The Red Brick House

HouseOnHill

The Red Brick House

I live at the top of a knoll,
just above the small of your back,
where ripples of water o’r rocks
spill music through my house.
A trickled creek when the weather’s
dry. An ornery torrent when it rains.
It’s a dictionary spilling words,
fleeing verbs and adjectives,
flooding and floating and framing
the footbridge. It’s all happening
at the bottom of the hill.

But I live at the top of the knoll.

 

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Photo: WikiCommons (That’s not my house!)
Written for Miz Quickly’s Day 19: Negative Space

A Sleeping Glint

The Ceryneian Hind: Labour 3

A Sleeping Glint

Chaste an arrow, narrow
sleeping glint. Golden antlers
chased and full outrun. Sacred
net into a trap, a deer dipped
while it slept. Long penance
promised he foregave, a turn
upon the sun itself. Mercy rises,
this hind, and runs. A stag
made doe swift into sprint.

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Found poetry from Wikipedia article of Hercules 12 Labours, and the Ceryneian Hind. “Herkules und die kerynitische Hirschkuh (1550, San Francisco)” by Heinrich Aldegrever – Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, search: 1963.30.55. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons. Written to Margo’s Prompt

 

The Slow Turn of the Clock

IMG_0209

The Slow Turn of the Clock

And there it is again. That slice
Of early sun that creeps around
The edge of blinds. Just enough
Light to make out the numbers
On my watch. 6 in the morning.
And there. Again. That twinge
In the hip, that slow burn that
Churns like a screw in the joint,
And wakes me with a snap.
And I smell coffee! Bitter black.
And bacon. The air’s a sizzle.
Someone’s in the kitchen, pots
And pans, they clatter and clang.
A song, he singing. Time to rise,
Another day. One more year.
Yes, happy birthday to me!

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Miz Quickly Day 18: a Life of Roses

 

A Turned Spindle

Two Totem poems

totem_Day17

A Turned Spindle

I’m quite easy to understand; I don’t talk much.
I think a lot, and then assume everyone thinks
like me.  That’s put me deep in it a few times,
which is why Mother says I’m Teflon. Why I’m
not burnt by my stupidity, she can’t figure, but
I’ve never thought of myself as slick or slippery
or even carcinogenic.  I’m more like black ice.

Like a clear cold morning, I reckon. Unexpected.
I could knock you off centre, and I’m apt to melt
with a bit of warmth. Drippy, yes, I’m a bit drippy.
And I’m a tad stiff. Unbending.
I’m a bit of a turned spindle.
I’m not as malleable as I used to be though.
I’m a bit wiser now. Thank god…

.~ ~ ~

An Odd Mix and Match

I am flour by winter. Or perhaps salt.
White and pasty, and I sit out the greys
and wets those ‘ruary months, crinkled
and wrinkled and webbed from damp.
And I am gummy boots in puddles, such
an odd sort smell. Rubbery and footy
and creasing against skin. And age
colours the back of my hands, mottled
marble holds nothing on them. Doughy,
but genetically slim, taller than most,
but never higher than I should. Jeans
and tops and comfort in shoes, jumpers
and sweaters and scarves in draperies.
An odd mix and match, I am.

 

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Written for Miz Quickly Day 17: Totems . Image from WikiCommons

To Skin a Stone

The Nemean Lion: Labour 1

NemaLion 2

To Skin a Stone

a lion fallen from the moon,
on Nemea with claws and sword,
a lair to distress,
a cave rushed on bones remain,
devouring Hades itself.
Lost to days in sacrifice,
amazed and terrified —
to skin a stone,
a stone itself,
all elements of the beast.

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The Nemean Lion: Labour 1 (remixed from Wikipedia’s Nemean Lion )
photo wikimedia public domain “Hercules killing the Nemean Lion”
Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons

“Found” Below the Lake

Below the Lake

Like water possessed,
More heads than breath,
His lair was older than myth.
That lake beneath
The water raised,
A swamp to his mouth and nose.
The fumes drew deep
Dark blue the sky, then turned
And fell on signs of crabs.
The stench.
The river.
The fish.
The poison washed.

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Written for Margo’s Poem Tryouts
Found poetry from Wikipedia “Lernaean Hydra”,
photo Hercules slaying he Hydra (1545) from The Labours of Hercules

The Sequel to “1979”

The Sequel_day16

The Sequel to “1979”

They tried,
Tried writing themselves into the plot,
Like soap into a dish.
She in that square-cut cream coat,
and he wearing those boat shoes,
and thinking red wine is a bodily fluid.
But of course we have a reservation,
she whined. She was all red hair
and fragile beauty,
but there was still nowhere to sit.
So they waited. In the bar.
Seated next to a roaring fireplace.
It was 102-degrees outside.

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Written for Miz Quickly Day 16, “The Sequel” – poem based on Roddy Lumsden’s “1979”, photo WikiCommons