Deep, deep in the forest where man is not known there is no good or bad.
Thank you David Ben Alexander (and Allen Ginsberg) for alerting me to new forms of haiku.
to eternity heartbeat of the haunted self ghost of broken trust
slow anger infiltrates expands like smoke explodes into furious rage scorches and burns all it touches then dissolves into shame and misery
picture eternity as every single heart beat of every haunted soul each a phantom of broken trust blind to yesterday yet still weeping ghostly desires always lingering cold and deep persisting and never embraced
blush from the belly up smile with sincerity you will create trust speak from your heart truly with transparency you will enjoy respect abandon preconceptions listen to hear you will bring joy
My colour was autumn in a fading colour kind of way as I scrambled for more time as time slipped away then my colour was winter cold bleak and grey the shortening of daylight gave more night than day when my colour was spring and more light filled the air I felt for a green time my happiness was there but my colour became summer coming in bright yellow hues til the landscapes went dry sun extracted summer dues now my colour is a rainbow arching over seasons casting no shadow coloured joy without reason
Basil had finally arrived in Arizona dreaming of repeating Krakow nights with his saffron love, Garam Masala. After leaving sunny Paris they had spent thyme watching Tuscan sunsets before mulling spices into a mural of flavour for adding some Aleppo pepper to their long awaited reunion. Laced with dill, pickled appetisers set a savouring mood for their evening Cumin, coriander paprika zatar and mustard seeds ensured the main meal was saucy, spicy and hot. Sea salt, lemon grass fennel and sesame seeds added potentcy to the salad Nutmeg, cinnamon and vanilla heightened their senses throughout dessert. By the end of the meal they were ravenous for the after dinner mints.
Merril set this week’s dVerse prompt for we poets to spice things up using at least three of twenty-five listed herbs, spices, flavors, and spice combinations. For a bit of fun, I chose to cook up something that used them all.
blue poetry as blue as you change the shade from deep dark blue to blue sky blue change the hue write your due write true (fridge poetry)
Today’s dVerse prompt was to undertake a very interesting ekphrastic challenge from Sarah. Sarah asked we dVerse poets to choose one of five fascinating images created by UK artiist Lee Madgwick . I chose the image displayed above.
How many times do you step through a door and that decision changes the course of your life? How many times? You step through a door and whether you know which way you are going or not that decision changes the course of your life. Many times. You look through open doors and glass doors and the view beyond each threshold can look better much better with broad vistas of more promise than the narrow one in which you are standing. You are a stand in many, some days, every time. How many times do you go through these doors to where the grass is greener? Many times. You look through closed doors, opaque, the cracks and keyholes of doors to wild skies of threatening, black clouds, heavy and threatening cloud banks of stormy weather oppressive and threatening with worse to come you know it will be worse for at least a time many, some days, every time. But still, consider. How many times do you go through these doors? Many times. How do you choose which door opens to the best passage for the rest of your life? The green of desire or of envy, the passing black of fear or courage? There are no obvious silver linings. The lines are not clear. Can you say your lines? Your lines are not clear. There are no obvious wishes to guide you. Your wishes are not clear. Can you articulate your wishes? When will you wish honesty for yourself? When honesty is a necessity? Don’t close that door. When is the right time? Or the right place? Or do you bother to choose at all? When the right door opens for you? Even when no choice is always a choice and change will come regardless. Change will come. You know this. Do you know this well enough by understanding there is only luck at play? Only luck is at play. Do you know this? You might not know this. How often do those doors that are closed to you and blank with no offerings get ignored because there is no obvious gain for you? You walk past new worlds of wonder and peril everyday. All the time. Any door every door any time every time. Every step is a decision. Every decision is one to please, regret, grieve or rejoice. At the time or in time. But, you never know and that is the reason for looking at doors any door and every door and always wondering about going through into some place else. It should never be otherwise because time is linear and time is limited. All doors are only one door any door every door in front of you when and where ever you are. And each door has its own nature protecting you from the elements or exposing you locking you in locking you out shutting quietly behind you slamming in your face creaking with foreboding or letting in the fresh air. You my be attracted by doors to the light. It seeps in around the edges and under the woodwork and you think to be in the light must be a good place to be, you cross that threshold. That threshold will be crossed. to find a good place to be, And sometimes it is a desert, a blazing sun, a hot, dry furnace and you retreat desperate with thirst, burned and changed. Other times it is a moonlit field and you run through the soft green grass before realising you have strayed enough to never return to be the same person. Does either door scare you? Are you scared? Hope is the latch, fear is the key. Finding a way to use them is finding a way to be. You never have to stray far from yourself to change. Crossing that threshold is no distance at all. One that can take you al long way. Crossing that threshold. You are changed forever every time. Many times. Any door every door any time every time go through. You change so the world changes You change me and everyone else irrevocably. You change us all. All of us change. Neither you nor I, neither will we and us ever be the same we, you and I. For passing through any door every time will change us here and now in time. The person you thought I was is no longer mine. The person I thought was you is no longer in time. The world changes instantly every time without design. We pass through many doors many times. How many times do you step through a door and that decision changes the course of your life? How many times? You step through a door and whether you know which way you are going or not that decision changes the course of your life. Many times.
