Blog Archives

birth, death it’s all the same


Egg Island

birth, death it’s all the same

in a distant hamlet nestling
twenty four days
past the solar calendar
fruits drink from the source
equinox flowers have their own mind

the festival of seedling stars
music, flowers, incense
central ceremonies to commemorate spirit
income offerings rise and fall
all remembrance has connection

duck eggs broken over tombstones
shells lost in graves
candle lighting worships surnames
parchment and silver paper
lit to honor ancestors
weeds burn and then the forest

descendants of lush auspicious signs
believe in the fortune of childbirth
longevity payments made
to surrounding soil
a hoe mixes eggshells into the ash

calamities have befallen
the exiled hero seeks auspicious signs
a hollow tree, switchgrass
yet there’s nothing but desolation
and a forgotten tomb festival
that she alone attends

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Hear this on chirbit

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Written for:

Magpie Tales – Mag 112

Also posted on:

B is for Butanding

Photo Credit: djajakarta

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sunset tunnel


Bridge

sunset tunnel

end of world
planned pre-extinction
puzzled driver won’t return

no more ginger-filled
usual morning cup
postponed indefinitely

tears burned
evening light
white-fronted entryways

pleasure
slowly spilling
down ragging river

stretched pathway
leads to invariable demise
sunset tunnel

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Written for:

the imaginary garden with real toads

The Sunday Challenge ~ Featuring Kat Mortensen

Photo Credit: Kat Mortensen © 2012 of Poetikat

ylamb’s wool


From Boris Hoppek’s Tokyo exhibit “Ever”

lamb’s wool

soporific
stupefacient
slumberous
snooziness
soothingly sedative

solace
softness
serenity
snug
sufficient satisfaction

sentimental
succor
spiritual
seductive
stirringly stimulating

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Hear this on chirbit

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Written and Posted:
Magpie Tales – Mag 101

Also posted on:

Jenny MatlockThursday Letter – L

Numb Inducing


Numb Inducing

Numb inducing expectations
accumulate like broken glass
on a marble tile floor.

Cut nerves of your skin
self-repair like lines of ants
following in an unnatural path.

I shrink to their level —
work in the mulch, in the compost.

Sadly my eyes drop; you fill me
with little shots of pain as
I carry ten times more than you need.

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Hear this on chirbit

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Written and posted on:

 dversepoets “meeting-the-bar-critique-and-craft”

The challenge was to write a poem that participants can critique and fix.

So here is my post. I apologize to anyone who is looking for the types of poems you are used to seeing here. This is exactly the kind of thing I never wanted to post online, and also, I no longer write this kind of poetry. I wrote this in 2001 and never bothered to fix it up. So please, have at it. How do I fix this?  I can only learn from what you have to say.

Also posted on:

Jenny Matlock

Thursday Letter – N

Photo Credit: cdn2.arkive.org

Messy Little Girl


Messy Little Girl

Mama’s gone shopping,
time to uproot.
Grandma won’t mind
if there’s dirt on the fruit.

Messy little girl,
spits on the soil
plays a crazy game
rolls up roots in a coil.

Who wrote the rules
whence plants must stay;
when there are no friends
who can come and play?

Messy little girl
turned over the pot.
The plant might live
Or perhaps, it might not.

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Written for:

Jingle Poetry

I was asked by someone involved with bluebell to write something about this image, which is credited to mnn.com -> Mother Nature’s Network. I figured, why not, and even made it rhyme.

Posted on:

Open Link Night ~ Week 39

Also posted on:

M is for Me me me!