Pacifico

A 55 for the Toads Prompt – Art Flash 55. I have done a 55 in honor of Galen and in honor of Kerry who visualized these beautiful oracle cards. I will miss all of you. Hope I see you around on the blogosphere.

Pharos ~ The Lighthouse
Kerry O’Connor
@skyloverpoetry

 

Pacifico
“We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch – we are going back from whence we came.” John F. Kennedy

the ocean is almost silent
but for the suck of sand and
snap of bubbles –
a heartbeat rhythm.
the body always a sea folded
in on itself,
a nautical chart folded into a paper cup.
it is peaceful most of the time.
glinting in blues and greens
reflecting the bright moon at darkest night.

Cafe Royal 06/08/2018

This is a poem I wrote while I was working on my PhD in Fine Arts. I am re-posting it here today with revisions. Why? Because I have been deeply depressed and this poem suits my mood. This poem is part of my Dorian Gray series, written along with a thesis about Oscar Wilde and his times.

Cafe Royal 06/08/2018
“…your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride.” ― Anthony Bourdain
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”  – Oscar Wilde

The third cafe mocha of the morning,
the young man with the antique face
put down his cup and stared at the handsome waiters.
The Café Royal always had the most…delicious waiters.
His eye was arrested by one of the waiters
taking an absinthe to someone –
It was 11:00 am in the morning.
Surely too early for absinthe.
He spotted her.
At the table alone, grief in every inch of her body
She put down the newspaper –
Lowering it down slowly as if,
as if it were a baby or a mortally ill cat.
The waiter flamed the absinthe for her.
He said something to her.
She raised her eyes to him and then lowered them.
Picking up the absinthe,
Picking up the newspaper.
The young man with the antique face
continued to stare at her until
she looked up and saw him.
For once he was ashamed of his actions.
He stood and walked to her table.
She looked at him from head to toe
and said
Nothing.
She lowered her face again and
one of the gorgeous waiters came
with another absinthe.
Don’t, he spoke. Please don’t.
He put his hand lightly on her wrist.
I know grief he said. I know pain of loss
and heartbreak. I’ve watched my friends dying
One.
By.
One.
She put her head down and began to read the paper again.
Upside down he read:
“Anthony Bourdain, 61, found dead by suicide”
For once he was almost human.
For once he almost paid for her drinks and walked away.
Dorian Gray sighed. What the hell,
One only lives forever.
He sat down at the table and looked into her eyes.


Reeve Darney as Dorian Grey in Penny Dreadful

 

 

First Snow

For Amaya’s prompt at dVerse, birth or birthing. For Poets United, Sumana’s mid-week motif, Winter Poems.  In Japanese, the word for first snow is hatsu yuki. It is a holy event.

 

First Snow
“When snow falls, nature listens. ”  Antoinette van Kleeff

Today the November sky opens up and gives birth to the first snow.

first snow2

Dark Country Road

This is for dVerse Poet Pubs, Prosery.  I don’t get Flash Fiction.  I hope I did okay.  I thought this had to be written in prose form but apparently, it doesn’t. I will do as I will next time.

Dark Country Road
“A swift rhythm is played out by my hands, a cadence known only to those who have strung tobacco. To many, the meter and rhythm of stringing is the only poetry they’ve ever known.” ― Brenda Sutton Rose

Hot night in July – needing to be out of the city, rolling down a smooth country two lane blacktop, Black countryside, no lights showing in the few houses. All are sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. Folks have to get up early go to work in the surrounding tobacco fields. Rolling past rows of tobacco broken only by the dark houses.  Past another small house, dark. Ahead off to the right a dirt road. I pull off and go down it slowly. Dust invisible but I can smell it, thick whiffs of sharp iron and sweeter lime. In the headlights the road is pale pink but in the daylight, it will be red as blood. A meteor shower explodes in the night sky. I stop in the middle of the road to stare, amazed. If it’s darkness we’re having, let it be extravagant.

 

tobacco farm and barn

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.

Bloodstains

A Prosery for Bjorn’s prompt at dVerse Poets Pub, for this spooky season. A true ghost story. I rewrote this from a poem I posted for Real Toads.  Since some of you have missed the glhostly blood and that the staines will always remain, here is the link to the original poem. I hate writing prose! https://kanzensakura.wordpress.com/2019/10/26/the-floor/

Bloodstains
“At least 600,000 men died in the Civil War. Major battles numbered the dead in the thousands; even minor skirmishes killed hundreds… Mass death numbs the mind and heart as it numbers its vast toll”…Philip Shaw Pauadan: The True Story of the Civil War

When I first moved to Richmond,  a friend took me on a tour of some of the old buildings down in an area of town known as Shockoe Bottom.  During the American Civil War, some of the old tobacco warehouses were used as hospitals and morgues.  It is said the blood from the wounded and dead dripped steadily on the floor, the wheels from gurneys rolling through the blood.

This is the barreness of harvest or pestilence.  Now over a hundred years later, the floors are still splotched with blood.  The floors are cement and tile now but…the stains of blood still seep up and are seen.  It is said by people that work in the renovated buildings  still see the bloodstains and sometimes see the ghosts of those long gone soldiers wandering through the halls.  The stains are removed by bleach and are only gone for a few hours before they reappear.  The people now walk over or walk on the stains as if they were not there.

bloodstained floor RTD photo

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.

 

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