I submit most months to Visual Verse, and have had many poems published (thank you!). But some I like better than others. This month’s poem, “Night Journey”, is one of them. You can read it here.
My poem “passages”, written to Jo Zider’s artwork, is also up at The Ekphrastic Review. My thanks to guest editor Sandi Stromberg, and to Lorette C. Luzajic for her continued support. You can read it here.
I think the poems complement each other. Which only highlights how I return to the same themes again and again…
I am aged, but still raw, uncooked, unfinished. I steep myself in cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, preparing for winter. But still I fail to render more than a rough uncertain embodiment of what will satiate my continued thirst. For what? With what mural of flavor do I wish to paint the days, the seasons, the years?
I never expected to find the perfect recipe—only to be somewhat clarified. Not cured, but blended into the essences of a Tuscan sunset, infused with the richness of the bouquet of approaching night.
waiting for the moon– new, it opens the cosmos– full, it whispers “time”
A haibun for Merril’s dVerse prompt of spices. The grids are from a 100-day project I did in 2015 combining colors and grids. In my final post for the project, I included some quotes from poet Sara C. Harwell. This one seems eerily prescient of what I wrote today.
It looks like a painting by someone I can’t remember. How have I reached the point, is it age? When the sky resembles a painting more than the sky?
Snowfall. Night. The shore is distant. I dream of flying—but I remain enclosed within ice blue, glittering.
North seems far– where I am has no direction. The landscape retreats until almost all is trapped within dreams.
Barren seas echo with silence. The world cracks. Wind weeps in side chasms of solitude– the melting of time.
Sherry’s heartbreaking photo, above, that accompanied her prompt at earthweal to talk about the connections between life and the melting ice of the arctic, inspired the dreamscape of my shadorma chain, written also for Colleen’s #TankaTuesday, where Jules selected shadorma as this month’s form.
They had collapsed into an empty cave of nowness, replacing a past of empyrean wonder with the unceasing presence of burning flesh, condemning the contagious and aliferous joy of birds to smoke-filled air hanging heavy over stone landscapes that had lost all green. What they called life, the promise of continuity, was at an impasse.
They had forgotten to build an ark.
They had forgotten to build an ark, and so they were left standing between a raging wall of flame and an infestation of endlessly rising waters. A fierce susurrus rose from the spirits of the ancestors–an oddly wordless murmur riding on the howling wind, carrying the silent but distinct rattle of bones.
what happens when where we were going is gone?–crows seize the winter sky
For earthweal, where Brendan asked us to fill your poem’s sails with a blast of something akin to the hurl of atmospheric plumes, and dVerse, where Mish has given us a list of uncommon words to incorporate in our poem. I’ve also taken inspiration from Jane’s Oracle 2 wordlist.
I collect myself and all my possessions, worn and piled up beneath the light of the ragged waning moon. Too late says the night, it’s too late. Too many calamities to count.A summoning will not suffice.Too few doors stretch open. Too many openings shrink closed. To the weight of the world I say: Give me hope for a reprieve. Mercy. I’m in need of unburdening. Forgiveness. To be free.
A golden shovel poem for the W3 prompt, using this line from David’s prompt poem: Worn ragged, it’s a stretch to say I’m free.