among the purple heather

among the purple s

solitude
unwinding beneath
meandering
skies, layers
circling back on themselves, cross
currented by wind–

trees sweep leaves
into shapes–shivered,
spilled over
edges, cast
shadowed with spirits holding
earth connecting air

scattering
blossomed voices—bells
calling words
into breath,
into dances that whisper
sanctuary—“come”

For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above.

I recently came across a video that talked about asemic writing, and using it as a prompt for extracting poetry from your unintellible scribbles. I decided to use Sue’s photo as a guide for my asemic composition, first using fine point markers in colors that echoed the landscape.  I then freewrote what I thought my marks were trying to say.

among the purple ansemic s

After that I took watercolor pencils, dipped them in water, and wrote asemically again over the markers, blurring both.  I looked at what I had written in my initial response, extracted some of the ideas, and formed them into a shadorma chain to go with the final composition.

among the purple close up s

 

When I saw Sue’s photo, the first thing I thought of was the traditional Scottish song “Wild Mountain Thyme”.  Joan Baez did a famous version, but I think the one I remember most from my youth is by the Byrds.  It’s been covered and reinterpreted by artists as varied as Van Morrison, the Clancy Brothers, and Ed Sheeran.  I listened to a lot of them, but I really like this one by Kate Rusby.

among the purple ansemic close up s

on the sands of time

on the sands s

on the sands of time

A found poem from Longfellow’s “A Psalm of Life”, the theme suggested by Pat R. for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday.  I’ve constructed a shadorma with the help of the Collage Oracle.

“…Lives of great men all remind us
   We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
   Footprints on the sands of time…”

on the sands close up s

be not like
time—fleeting, mournful,
pursuing
fate—within
each bivouac is a dream–
heart sailing the soul

not crows,

not crows s

she said, but
count them, count them and
remember
what has not
yet been dreamed—what follows each
silhouette–

a breath that
removes what is not
required, keeps
what fills need
and refills it whenever
it becomes empty—

spellcast in
air, each wing gathers
force, compressed
like secrets–
talismans numbered and tossed
waiting for the wind

For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above, and also posted to earthweal open link weekend.

not crows close up s

 

In Praise of Ecology

trees s

calling all the names–
circles of words and being
woven into life

branches comp s

I greet the oak, the way
its branches frame the sky–
morning and evening
preserving the winter light
holding as shadows
the imprints of birds.

Listen:  they begin
the day—robins and blue jays
emerging from the cacophony
of sparrows and starlings–
and here again—my constant
companion, Crow.

We name our streets
after the trees that once stood
there:  elm, walnut, pine, maple,
chestnut, cedar, oak.  I wonder at
the words, now only images,
memories of  a lost inheritance.

Once landmark and shelter,
the empty vertices wait–
listening for the bearers
of seeds to refill
the gaps that echo barren
now, seeking new songs.

trees close up s

For earthweal where Sherry asks us to write love songs to mother earth.

we tell the same story again and again

the same stories s

Is this
what we say when
words cross, intersect with
essence?  What point is created?
is it

an end,
a beginning
meeting as paradox,
the sum we call zero?  Nothing
happens

and yet
everything is–
a birth peeling off time
into all possibilities–
is it

the moon
reflecting sun,
breath and sky dissolving
layer by layer?  Finally
the sea

returns
the well-worn path
as a mercurial
map, constantly rearranging
the bones.

Is this
a beginning,
a birth peeling off time
layer by layer?  Finally,
the bones.

the same stories close up s

Colleen challenged us to write a garland cinquain for her Tanka Tuesday prompt.  I’ve used synonyms for the words provided this week by Linda Lee Lyberg, nimble and enigma.

I do seem to tell the same story over and over again.  But perhaps I’m getting a bit better at it.

(‘fore) casted

forecast s

attention
wanders, feet moving
by rote, the
mind busy
with itself—unaware of
color sound or sky—

dark spots on
the sidewalk—rain wakes
me from an
already
forgotten reverie–like
Crow calling my name

forecast close up s

A shadorma pair for Colleen’s #tanka Tuesday, poet’s choice of words, inspired by the dVerse word provided by Sarah, rain.

 

the way out is also the way in

the way out s

a journey far from home
outside of existence
filled with voices
containing only silence

outside of existence
the mirror turns away
containing only silence
the echoes of opening

the mirror turns away
reflected in portals
the echoes of opening
where time remains lost

reflected in portals
held in absentia
all time remains lost
until the stars sing

held in absentia
amid the unexplained
until the stars sing
souls crossing over

amid the unexplained
filled with voices
souls crossing over
a journey returning home

the way out close up 1s

Another pantoum.  Ammol at dVerse asks us to consider portals.

the way out close up 2s