Monthly Archives: November 2016

time cannot erase love

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I wake – reach for you
mind dreams insist you were there
covers cold as death
hot tea steeps – steam curls question
plump for winter – chickadee

A response to an essay about Ono no Komachi on Lady Nyo’s blog. I have always enjoyed leaving poems as comments. I believe poetry should be a staring point of discussion not the ending as a stiff sculpture in a museum. I want to know what other poets are feeling when they write poems. The connection is what drives my work. I have not written much recently because I have been immersed in fiction. I discovered that I can write fiction when I am doing mostly poetry but not the other way around.

air as crisp as a grilled McIntosh

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Lavender Roaring Fork Clinchfield’s vibrant tangerine and cream ensemble caused some to turn their backs. A quintessential man of the people he had time for everyone, although small town conversations were similar to prickly heat: you endured with gritted teeth. Chromium’s philosophy was simpler: food trumped all. Iron Hollows lay equidistant to all the great bastions of fanatic southern football powers. Only the most rabid would ignore his ecumenical weekly rotation of spirit outfits. They were normally the ones who ranted about faded nostalgic glory. The Tupelo Cemetery was filled with headstones of contrary evidence. Smoke rose above the ridgeline.

The Daily Post prompt
Three Word Wednesday prompt

Authors note: This link Iron Hollows Fiction goes to the “Iron Hollows” category of 100-drabble fiction segments or click each drabble link below. They are not serially linked but rather vignettes set in and around the fictional town of Iron Hollows. I’ll be writing as the Muse moves, there is no time frame on posting and will depend on reader response.

“the legend of the time before”
“along the non-existent waterfront”
“gunpowder explodes, fireworks delight”
“clouds play peek-a-boo with moon”
“homemade gravy for the grits”
“unsuccessful sultry spring seduction”
“where there is snow there are complaints”
“thankfully the tavern had stocked up”

writing throws off sparks

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in prose must delve deep
if my mind had an odor
it would be pungent
on wings of thoughts words fly
out in stinking sentences

The Daily Post prompt

ORIGIN late 16th cent. (in the sense ‘very painful or distressing’): from Latin pungent- ‘pricking,’ from the verb pungere.

Authors note: I am heavily invested in writing fiction at the moment and poetry has been scarce.

plenty of leftovers

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stag
edgy
pauses
open clearing
beckons flat light
late afternoon dark spruces
crowd close fall rut over grasses
frozen beneath gray blanket snowdrifts
impede hooves gusty treetops shed white caps
sunbeam kaleidoscope intense cyclone of flakes
shaggy antlers shake velvet ribbons beneath deep
green cathedrals slender shadows creep hungry pack
gathers red splashes add festive color bold ravens wear
black choir robes musical score accompanies triumphant howls
come spring profuse bright wildflowers carpet rich green growth
decorate
rib cage
calcium
slowly
leaches

For d’Verse the prompt is light-dark in the chiaroscuro style of Caravaggio.

a tribute to Rumi #14

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I mention in my sidebar that Rumi is my favorite poet. I wrote a number of poems in tribute to his longing for the Beloved.

“Present under the tree”

Scent of fir, can one who is blind still smell? What then of my
heart… as it beats, slowly in time to the Word scattered.
Scattered on backdrop of jet, pure white letters, they
are writ in the night sky. By day hidden, hidden from
us and withheld in a fringed purse of softest blue.

How then can I see? When resplendent beams dazzle my
eyes and confuse me?

So much commerce, such a din. How
can you taste God when the feast is so wretched?

You… you there… you have touched me. You have, you cannot deny. Cannot
turn your face from I… I have seen your glory and hope.

I have seen.

Though…

of late, I am weary…
am weary of the present… it seems interminable.

What am I to do?

Tell me!

This soul is part of you, but if I could not see, or hear, or taste, or touch
or smell you,
would then my soul, our souls still be? Illiterate… and unknowing, do
words, our words capture? Or are we
enslaved?

Shadows in the Universe we are, boastful and cruel. How can this be?
What made us this way? Can I not touch? How so, if I cannot touch self?
To be present… at my birth… what a wonderful moment that will be!

No more words, but sweet life, gulping breaths of the headiest draught
when I am free of cares and desires, when I… no longer am I…

but returned

to you.

You, who wait for all.

thankfully the tavern had stocked up

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Lavender Roaring Fork Clinchfield was no uncultured oaf. Despite burdened by a brilliant red snood that dangled past his chin, with consummate skill he directed his minions to control the chaotic atmosphere of the annual Iron Hollows Turkey Trot parade. By Saturday after Thanksgiving the nauseating post-feast lethargy had given way to brash displays of machismo as the costumed menfolk strutted like garish gobblers for their hens, the unimpressed females it could safely be said had with aplomb on Black Friday drained the household accounts quicker than parched corn down the gullet. The pharmacy did a brisk business in antacids.

The Daily Post prompt
Three Word Wednesday prompt

Authors note: This link Iron Hollows Fiction goes to the “Iron Hollows” category of 100-drabble fiction segments or click each drabble link below. They are not serially linked but rather vignettes set in and around the fictional town of Iron Hollows. I’ll be writing as the Muse moves, there is no time frame on posting and will depend on reader response.

“the legend of the time before”
“along the non-existent waterfront”
“gunpowder explodes, fireworks delight”
“clouds play peek-a-boo with moon”
“homemade gravy for the grits”
“unsuccessful sultry spring seduction”
“where there is snow there are complaints”