worry, but after perhaps find the right music do a dance (fridge poetry)
that magpie
has been
sitting on that bough
for half an hour
black and white
against the crying sky
it chortles and carols
from time to time
i watch and listen
biding my moment
despite the march of time
i look up and down
magpie looks left and right
we witness the crying sky
present and separate
each in place
some kind of joy
and the sky cries on
The gnarly Swamp Gum
with green grey cloak
of rounded leaves
it’s coarse trunk
and smooth limbs
prefer the wet feet
of wetlands
and riparian zones
today i am wrapped in a cloak of rain
enclosed in my own world
the smallest of human worlds
rain’s grey shawl renders me invisible
everything around me, invisible
the sky is invisible
the only thing i know to be true is that my feet are on the ground
i can almost believe
i am the only person
to ever have been here and now
then i realise i am
and it is kind of nice
Paper glider
Luft reminder
Of the history of flight
Of little boys
Crafting simple toys
Becoming Brothers Wright
To be deceived by art Is where the pleasure lies As Oscar Wilde said When the finished work dries Art unexplained Awaits reference in time For art to have context Someone must find An intrinsic meaning An enchantment or spell A hard fact or history That explains it well So ethereal This imaginative bent Where art creates product But may not pay rent The elusive success Of an artist such as me Depends on the work And conveying what we see To be reminded of something That may not be there Is the way we see art Reminiscent or bared The artist displays What the artist portrays The observers creates What the observer says And the feeling is surreal This fraught disconnect Must artists defer To the critics subject Is it in artist’s deceit Where the pleasure lies Taking the work and working it wise Psychological or literal The interpretation applied Is anything worthy In a meaning belied With all the definition in Every artists hand The lines of description Are at critics command The intensity of design Or depicting a glance For artist and critic It’s the art of chance Is ugly ugly Or is it brave and true Is beauty beauty Or a sop to me and you Only the artist knows Where the artist goes But as deception grows Across art shows The artist bows To the stories faux As the critics row And the sponsors crow And the buyers coo Gallery owners woo speculators too Attempt to choose The number 1 pick That makes art slick To turn a buck Art by the truck Instead of art refined As in the artist‘s mind But only the artist knows Where the artist goes
Ever watch a kookaburra
Sweep in from on high
In a perfect arc
Geometry made art
Beak as an arrowhead
Body flat as an arrow
Piercing the air
Fletched tail as rudder
Precision steering
A dart to the bullseye
Wings not moving a millimetre
Purposeful focussed targeted
Missile like glide
Ever watch a kookaburra?
Brittle branch breaks under weight of bird landing
Falls to ground
Alarmed bird flutters to new bough
Insects break down branch
All is right with the world
Butterfly lands on native flower head
Tongue extends for life giving nectar
Butterfly moves on
Flower is pollenated
All may be right with the world
Mountain Water flows over rock
Down toward the sea
Sediment forms floodplain soil
Landscapes bloom with new life
All was right with the world
Forests, grasslands, wetlands and ocean life
Breathe for and cleanse earth and sky
Working together
part of a whole
All is not right with the world
Broken branch is tidied up by gardener
Native flower is replaced by agricultural product
Mountain water is harvested for commercial gain
Land and ocean are raided
Diversity is diminished
Brittle the world breaks
Precedence
is chance
The roll is a fast
chaotic dance
The die is cast
numbers spin
Will luck outlast
the spin I’m in?
