Forgetfulness

Posted on Poetry United, Pantry of Prose and Poetry #3  For me, a long poem.

 

Forgetfulness
Time, we say, is Lethe; but change of air is a similar draught, and, if it works less thoroughly, does so more quickly.” ― Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain

it is cool, finally.
The hot breath of summer has stilled,
fallen into the arms of Morpheus
seeking there the river of Lethe.
*Ameles Potamos is sluggish
and yet it is crowded with the souls
of the dead leaves,
all of them drinking to
forget the summer that was.
the leaves clog the creek
at the foot of the hill,
drinking, drinking.
autumn rains will come and flood the banks
washing their corpses away.
frost covers them with sparking lace
dressing them for their funereal best.
I cup my hand and drink from the icy waters.
I close my eyes and sleep.
I awaken no longer remembering the heat of summer.
I awaken remembering only autumn and winter cold.
The beaver moon shines bright in the sky,
frost sparkles in its light.

 

*Lethe also known as the Ameles Potamos (River of Unmindfulness), the river flowed around the cave of Hypnos where its murmuring induces drowsiness. The shades of the dead were required to drink from its water in order to forget their earthly life.

Burnished Leaves

For Marian’s prompt at Real Toads: one word – burnished


Burnished Leaves

“The wind makes you ache is some place that is deeper than your bones. It may be that it touches something old in the human soul…” ― Stephen King

The trees are waiting.
it was a dry spring and summer
and the leaves fading and falling.
etiolated in appearance
the leaves wait –
dull green leaves on the tree
are starting to be tinged
with slightest yellow,
palest red –
fading and falling,
a grey tabby sits at the bottom of the tree
watching the leaves fall
with her mad eyes,
reaching to catch them as they drift.
but the trees are waiting,
waiting for Jack Frost to come
and burnish their leaves into
brilliant gold and copper,
carnelian and jasper –
pulling out his cloth of wedding lace frost
and burnishing them until they shine.

jasper semi-precious stone

In Plain Sight

For the Meeting the Bar segment of Dverse Poets Pub. Bjorn gives the prompt today to write from a different perspective.

In Plain Sight
“When composing a verse let there not be a hair’s breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.” ― Bashō

well folks, here she is:
a woman who loves the ocean
and howls at the moon.
she observes the passing of the seasons
in the Japanese manner
and makes her own udon.
She has studied extensively Bartitsu
and is an expert at la canne.
She believes in brevity in poetry.
She hides in plain sight.

autumn moon –
the night is gone –
a crow awakens

toni and cat

Stars

Stars
“Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.”
― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

I remember riding in the backseat of the car
while my father drove mama and I
home from a trip.
I would look out the back window
at the blackness of the night.
I was always amazed at the way
the stars followed us home.

The Hawk

For Quadrille Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. Kim is the host and the word for the day is “keep”.  A quadrille is exactly 44 words sans title.  A word for the day is given to be used in the quadrille.

The Hawk

“There is a hawk in me that wants to soar…” – Carl Sandburg

the hawk flies overhead
keeping its eyes on the
landscape below.
surveying below him,
searching for movement,
for food.
frost has come
and the leaves are changing
their colors.
leaves keep their secrets
while the moon turns
all grey at night.
the hawk sleeps.

The State of Things

For Carrie’s Sunday Muse BlogSpot. http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/2019/11/sunday-muse-80.html

 

The State of Things
“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?” “That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat. “I don’t much care where—” said Alice. “Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.    The Cheshire Cat from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll.

The Human has become the Cheshire Human,
disappearing,
becoming invisible,
intanglible.
Blinking in and out of consciousness.

The Cheshire Cat has become the Tabby Cat
gazing into the future
and really not caring at all.

Photography by Oladios
“I can’t see the end of me.”
Photo source

The Reality of Snow

For Kerry’s Art Flash/55: A graphite sketch called “Autumn Breath” by Jason Limberg, Michigan USA.  A 55 for the prompt. For Sunday’s Poetry Pantry.

The Reality of Snow
“I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently?” – Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass

We are the last of our line.
I fear my brother the next full moon –
the snow will be falling –
like stars in the woods
filling the darkness.
nibbled bits of branches in our stomachs
as we slowly starve.
we lie back-to back for warmth –
snow, unceasing snow.
until it covers us
and we sleep


“Autumn Breath”
Jason Limberg
Used With Permission

Ashes

For Sarah’s prompt at dVerse Poets Pub, a tribute to Bladerunner, one of my favorite all time movies directed by one of my all time favorite directors, Ridley Scott. We are to write a poem using our senses, like Roy Batty in his ending speech in Bladerunner, the famous Tears in the Rain speech.

