Consequences of time
Climb and mount
About the throat,
Following the path
Of arteries and veins,
And as if by magic,
Enter into the blood
To provide a dram bit
Of bitter choking poison
To the will of moving blood
That slows and stills
In the knowing.
Caught in the evening downpour, I am washed clean of summer. Summer’s red rock, red dirt dreams Sluiced from me with this autumnal drenching. Morning greets me with a cool hand Of sunshine upon my brow. Autumn whispers of a harvest Under skies of bluest topaz. A clear, clean, honest reaping In days yet to be had.
With ramshackle shards Of heart, soul, self Falling away like the browned petals Of a long-wilted bouquet, We create a riotous noise In ramshackle attempts To find some connection. Lumbering, awkward attempts At reaching out to touch once again, To replace, to freshen The brown wilted and missing parts With new bouquets of spring Whose stems sit in eternally Fresh, clean waters. We dream of a life lived No longer ramshackle, With no long-wilted bouquets Of a past to haunt with falling petals, But a life returning whole, To move without noise Through the world once again.
What would I learn Could I raise your bones From the earth? And like some ancient medicine woman Scatter them like runes to read Or use them in the making Of a sacred instrument To rattle next to my ear? What would their music tell me? Would their rhythms move me? Would there be some wisdom spoken? Hidden within the notes of rattled rhythms Of all your dried out unearthed bones Is there enough marrow left to have All my ancestors speak to me? Should I, in some ancient tribal ritual Of ancestral cannibalism, Ingest your ground bones Mixed with magic into an elixir Infused with your ancestral spirits, Be given the power of thunder And lightening that is your strength Earned by you through the ages? Is this how your spirits will travel through me Teaching me of all the earth and sky? Is there a way to know, to learn To hear all the secrets you deem I need, Need to know in this time, this place For this, this last chapter Of what I have left to me? My ancestors, for I have wasted Away pages and chapters, Squandered decades of the anthology You have written into me. Ancestors, speak to me, So I waste not the years Left to be written By your spirits into me.
Is this what you, indeed, wish?
The feel of some bold mystic chaos
Contained within the fire of kisses
Traveling along the boundaries
Where lived an identity
You lost long ago—
To feel that chaotic fire
Burn away the identity
You wear today—
Feel passionate softness
Twist within and around
Leaving bruises unseen
And you undone
In twisting mystic
Chaos of fire.
https://godoggocafe.com/2021/08/17/tuesday-writing-prompt-challenge-tuesday-august-17-2021/I
Climb this ladder
Away from here
To some place
That mattered,
Real, no abstraction, real
to feel that glow,
let it flow within
and know in peace,
the truth held within it,
rolling slow warmth
like the sun in springtime–
that glow, that warmth—
nearly, yes nearly extinct,
such a rarity to be found
though some try incandescent tricks
in mocking mimicry
its rarity rivals the hunt for new alabaster,
which always served a cold master
and there are no dreams glowing still
of truth to be held within the fragile
beaks of hummingbirds forever
searching the lush gardens of Babylon
for a heady nectar that does not exist
We thwart not the sun or the moon, the movement of planets, the coming of rains or drought. We neither thwart our birth nor death. We try to thwart what our hearts feel And the desires with which it plagues us, But our hearts feel and desire still. Even our tears cannot be thwarted-- though they may not fall, the tears fall unseen.
With my thoughts dried out,
cracking like the earth,
the seeds of some miniscule truths
take root within my chest
sprouting monstrous vines to wind down,
clawing into this cracking earth
until escape cannot be had–
the only tiny truth contained within the seeds,
the simple one of sacrifice
in the day to day.
Today’s prompt— Write a poem using evanescence, trill, and longevity.
When
dreams held up the sky
the edge of sea could cleanse a soul
magic chimed in the songs of birds
the universe trilled with vibrancy contained in starlight
the evanescence of our lives unquestioned
then hope, golden and shining, possessed eternal longevity.
undone in spectacle
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