The dotted faces
turn and prop
bounce and hop
My future turns
on fortune’s stop
Excitement
Anticipation
Fulfilment
or suffocation
Desperation
Indecision
High risk taking
recidivism
Bound for glory
is my folly
Wracked and ruined
that’s my story
Highs feed lows
on pure vainglory
Today’s dVerse prompt from Ingrid was for a subject of each poet’s choosing. This one came from a draft I had on gambling, a subject I have been trying to get my head around.
The lock stops access The clock stops time The drug stops abscess The organ stops rhyme The boot stops turning The period stops lines The water stops burning The cleaner stops grime The valve stops pressure The jar stops brine The ruler stops measure The law stops crime The plug stops water The wave stops sine The truth stops laughter The pump stops prime The grass stops growing The bottle stops wine The gardner stops mowing The devil stops divine The food stops hunger The hunger that is mine This stop goes no longer Than this very last line
Their hands when they touch
Flow from rolling of wrists
Each touch is a signal
Each touch is a kiss
Their fingers are folding
On whispers and secrets
Cupped hands are holding
All ahead that will be
Their fingers trace circles
On their palms telling futures
Tender are the touches
Of their hands as their tutors
Their hands rest together
One on top of the other
Their hands mark their measure
Their harmonious hands
Their hands spread out
Open and true
Telling each story
Each soul on view
Hands hold each heart
Supporting each core
Their hands do the learning
Of what more to adore
The extension of hands
The parallel lines
Pads of sensitive fingers
Their dreaming defines
There are fists and shaking
The are dips and rise
There are quivering fingers
Before flickering eyes
When hands arc with arms
To gracious embrace
The lovers say nothing
As hands touch each face
Delicate lines are drawn
Across soft skinned cheeks
Then with touches to lips
Mouths start to seek
Two seeing hands
guide the blind
Sensuous and caressing they massage
to unwind
Four hands synchronise
to breathe in kind
in waves of love
entwined
Bright is the light that shines on me
as I dwell finally
in deathbed reverie
the doctor he talks
and talks and he talks
my wife she weeps
and weeps and she weeps
and time it creeps
and creeps and it creeps
what is this light that shines above
lights pallid face of death
to my love
the darkness it resists
and resists and it resists
in brilliance it glows
and glows and it glows
in radius it grows
and grows and it grows
this light that calls me as my light fades
this light that draws me
to the night of shades
with death it walks
and walks and it walks
my feeble hand I raise and wave
I waver and it waves
faces watch uncertain so grave
grave and so grave
I see my hand stir dust in the air
second last thing I will see anywhere
the dust it wafts
and wafts and it wafts
my brow is mopped
and mopped and is mopped
my hand drops
I drop and it drops
as dust I settle back onto deaths bed
into the pillow sinks my head
life’s weight I shed
I shed and I shed
looking down into the room
I am surprised it is lit
by only gloom
the husk has collapsed
collapsed collapsed
hollowed of life
of life and of life
beside my wife
my wife my beloved wife
the dust dispersed draws my spirit in
and back to dust
I go again
the gift I leave is small but complete
I was loved and I loved
I am replete
Today’s dverse prompt is from Laura, to write words of departure based on your choice from a set of quotes. I chose the quote from a favourite and most remarkable movie – “All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.” Roy Batty, Blade Runner.