Ashes
“That barren pasture. Empty, and salted. The dead space between the stars.” – Niander Wallace, Bladerunner 2049

the sweat rolling down my back
that hot southern morning –
the sweat rolling down my back
and mingled with the tears.
the ground was hard like cement
and I had to take the axe from the
trunk of my car
and beat the blade into the ground
to break it up with an engineer’s hammer.
I finally was able to dig a hole
deep enough to pour
your grey ashes into it.
At the foot of your mother’s grave.
the sweat rolling down my back
that hot southern morning.
your pansy brown eyes looking into mine
that last day. I dug the hole
remembering all you had seen and heard
and shared with me.
gone forever except in my memories,
washed away with the sweat dripping down,
down onto the soil.
I covered the ashes with rocks.
it began to rain, one of those
sudden summer showers. I cried when I
got back into the car and watched
the rain pouring down the windshield.

scene from Blade Runner 2049 in the snow at the end

The Helmet

For Carrie’s Sunday Muse BlogSpot.

The Helmet
“The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly.” – Richard Bach

inside the helmet the human has turned to sticks.
radiation has obliterated human life.
only the butterflies remain
trying to see inside.
what a wonderful world with butterflies
instead of humans.

 

The Floor

For Sanaa’s prompt over at Real Toads. During the war between the states, bodies were stacked up like cordwood. People did the best they could with the wounded, the dying, the dead.  “Werewolves, sirens, mermaids and creatures who devour blood, for centuries these myths and tales have continued to fascinate us. ”  I don’t know if this fits the bill but it is certainly dark, bloody, and full of death.  These tales of the long past dead…

The Floor
“War means fighting, and fighting means killing.” ― General Nathan Bedford Forrest

Here in some of the old buildings
in Richmond in Shockoe Bottom,
where they stored the dead, the dying,
the steadily bleeding…
drip drip dripping on the floors,
From the gurneys, the beds, the operating tables,
from the long gone wounded.
And still the bloodstains keep re-appearing.
Covered over with bricks,
with wood, with tiles,
with cement.
Nothing can make the bloodstains disappear,
the ghosts of soldiers and their blood
are forever imprinted on the building.
they are covered and…they re-appear.
In the 1860’s the building was a hospital.
People say they can see the long dead wounded
walking the halls, the grounds outside,
hear them moaning.
People walk over the bloodstains now.
Most have stopped seeing them long ago.


Richmond Times Dispatch photo

Forgiveness

The Poets United Mid-week motif:  Forgiveness

Forgiveness
“The darkness of death is like the evening twilight; it makes all objects appear more lovely to the dying.” –
Jean Paul

As I take my daily walk I ask questions
in the silence of myself.
My footsteps are almost silent,
my breathing regular and my heartbeat rhythmic.
The wind is a brief breath
and the sunlight is beginning to get thin,
losing weight as the season progresses.
Can I forgive the leaves for dying,
for falling softly to the ground?
Can I forgive myself,
my mother dying, her faint breaths stopping…
just stopping.
Can I ever forgive you hanging yourself,
for the violence of your death,
for the thinking yourself unworthy to live
any longer?
For the grief you held in yourself,
for the sadness of your every day?
I stop in the midst of my walk
and look up at the sky,
like a river between the trees.
I stand and watch the leaves falling
one
by
one.
Will I ever forgive?
I will throw no stones into that river,
silently flowing overhead.

copyright kanzensakura

copyright kanzensakura

The Choir

Written for Linda’s prompt at dVerse Poets Poets Pub.  She pulls six random quotes from Neruda’s book of questions and asks us to pick one and write a poem about it.  I picked “Who sings in the deepest water in the abandoned lagoon?” An ocean lovers and a very amateur ocean biologist, I could not resist.

The Choir

“I try to catch at many a tune Like petals of light fallen from the moon, Broken and bright on a dark lagoon, But they float away – for who can hold Youth, or perfume or the moon’s gold?”  Sara Teasdale

who sings in the deepest water in the abandoned lagoon?
in the abandoned lagoon there is a choir singing,
they lift their voices,
that drifts in the wind and waves –
sea turtles and sea horses,
manatees and pink shrimp,
crabs and red fish and pompano.
they drift and forage among the sea grass
and sing their own unique songs.
a sea turtle picks up a bit of sea glass
and deposits it at the edge of the gentle waves,
an offering for those few humans that walk
along the edge of the water.
if you listen
you will hear their voices.
soft and tranquil –
singing for the benign humans
who listen and leave
taking the piece of sea glass in their pocket,
a treasure to be placed on a shelf
catching the sun and bringing back memories
of the songs that only lone creatures can make.

Indian River Lagoon and Pelican Island

 

 

 

Previous Older Entries Next Newer Entries

%d bloggers like this: