypt
That strikes &
                      strikes

Until all the sky is fireball 
Until all the land is wasted ash

There is you & i
At opposite sides of
                      grain fields 

We hide snakes & poison 
under our cloaks 
                     
We tally hate & splintered bones 
And boast of treasures 
as if its our right
as if its our prize 

Under the wind-broken tree,
We put on our costume & war paint
choosing our weapons carefully

We create our theater & drama:
                       Sounds of men dying
                       slow
                       Sirens as the city rips to 
                       craters  
We did nothing to stave off
                       hate &
                       rumors of defense
We stood mute with 
                        no answers           
                        no resolutions

We are already at
                        war


Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub - We are talking of war ~  Hosted by Gabriella ~

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Voyage of lost souls


The path of Lost Souls
Photography:   Brooke Shaden


in the dead of winter season
you build a trail
of paper boats
beside the dock of black ships

at night, when all is still
you set them sailing towards western sky
where the red moon waits

to run its silver-blue fingers
across its bows, like a violin player
threading silk strings with sweet air
of oblivion

i pause and watch you
waiting by Lethe, underworld river
this is your ritual
disguising tricks with musical flair
to tempt & slaughter my energy


under my red veil, 
i conceal my remaining possessions:
witch hazel oil, fire wand
& finally, my mother's crescent -shaped knife
which your rustic hands will gladly pay
for a feast
of my sacrifices


i have given up many things for this voyage - 
      my innocence to discover names of every truth
      my roots to hold one forbidden fruit   
      & taste its skin & seeds, for myself 

and i will not be deterred even if 
you say that I am  
      on the path of lost souls
      cusp between earth's deepest divide:  shadow & light
      a ghost on long dusty road
wind-struck,

searching to find what she has lost

irretrievably 




Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - Hosted by Brian Miller
And Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Get Listed for October - Ghost Stories

We are to used at least 3 words  from the wordlist from M:
fairy, portal, sacrifice, feast, smoke, winter, slaughter, spirit, veil, ritual, trick, disguise

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

In the heat of local elections


Photography:   Joel Robison


We are pawns in this political game
moving to & fro, invisible faces
spinning left & right, our voices tamed

We are strings pulled by media blame  
running up & down, an endless chase   
Because we are pawns in this political game

We work dawn to night, trading our name
For grey, no black & white pieces
spinning left to right, our voices tamed

By street banners, which all look the same
We sweep aside real issues under the table  
Because we are pawns in this political game

Marching to orders, we claim
we are happy to live in this rich city, a place,          
spinning neither left nor right, our voices tamed

Tell me, black bird
which way is the voting booth ?
I am just a pawn in this political game
spinning round & round, my voice tamed




Posted for D'verse Poets Pub -  We are talking about news ~  Hosted by Mary ~ Thanks for the visit ~

Sunday, October 19, 2014

The Mysterious Incident of Salmon during Autumn-time


October, Annual Sockeye Salmon Run, Adam's River, BC Canada 


This river is our primal mother
She beckons to us every year to spawn 
from Pacific Ocean, we hear her call like no other

We swim upstream against the swift waters
circling mountains to age-old forests drawn
by this river, she is our primal mother

Here, the mule deers & black bears wander 
Here, bald eagles & ospreys fly high, we return
from Pacific Ocean, we hear her call like no other

Coloring our skin red & roboust as summer
Into her arms, we lay down our heads come dawn
This river is our primal mother

She, who nourishes our offspring under
wise eyes of cottonwood trees.  She, whom we lean on-
from Pacific Ocean, we hear her call like no other

Gathered in one kinship, my brothers & sisters
hear the same natal beat pushing us on 
To this river, our primal mother
from Pacific Ocean, we hear her call like no other


The Adams River run occurs every year, but every fourth year (called a "dominant" year), the numbers are much higher. 2010 was the most recent dominant run. According to Canada's Department of Fisheries and Oceans, the Fraser River sockeye run of 2010 was the largest since 1913, numbering an estimated 34 million fish.

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Mini-Challenge by Kerry - In other words
and Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~ 

Photo credit:   here

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Sun, moon


Sun Photography by Alan Friedman

Sun


Star, you're the faithful one
stirring our eyes to fire
shaping seeds to ripe fruits.
Speak to us as a sage: 
steadfast, calm, so we may
swaddle your heat through each
sky storm splitting the land

~0~0~0~~




Moon Photography by Alan Friedman


Moon

Moon, cast your magic spell-
moonshine above the trees
milk pearled, dreamt  by poets
marveling you. Some nights 
myth turns you to a monk
meandering the space 
muting the sky, stone grey.    




Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Pleiades - Thanks to Vandana Sharma for guest hosting ~