The Seers of Laughter
I’ll tell you a secret – I’m a prisoner
to a child’s laughter. I’m caught
like a shadow in the wiles of sunlight.
Their smiles fill my head with sparkle
and shine. Seers, a diamond’s clarity.
They spill colour into crazy quilts.
That’s it – please, make me a martyr
to a child’s joy, their songs that ring
like steel tempered in iced water.
Take me, and never a stranger shall
I be to childhood’s numerous delights.
Photo Flickr Commons
Written for Sunday Whirl
This week’s words: shine, crazy
diamond, martyr, seer, secret,
laughter, prisoner, childhood,
steel, stranger, shadow
A Chase Back Home
I shall pack my bags, and fly.
Board this vessel of my imagi-
nation, and set my ears to tunes
of rolling waves. I’ll bathe in mists
flipped on end by southern winds,
soft piqued scents of greening pines.
I shall chase my footprints, skipping
with grains of sand, and toss aside
worries as if they be stiffen boots.
All that, as I chase myself back home.
image from the kitchens garden and used with permission
and poem written to prompt: Red Wolf Poems “Playing on a Deserted Island”
Dad’s decided that pigeons are God’s marvel.
Sherman tanks with little wings. And something
about their heads hinged straight to their knees.
And they take-off into the air from a standing start.
Truly. A marvel. But after yesterday’s mess, we’re
not entirely convinced about the luck of it. Dad says
he’s taking his coffee inside the café from now on.
Love Edna (from somewhere in Poland)
(ps, still can’t find a post office.)
A Winter Walk into Grey
There’s a limp hanging mood
in the blue glazed pots. Long sticks,
once stems, poking upward like tails
of happy cats greeting each other.
And the air is soaked through,
a spongiform grey, cold and thick
as a butcher’s rump. I slip into my
coat, grab an umbrella, a hat, all
I’ll need for stepping out. Into fog.
Into October’s deadpan breeze.
It’s time for an afternoon winter’s
walk with an overly excited dog.
For Margo’s landscape 15 October 2014
Old Bones and Birch Trees
The garden shines an opaque hunger,
and the air is strangely electric. Like a virgin.
You know the sort. They glisten and vibrate
when you stand too close. And everything
seems to vibrate from the cold right now.
Icicles sing — lean long teeth, hanging lank
from crimped limbs of the birch trees.
Polished dazzling bones, they are.
And the wind races through them, dead
and decaying, like some sort of warning.
Even the stray cats are quiet. Tails flick.
The garden is a tomb at this time of year —
life buried and waiting for small sparks,
daring themselves to jump from fire and set
flame to the world. And I dream in the key
of green, and patiently fine-tune my trowels.
Written for Margo’s Poem Tryouts, Wide Open Spaces Image WikiCommons
Written for Found Poetry Review “Acrostic Chance Poetry“
Dried Gourds and Other Myths
I read about a man who slept on a bench
in a train station -
wore his underpants on his head to keep
his ears warm.
I also read that if your brain gets too cold
it rattles about
like little seeds in one of those dried gourds.
Like one of those
dead Mexican worms in a bottle of liquor.
Now that’s what I’d call a torturous headache.
I also read that chickens have headaches.
All that pecking.
And turkeys are so stupid that they dress up
as pilgrims in November -
I reckon only Americans un’erstand that one.
Doubt if some guy
in Uzbekistan would get it. Or give a toss.
And if you wear your uniform backwards
be accused of running away,
run in the right direction.
And mother says all those face lotions
are gimmicks – just smear olive oil on your
flesh, she says,
although she claimed later she was teasing.
And where’s the button to turn off this machine…
Written for Sunday Whirl Wordle: machine, flesh,
tease, lotion, gimmick, hypnotising, lust, chickens,
torture, uniform, liquor, brains, trains
It’s All in Preparation
What hiss this dinner gives
under fan blades furling
steam, a stream arisen,
broth of colours deep
in woods, a chop, a block,
where a mushroom stood.
Pieces minced to dusky stars
and a glistened glaze
on to this place. A splash,
that hiss, it devours scents
and invites our table full.
Written for dVerse where Björn Rudberg leads dVerse in writing an avant-garde poem
The Devil’s Own
I want to be swept clean by wind,
Salty, and so cold that it feels hot.
I want to be reminded of how
Nature feels. Sounds. Tastes.
And that can only happen for me
When winter whips its tail
Like the Devil’s own deeds.
Written for PA prompt 283, Natural/Nature