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

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

& steeps the tongue
with arid bitter

Before space is a crypt
That 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
                       Sirens as the city rips to 
We did nothing to stave off
                       hate &
                       rumors of defense
We stood mute with 
                        no answers           
                        no resolutions

We are already at

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

searching to find what she has lost


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


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


Moon Photography by Alan Friedman


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 ~

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Doodling with words

I doodle on edge of the noodle.   
A flower wears power then snitches on the boy.
The boy walks on paper hat, itchy as a tart.   
Where the clouds slips, I also lip sing aloud.
Latin in Manhattan, English is ticklish, like licorice. 
Maybe I should be eating a strudel instead.
Or canoodling with the whole caboodle. 

Instead I doodle oodles of wiggly lines
Curvy lines, vines, pines and nines
In the center is the sea of peas
Rushing, thrashing, blushing blue
Suffocating the dark is a spark
Grass grows underneath my teeth
Wheat is whey, milk is silky
Playing with words is swaying with birds.   

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Hosted by Bjorn Rudberg ~  A poem with no meaning but relies on sounds.

Picture credit:   here

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

If I were

If I were a word, I'll be always at the tip of your tongue

Warm as ripe red plums
On autumn season

Or perhaps melting ice cube
On summer night

If I were a word, I'll keep your memories as keys

Blazing as flames
On long cold winters

There will be no betrayals
As every seed will rise on first day of spring

If I were a word, I'll map the flight of geese & butterflies

Turning out of sight
To where the sun rides a unicycle over the blue ocean

If I were a word, I will boldly travel with my eyes closed
Forget gravity, fear & making mistakes

Listen to chatter of hummingbirds 
Billow where the wind goes

Towards you
Of infinite possibilities

Posted for:   Poetry Jam - If I Were
and Poets United Mid Week Motif - Exploring

Saturday, October 4, 2014

October rust

I am restless tonight while shadows are obsessed with shape of the lamp.

The moon wears raven mask and comes into my room with glass of water.

She sits and reads the book while 
I bury my emptiness in a lacquered box.

Language arrives with new set of colours - wheat, rust and nest of bones.  

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - 55 Words
and Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~

Friday, October 3, 2014

Shadows & light in the deepest cave

layer upon layer 
pearls grow white-cancer
boning every space
left empty by sea, and you

here, my words are granite


what the light touches
what the soil breathes under cave
become seed, forest
greening grey stones, every hurts-

here, my heart is a bird song

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Hannah's Challenge