Desolation

For posting on Poets United Poetry Pantry and also on Real Toads for the Tuesday Platform.

Desolation
The day dies.
The cool of the day is settling on the land,
the green corn moon casts shadows
on the fields – the dried golden tassels
flutter in the slight breeze.
A stray dog walks down a row
and sits down at the end,
scratching himself. A distant howl –
he pricks up his ears,
then trots on.
The field looks like some alien landscape
in the light of the green corn moon.

New Moon

I have done a Bussokusekika, a Japanese poetic form that follows the rules of tanka, except there are three seven syllable lines that end the poem for a 5-7-5-7-7-7. Bussokusekika is an ancient form of poetry, older than Tanka or haiku. It translates to footprints of Buddha.

New Moon
crescent thin against
the black night – overpowered
by the stars she sings
a faint song of undappled
water and hunting owls – she
is lonely in the darkness

Haikai Challenge #18 Crow

#Haikai Challenge #18 (1/27/18): Raven #haiku #senryu #haibun #tanka #renga #haiga
I.
across the snowy field
the sound of a lone crow floats –
coldness overwhelms

II.
silent neighborhood –
distant crows break the silence –
cold and still today

Monsoon

This is for the Mid-week Motif at Poets United – Flood. It is a poem I have been working on for a couple of years. I think I am finally through with it. http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2017/08/poets-united-midweek-motif-flood.html

Monsoon

“I love storms. Primordial. Every bit of civilization gone. Everything true coming out.” Vanessa Ives, Penny Dreadful

Hot. Smoldering hot.
The sky like molten bronze.
It is amazing the stones of the buildings do not explode in the heat
or melt and run in the gutters.
Rain coming. Soon. Soon.
And then the first breath –
The rain begins and
the skies rip and before I can open my umbrella
I am soaked to the skin –
The rain like cold needles drives into my skin,
stabbing into my heart and emptying it of secrets.
Steam rises from the street,
the buildings
my skin.
In the rising steam and driving rain
people move, barely seen, like wandering ghosts.
I have tried to chase away the memories.
In my mind I hear your voice
like a call that crackles from a bad connection
and disconnects before I can interpret your words.
A man bumps into me and for a moment
I think he looks like you.
But he disappears into the mist and rain
…and I accept I will never see you again.
Every time it rains, it reminds me of you.

public domain Utagawa Hiroshige People Sheltering From the Rain 1857

 

dVerse Poets Pub: Quadrille Monday

Monday at dVerse Poets Pub, the post for Quadrille Monday will go live.  It is the first posting for the new year here at the Pub and we are pleased to have Bjorn hosting it.  He has chosen the word “curl” to include in your 44 word poem (not including the title).  So drop by at dVerse to read these wonderful short poems and to submit your own!  I am submitting two poems containing the word “curl”.

1.
the days have knit themselves
into a pattern of sameness –
an afghan in shades of grey.
like the winter sky and trees.
the elderly woman settles down to sleep.
the younger woman brushes the curls off
her forehead and whispers,
Sleep mama, sleep.

2.
I found out today where Nobody’s Cat
goes after I feed him in the morning.
I looked out the back way and
saw him limping laboriously
over the back lawn
crawling under the potting shed.
Brown leaves curl back onto themselves
not showing his passing.

MTB: Make Music of Those Words

It’s Thursday at the dVerse Poets Pub and this Thurday, it is Meeting the Bar, which means we all write to a specific word, theme, form – given out by the dVerse Prompter. Today it is Victoria; a true lady, amazing poet, lover of her husband and their dogs, good friend, and most excellent prompter of forms or themese. Today she is asking us to write musically – to use musical terms, or a theme, or a concept – to turn our poetry, lives, experiences into music. Come join us!

New Music
today starts with the music of a
low tuned cello – slow, hesitant, dolorous.
No more lively forays into the forest
to play my violin,
to let my music dance through the trees
giving the birds something different to
listen to or sing along to –
now my days are filled with lonely hours.
No one calls,
no one visits,
no one emails.
My husband is at work.
I bake cinnamon rolls.
Now it is only my mother and myself
going through the same routine.
Routine is good for her and
doesn’t disrupt her memories.
Every day is a slow waltz –
it does get lonely.
but there is sweetness in the days as well.
a swirl of dolce de leche
in the bitter coffee of the day.
I watch my mother – calando.
The sun fades.

dVerse Poetics: Trains

All aboard!  Today Bjorn is the conductor for our Poetics prompt of Trains at dVerse Poets Pub.  Come join us for train tales and travels.  I haven’t been on a train in a few years but when I lived on Long Island and in Philadelphia, I was a regular on commuter trains to and from my destination.  And even further back in time, before the routes and owners changed, traveled on the Orient Express from Paris to Venice and from Paris to Budapest.  Get your ticket punched and join us on our Train Poetry Journey.  http://dversepoets.com/2016/04/05/poetics-wheels-of-steel/

public domain image

public domain image

The Haunted Platform
every morning – same time –
onto the train to my assigned seat.
we all have our seats where we always go –
same seat every day.
the two men behind me smelling
of coffee and CKOne and Hermes Terre
in front of me the blonde woman
who piles her laptop and brief bags into the seat
beside her so no one will be beside her.
I do the same thing, I always settle
in and pull out my tablet and read the paper online
while drinking from my travel mug of coffee.
on the way home –
same people same seats
eyes all closed or on their laptops
finishing tasks or a head start on new.
the smell of bourbon replaces the morning smell of coffee.
in the morning stopping at the various platforms
car fills up.
in the evening stopping at platforms
car empties.
at the platform where the train never stops
there used to be a sign hanging announcing the stop.
last year the sign was hanging by one hook
swinging fitfully in the wind: MAYF ELD
the sign fell earlier this year face down and
now soiled by weather and mud.
a bench is on the platform broken at down at one end
and the back bent at that end.
Yesterday a man(?) was lying on the bench
back presented to the track –
cold rain and snow swirled and as the train
blew past the platform where the trains never stop
faded dirtied ancient newspaper pages and trash
blew up in the air and then settled back into their place.
this morning the man(?) is still there covered with snow.
one of the men says behind me:
hey, that guy is still there and his companion
(I can imagine him looking up owlishly from his laptop)
says “hunh?”
on the way home with the train windows flashing like
yellow strobes in the darkness
I see broken images of the man(?) clicking past –
still there, covered with more snow.
at home, late at night, I awaken and shiver with cold.
across the few miles I hear the sound of the train
roaring past on the tracks and it’s horn as it
approaches an intersection.
I wonder if the man(?) is still there in the darkness.
a chill I cannot control causes me to break out
in a sweat and in the darkness
I press myself closer against my sleeping husband.
I wonder if the man(?) is still there in the darkness
covered with deepening snow.

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