Hummingbirds

The hummingbirds came out for the man, on in his days
The man came out for them, in the pale break o' day

To feed them, be with them, as always

A picture painted in time
-- flitting, ecstatic, simple --
As was the man, birds brushing buzzingly against
-- the chaparral fabric receding
In time --

In response to the Freewrite prompt posted here

Spirits Swirling

Because it's too late to be yesterday
I'll live with the mixing colors of today
Because it's too late to be yesterday
I won't call it a day until tomorrow
Because it's too late to be yesterday
I'll live with the mixing colors of today

Because every color mixing is an angel
May the bright healing light wash you through

Miss S

Dear Fair Missus
the hope-flowers sang silent songs of praise
the day I met you.

In truth, you are fairer to me
than any flower.

In truth high praise this be,
for most men and women
are no more than
skin-bags of toxic waste sustained
by a hint of grace.

While most flowers are angels
who tired of heaven
for the time being.

In another life,
when I am not quite I,
and you are not quite you,
I'd like to marry you.

Then we'll take coffee together,
and share all the pretty sunsets.

Alas I'm certain I'll never really meet you
really.
And whosoever said life isn't tragedy?

a witch's rattle

It was made simply
of a tincan of eaten blackbeans
neatly cleaned rinsed and dried.

Then filled a fifth up
with dried split pea,
and sealed off with
a cardboard lid and straps of black duct tape.

Most often it sat and waited for a proper time
to call out to its friend
so it could take her places.

Unanswered Lyric

In the firefly memory press firstly
of like bright and autumn's latest cast
and for the love love love like doves
I in recent haze like needeth came fast

to the dance with babes to glowing enhance
and o shame you say to ununderstand me

and not hesitate as rapt as elk flee past
whom I love and lovingly love love
at war with pink of roses bloom
o the firefly memory spins yarns yearning
for the raven dull beauty
of You

Acrostic

Sometimes it all
Takes so much courage, and the
Rapport with oneself to know, and the
Energy to do what
Needs
Getting done
Today.
However, it ain't ever easy.

Swans Silent Swam

Eleven white swans silent swam
skirting the surface
of tranquil waters.

Below them teemed hundreds of tadpoles,
filtering through the suspended murk
and darting past lily pad stems.

From above, amidst the outcropping
of glossy green pads,
a flower's white benediction
inspired of the setting.

Nearby,
the swans had through
their lightness of touch
already fully submersed.

---

and one apt last time for sakes and songs gone by and in blue memories receding between the obscure dark of this room us lying here listening to preordained of silences spoken breathing out

---

the Mighty Oak

will you go as the mighty oak goes, into the earth above and the sky below?

will you know as mighty oak knows,
while the burble brook flows and the fierce wind blows?

what is lost when weakness shows, and what is told in the song of crows, as the stout heart beat of the mighty oak slows?

rapier

all my most important points
I thrust into
what must've been deaf ears

and these so-called men
must be bloodless cowards
as from what I thrust my sword point into
nothing came out

not even a squeak

Osiris Entombed

The virulence of a god
is nothing to be
trifled with, and

Osiris entombed
was not a happy
man.

It was from the places
of the most heinous intimacy
with his own god's soul
that the Curses issued forth,
spoke from the barbed-off
pit of his hatred.

He cursed Seth,
so-called brother,
to desecration, to torture,
to dismemberment--
being torn to fragments,
each useless piece of once-him
acutely and eternally aware
of its own torment...

But those Curses thus
uttered in a tomb,
had nowhere to go but
from Osiris's lips
to Osiris's ears.

When after extensive seeking,
Isis finally found the casket,
washed up in a mangrove thicket,

she shrieked
at what was left inside.

ronin -- ars poetica

masterless,
I kneel before the font of ink
and ask it to flow
through me

the only mentor I ever had
in the art of writing
killed himself
in a closet

he didn't have the gutz
or perchance he did

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#poem #art #moonlit #rubble #sparkling

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