Lost At Sea

Lost At Sea

The moon mocks a sailor

on the surface, bobbing and breeching.

Boiling in darkness

the sweet arch of coral

clings with its bones to the breast of a giant,

crumbling to a legend

in its poison bath.

The antic fishes

with their calico colors

paint fading murals in a

melting palace, then rise grey

in their bloat to bleach clouded tides.

The sun's spear drives home

through a broken shield

splits the skin of the ice

so it roams without purpose,

a white wolf with Fenrir's breath
that moving southward slowly starves.

In this wreckage and wrack that's the prize for destroyers

who sold all their flowers to dance in an oil slick

and all the world had

for the price of

a mess of pottage, is there one soul left

who can make a new day?

~July 2017

 For Brendan's changing earth

Images: Untitled marinescape, by Zdislaw Beksinski   Fair Use

Edward G Robinson watches a film of flowers before death, from the 1973 movie Soylent Green

Public domain

Process note: "A mess of pottage is something immediately attractive but of little value taken foolishly and carelessly in exchange for something more distant and perhaps less tangible but immensely more valuable. The phrase alludes to Esau's sale of his birthright for a meal ("mess") of lentil stew ("pottage") in Genesis 25:29-34 and connotes shortsightedness and misplaced priorities..."~wikipedia

Anthracite

Anthracite

The night was black as anthracite.

The moon was the eye of a fevered child

flickering and far, clouded with fright.

Fate laughed and tossed her coal-blackened globe

against the waves;

day came too late.

In the rubble and rack that sun revealed

no life stirred, no idea of steel

no souvenir of will, forgotten but worn

warm as a gold cross under the shirt, no grace

clean as new snow on

a winter grave.

So it's goodbye to those who burned for peace

and went to war, to flowers' caprice

dried in bloody scoria poured at their feet,

to those dead at the gate

that can't be passed through.

Day comes too late.

~July 2017

for Fireblossom's Bang! you're dead

Scoria:[skawr-ee-ah,] 1.Metallurgy. the refuse, dross, or slag left after melting or smelting metal; scum. 2.Geology. a cinderlike basic cellular lava.

Image: Night, 1890, by Edward Munch    public domain

Fragile Things

Fragile Things

 

Green stem,  arrow leaf

ivory flower

November cool above the bite of ginger.

The brightening torch

is born to kiss the shadow,

flight and song to validate the meadow.

The heart-tide drumming

where your brow is hollow

fills the eye with dazzle

with the sudden flare

of bluebirds on

a feint of air.

~July 2017

for Magaly's  fragile,natural,wild

(I'm very fond of poppies, but my wayward and difficult muse chose to sport with a different flower.)

Image: Cup of Silver Ginger, ©Georgia O'Keefe  Fair use.

Medicine Bag

Medicine Bag

A bag too small for summer

and not so big as a heart

but sufficient for

crucible's residue

burnt fine, 

ash and

the errata and

the mouse-bones

of dreams.

I wrapped these things

in heat and feathers, 

with the sleep

of flowers laid on them

into its soft doeskin dried in salt,

beaded with the name of dusk, that

kings' song of battleroar

lost to cricket-harps;

my talisman ticket,

my blue rose bag of wishes;

to close

or to open so

the petal that falls

is the drift of your step,

is the corn-colored wind,

the easy air 

that knew your face

by starlight, your bright cadence

your fragrance and the savor

of  meadow moon sun-broken

floating on the slope

before the raven's rattle,

before the long defeat.

~July 2017

for M.'s   summer words

Process note: The phrase 'the long defeat' is spoken by Galadriel in the seventh chapter of The Fellowship of The Ring, by J.R. Tolkien: “For the Lord of the Galadhrim is accounted the wisest of the Elves of Middle-Earth, and a giver of gifts beyond the power of kings. He has dwelt in the West since the days of dawn... I have dwelt with him years uncounted,...and together through ages of the world we have fought the long defeat.” It's become something of a catchphrase among Christians and/or conservatives, but we won't let that stop us from appreciating the metaphor.

 Image: Native American Medicine Bag, author unknown, via internet; fair use

Brute Hill

Brute Hill

Ula La was a frycook

at Joy DuVeeve's saloon.

Rusty Naylor was a gambler

who overshot the moon.

Two Gun Shogun smoked his long stemmed pipe;

his katana made no sound.

Little Mort the Undertaker put

old Rusty in the ground.

Loup Garou and Bill McKinley

passed Brute Hill on the high noon train

to catch a bite at Joy DuVeeve's

before the plague coach came.

Heart of lead
and heart of black fade out without a sound.

Heart of gold
and heart of green still laugh and still beat on.

~June 2017

Optional Musical Accompaniment

Some silliness for Fireblossom's Paper Moon

Images: Going West, 1934-35, ©Jackson Pollack. Fair Use.

The Women Friends, 1917, by Gustav Klimt. Public Domain