Complications sour the air. It sits heavy like a rock, immense and expanding. I am pinned to the low and the unbending, hard consonants without vowels.
This place reeks of precarious edges and uncertain lines. I am starved for words. The familiar has become unreadable, untold. Noises have become forms that weave themselves into a motionless net around each ungathered piece of what might pass for sanity. I grow continuously neither better nor worse.
I do not remember what I asked of the universe, the cosmic spirits that randomly move the pieces of my life, that giveth sometimes but often only taketh away.
O yes, their ways are mysterious. Blood and Violence merging into Just The Way Things Are.
If it’s darkness we’re having, let it be extravagant, deeper, emptier, more ravening than their insatiable hunger.
Let them dine alone—I will swallow myself
Victoria at dVerse has given us words from poet Jane Kenyon
If it’s darkness
we’re having, let it be extravagant.
for this week’s prosery, a 144 word composition.
I am also linking to The Myths of the Mirror November Writing Challenge–a non-human point of view.
constellating through trees
lying down and looking up
at my innervisions
shouting with the wind
carried by currents
that refuse to cohere
wrapping my head
around the sky
nothing sticks to me
as shadowless as
the inside of night
For the dVerse prompt from Sarah, creating character through what they sense (with a nod to the seasonal celebrations)
I’m not quite sure where this came from but, as always, the Oracle tells me what I need to hear.
Dreaming the mind into song
spirit finds blue light,
joins soaring voices sounding on wings–
Can I believe my luck?
The river dances away the tears
as time reflects music
laughing through the sacred language
I’m a bit late to the Oracle today. She can feel fall in the air too.
summer sleeps beneath red suns
as moons still the wind
with blue light
the day dreams of spring
dusk wanders between seasons
waiting for seeds to fall–
listening to the earth
murmuring songs which welcome
absence in the voice
a silence that holds what isn’t said
need hovers with wings
ready to fly into fear
blood too has its stillnesses
the knife that cuts out the heart
the breath holding forever
the part that was written for someone else
De at dVerse has given us the word voice for our quadrille this week. My poem is not a ghazal, but in the spirit of one.
I’ve used this painting before, but I thought it fit the words.
The end arrives without fanfare—no one
scatters ritual words to take back fate.
The dice are rolling, cards drawn—still no one
moves to rearrange the portents—too late
they fail to cohere, fail to integrate
the glimmer in the void with its descent,
the form with its reflected accident.
Maps destroy the future, erase the past
with tangled nows that keel, reorient–
in alloyed flames the dark remains, uncast.
They were born and taken back, surrounded
by places they could never occupy–
left far behind, callously abandoned,
imprisoned in locations without time–
endless words and rules warped to justify
exclusion—hope withholding tomorrow,
wheels turning over in endless sorrow,
a constant shifting into reversal–
running counterclockwise back to zero–
a journey of relentless rehearsal.
For dVerse open link night, hosted by Linda, two somewhat related dizain poems. Dizain is the poetic form for July, introduced to us by Rosemary. I found it a challenge, and have been worrying these words all week.