Da capo aria: Notes Written On the Occasion of the Eclipse of the Full Wolf Moon, January 20, 2019 — a poem

Taken from our back deck.


Spectacularly cold is relative; I suppose
that others are observing in parkas, shivering
in winds more wicked, and snow tormented
by northwesterlies, an assist to the dropping
ambient temperature, well past discomfort.

But there it is — low forties with windchill
sub-thirty in Florida — it feels, to thin-blooded
me, especially cold as I watch the shadow
of Earth consume the disc of a full wolf
moon.  Bit by mile, the brightness is snuffed.

Intermedio
I never fully learned musical notation,
never mastered painting, acting (Intermedio:
musical work between acts) or dance.
Now I fight, pressing myself to attainment
of something beyond novice, accomplishing
some slight recognition of craftsmanship
at the art of written communication.  I flail
my back and shoulders, donn a hair shirt,
hoping to produce art before my eclipse.

Nothing much to say long ago; fearful
of saying nothing relevant in the couda.

Coda
The night sky is sumptuous, gems strewn
on a Scotch Blue cloth, the center a blood
ruby moon — all light devoured, fearfully…
wonderfully quiet.  (Coda is from Latin,
couda, meaning tail)The north wind pierces.

Branches of our oaks rattle; we silently
applaud the once-only viewing, wordless.

Inside, the port and the blanket warmed
in the dryer, do little to revive me — undone
by cold and exhaustion, and the moon.

* * *

Scotch Blue —http://www.faena.com/aleph/articles/11-shades-of-blue-a-19th-century-classification-and-the-perfect-words-to-describe-a-color/

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Now In Gold – A Sonnet

An excellent sonnet. Jilly brings us to the cold truth of the grave, the break with a loved one, and the truth that there really is no successful avoidance.

Jilly's

My mother’s grave is covered now in gold
and yellows mums; I never visit there.
The wind in winter blows too rough and cold;
I lack the strength to stand the frigid air
against my face; my hands would only ache.
Sucking in the chill my lungs burn dry,
I’d gasp and clutch a tree against the break-
neck speed of gales and squalls that singe my eye.
No, I remain deep in the south where warm,
the sun can only do me good, and think
of how the snow drifts round the stone in storms;
where frozen mums are waiting roses pink
to kiss the face of God when time is done
and scatter blossoms all about in sun.

Image Source

Breaking with the strictest rules of the English Sonnet, I have chosen the following aberrations:
The first eight lines are broken, not into two quatrains, but into syntactical…

View original post 143 more words

Staring Into the Cup — a poem


Life is a cold brew — a sign
in the cafe that lists
options, suddenly becomes
prophetic.

Most of the time we allow
life to pour over us — steaming
hot messes, one follows
another — we await
stream to lessen to a drip.

The weight of the current
situation pulls us to the ground…

and the best we can hope for is decent coffee.

Pantoum: Leaving a Wake — a Poem




Much like on the water.  Leaving awake
a surface turmoil that stirred the deep.
Was it disorder purely for passion’s sake?
Emotion like waves crashing my heart’s keep.

A surface turmoil that stirred.  The deep-
rooted belief that faithful love would prevail.
Emotion, like waves, crashing.  My heart’s keep,
a false wall erected, destined to fail.

Rooted belief: that faithful love would prevail
caused me to assume a guise detached;
a false wall erected.  Destined to fail
(she was passing swiftly), I became attached.

Caused me to presume.  A guise, detached;
was it disorder?  Purely for passion’s sake
she was passing (swiftly I became attached)
much like on the water, leaving a wake.

* * *

So, Jilly is at the helm at dVerse Poets Pub for Meeting the Bar.  She’s raised the bar, bidding us to “…write a Form Poem that makes use of Repetitive Lines.”

Quadrille: Cracks Among the Fireweed — a Poem


No thanatologist, I — nor one cheered
by Sesquipedalians; although certainly warmed
on the breezy excretions of flawed knowledge.

I’ve worked in death; failed “the face of Death” to see.

Emptiness is only empty to those zealous to disbelieve.

Cheers echo from an assumed abyss.

* * *

De is hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse Poets Pub, and she bids us “cheer!”  (Actually, she wants us to use “cheer,” but I thought it sounded better the other way.  …maybe not.)

It’s Always a Game of Chutes and Ladders

“I must lie down where all the ladders start….”  — W. B. Yeats


Oh no you don’t!
I whisper to a god who laughs,
and then I am left wondering
where I thought I saw
the angels — “How many can dance
(asks the wag in the back seat)…?

It depends on what is playing:
the jitterbug takes
more room.  A slow dance
and you are good for a few more.

But are PDAs allowed on streets of gold?

And would affection
be the thing heavenly beings would show?
Based on the voting masses
of America, my guess would be no.

While you might not have seen God smile,
neither have you seen him grimace… have you?




The Problem with Flint and Steel — a Poem


Fire from heaven he kept
in the suit-coat pocket, folded
notes in leaves
of the combat bible — sweating
as he climbed
the dais.  His gaze
sharp, scanning
the rows.  The agitated
ones, his targeted
words aimed
at their throats.  Convicting
in mind.  Grace tied
and silenced.

Thirty minutes became
an hour under the weight
of his tongue.  Choruses sung
coercively.  Brimstone smoldered.

End of story — much smoke, no light.

* * *



Victoria is hosting Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub and she has us all hot under the (clerical) collar with a call for poets to bring “Fire.”  Sheesh!  Doesn’t she realize how dangerous that could be?!?