Marinating

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?

–Sarah C. Harwell, “Cloud Cover”

No Harbor

impossible to recall
exactly how it began
within disconnected walls
of days too narrow, thin

exactly how it began–
no entrance, no way out
of days too narrow, thin–
like land-encrusted boats

no entrance, no way out–
unplaced and yet confined
like land-encrusted boats–
this fog inside my mind

unplaced and yet confined,
an echo on repeat–
like fog inside my mind,
these lines that never meet

an echo on repeat
within disconnected walls–
these lines that never meet–
impossible to recall

A pantoum, inspired by the paintings of Lee Madgwick, which were provided by Sarah at dVerse. The pantoum form is for the W3 prompt, where Aditi asks for something dreamlike.

Crow on the Cradle

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.

Intervaled

The sea gathers me in, keeps me between, a creature of neither water nor land, held forever inside spirals of moontides, echoing back into what is neither mine nor self.

Around and around the waves spin me along the path of an immense Möbius loop.  I oscillate on the edge, barely there, beyond human sensing.

Deeper, extended, enhanced.  I am in need of rendering.  I am in need of being opened until the stars wrap around my core, untill all of me is whispered into music like light.

I absorb the flickering of images—felt but unseen, channeled within each breath, ungraspable.  Always this interpolation, this blurring of what lies beyond as it merges into the finity of my body.  Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings me into the place where my boundaries fall into the cosmic abyss.

For the dVerse prosery where Lisa has given us a quote from Oliver Wendell Holmes:

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—
–from The Chambered Nautilus

The art is courtesy of various prompts from the Kick-About.

Night Magic

If I could see horizon’s light at first dawn,
Venus would greet me shining up the rising
sun.  But I live in darkness, almost-full moon
suffused with secrets, luminous, surprising
me–reflecting through my window, later, soon–
casting shadowed leaves that shift, mesmerizing,
absorbed in Van Morrison’s musical dance–
hazy as to borderlines, transformed, entranced.
Perhaps Diana orbits inside my dreams–
I almost catch her in the wavering beams–
and following the fragments, drift—caught between.

An eleventh power poem for the prompt offered by Grace for the dVerse 11th anniversary celebration, also in answer to this week’s W3 challenge, a response to Steven S. Wallace and his poem “Oh Luna” that contains three proper nouns.

It’s not October, but we can still dance.

animated

I fold my
questions into cranes
and send them
flying on
the wind—what hands will catch them,
pull them down, greet them,

unjumble
and complete their dreams?
wide, deep, clear,
cast to sky,
they celebrate–streams of stars
danced in waves of moon

A shadorma quadrille for Merril’s prompt of celebration at dVerse. I also used the words she generated from Oracle II. Above is the almost-full moon shining through my window last night.

this land (the other)

but there is always another side–
the one that is in our face seems real
because we see it—the details,
the form of its existence–
but what of the side we do not see,
what of the one that looks
in a different direction?  the one not
evident, not the same?  the one
we must be careful not to leave behind?

As usual, Brendan at earthweal gave me a lot to think about in this week’s challenge post. His question–What does it meant to be open, unbounded, united and free in an enclosed world?–made me immediately think of this verse Woody Guthrie wrote in “This Land is Your Land”.

As I went walking I saw a sign there
And on the sign it said “No Trespassing”
But on the other side it didn’t say nothing
That side was made for you and me

which was the inspiration for my poem.

The late great Sharon Jones sings it like it is.

Also linking to dVerse OLN, hosted by Ingrid.

Random List

Waylaid by words
that didn’t seem to
belong to anyone
or anything—animal
vegetable or mineral?

I sang madly,
shamelessly, attempting
to distract myself
with volcanic praise—

What is this blue substance?
I wondered, discreetly
floating beyond all
awareness, and spelling
each watery sound.

Merril’s randomly generated wordlist is entirely to blame for this quadrille containing the word given to us by Sanaa at dVerse, spell.

Sometimes words are just riddles.

Being

Before me the world is clarified
by a luminosity that consolidates
all presence into chords of stillness.  What
song would this landscape sing?

Just a little green–
color disappears into the air, glimmers in
still lines across the meadow.

Like the color when the spring is born
the quiet is dizzying, embracing.  All is solitary,
complete.  Waiting.  For what?

The nights when the Northern lights perform
the hour is transfixed inside a secret whisper of
pulsing breath.  An alternate world,
muted, mysterious, not quite real.

And sometimes there’ll be sorrow—shrouded
in uncertainty, time has lost its focus.  The land is
primordial, inscribed with a narrative
that has no translation into any language
we are capable of understanding.

Just a little green—a vessel
immersed in air, from the bottom up

earthwalkers–
exchanging wonder
there will be

italicized lines are from Joni Mitchell’s song Little Green

Carl Zimmermann, Deer in a Summer Meadow

Merril supplied five paintings as ekphrastic summer inspiration at dVerse this week. I chose Carl Zimmerman’s painting, above. Since I’m late, I’m posting on OLN, hosted by Bjorn.

Also linking to earthweal, where Sherry supplied the prompt of dreaming in green. A good color to dream in.