Juliet is all slick and wet her long hair in her eyes she has been hit by an idiot drunk driving by bye bye Romeo roams idly by sees the girl on the ground He looks at her quizzically then realises what he has found Juliet breathes in gasps as blood pools under her back She looks up sees Romeo last look last love as limbs go slack Romeo’s not much you know but this time things are different He wipes the hair from glazed eyes and wonders where her life went Juliet rises above the scene She watches Romeo He cradles her head gently in his lap He whimpers out a moan Romeo struck by love’s full fist his only love has gone He whines he weeps at his loss Death into his soul creeps Juliet bears final witness to Romeo’s last testament “Did my heart truly love till now?” he whispers For the first time he knows what love meant “Good night Good night” “Thus with a kiss I too die” He declares to her death pale face Romeo bends his head down tenderly brushes her cold lips with his own he lets her head down lightly beside him as he lies quietly beside her takes her right hand with his left Romeo from his pocket retrieves a knife meant for other men he eases the blade between his ribs it finds his broken heart As blood pools under his back his life is also gone Juliet utters one last cry of grief before she disappears or was that one last cry of relief in hope he reappears for never was there a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo
Ingrid’s prompt for this week’s dVerse poetics was “Homage to the Bard.” I chose to write a poem approximately on the theme of Romeo and Juliet. https://dversepoets.com/2022/04/26/poetics-homage-to-the-bard/
Two women sit under a thatched roof
supported by rafters
coarse wood brown
smiling and chatting together
Chickens scratch at the edge of their shelter
a bold shiny colourful rooster
a big shiny black hen
Their surroundings are a circular patch
dry dusty earth red
small mud brick dwellings
define a perimeter orange
The late autumn day is lit by a cold sun of
clean blue light
One woman sits above the other higher
she is perched
Her long thin legs hang over a shallow edge
a rug covered platform
She is the older in a thick faded purple
dress a pullover yellow
is topped with a scarf white around her neck
Her head is swaddled in a woollen wrap crimson
it frames a face sun
lit, weathered and aged by decades of labour
Spaces such as this
fields such as she can choose
to see at anytime
will forever be green and brown
She gazes pensively across
open communal space
She ponders her past with pleasure and regret
she speaks of things new
old, deep and trivial
Her arthritic hands clasped in a lap
of gratitude flesh
Her battered Nike sneakers peek out from
the long layers of fabric above grey and yellow
her face is calm
Her future as it will be
The younger sits cross legged
a woven mat under her strung tan
Together cultivating lines of okra
drying under sheltering eaves ragged
shadows of indigo host
hangings vertically in bright green
coloured lengths
unclasped necklaces ornaments
of metres adorn the space with a decorative
interior that creates a sense
coming festivity
The drying shed colours the day, the place
it’s people making
according to the crop
a pride of place for transient
prettiness and implications
security, work well done
Here for generations other
younger women have
sat for hours
days post harvest preparing
sustaining products of manual fieldwork
multi hued
for deep grey winter consumption
Her dress is brighter golds
magentas her hands are as yet
unaffected by the gnarly
growths destined by labour
She repeats centuries old weaving
patterns confidently efficiently unhurried
listening quietly thoughtfully respectfully
Tales of the past wash over her black and white
through her as water of life in delicate pastels
as hope as comfort
She knows here there are will be
still lessons to be gleaned
conversation the reflections of her elder
The younger a willing learner of
a quasi meditative state borne soft pink
by the methodical repetitious
nature of her work it is was as surely known
the best way for learning lessons
by the word of her people
successes and failures
myth legend
retelling that never ceases to inform
warm warn entertain and delight
There is comfort in the learning
a knowing that all the natural obstacles over
which there is little control life
will continue on on on
There is no question about how
time is to be spent
day by day this is dictated
by seasons culture necessity
green yellow brown grey
There is no concept of time ticking away
each day is known-quantity where
choice is limited but colour rich
life is sometimes unpredictable dangerous
set fluid simple
giving and taking with impunity
Time has no measure
life itself opaque
Two women commune as did
two before them
back it goes into the dark
blue of distance
where many women become every one
sitting together, stringing up green okra
another part of every year’s never ending
rainbow
They told me about her hair
before I met her.
It was green.
I thought it the best hair
I’d ever seen.
The fall of her locks
topped long flowing frocks
that ran neck to toe
as they swept the ground clean.
In bare feet
so she walked
or sashayed
I should say
her hair bounced away
like gentle waves of the sea.
In long flowing robes
from her head to her toes
luminous bright green
and shimmering a sheen,
she moved as one
supple, undulating dream.
Her hips that were square
rolled sensually there
under rippling fabric I deemed.
Her shoulders carried smoothly.
Her pose held beautifully.
Her skin smooth as polished gold.
Her head held proud,
and defiantly bold.
Her face was of grace
framed in fine green lace
at the edges of the green hood
folded around her neck.
From the dripping sleeves of her gown,
where long hands emerged brown,
slender fingers completed the scene.
Bright brown eyes
looked curiously around,
‘til she stopped,
tall and sure
image of a noble queen.
She had turned toward me.
I, the watcher was seen,
and I found myself bound
to the tall brown woman in green.
Slate grey winter skies Background fat silver lined clouds Rain filled and sun lit Slate grey winter skies Background deep sadness of loss Rain filled and homesick Strathbogie poetry #strathbogiepoetry
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