My muse is black-feathered, splay-winged, harsh-voiced, my muse rides on the wind, dives skyward, carousels thermals, helter-skelters gravity, embraces emptiness. My muse high-wires on the topmost branch, sees the world unrolling like a map, follows invisible paths; my muse is crone-wise, midnight-cloaked, street-smart, free.
A quadrille for De at dVerse. The key word is muse. Regular readers will knnow I bang on about rooks a lot. Might as well shame the devil – the rook takes her rightful place as my muse in this poem.
Sometimes these are the best celebrations – the times you find yourself in someone’s kitchen, and somebody’s chopping onions, and somebody’s fixing drinks, and you’re talking and laughing, and it’s much later than you intended, and there’s nothing at all to celebrate, except this. This moment, right here right now.
I started a gratitude journal a few weeks ago, at a time when it was hard to feel grateful. It’s gently morphed into something slightly different – this is the place where I write down the moments that make me stop and absorb. I’m grateful for those moments because for a breath, a pause, a heartbeat, I am taken out of myself. I forget myself.
What I realised a couple of days ago is that these are haiku moments. The moments we step outside of time, the moments we want to share with the universe.
an oak tree a circle of gold autumn ends
A haibun for Frank at dVerse. We are thinking about thankfulness in this Thanksgiving week.
I’m running as fast as I can. Breathing hurts, everything hurts, but here is the line: I am bombarded yet I stand, just out of range. They can’t reach me now. The missiles fall short.
My comrades aren’t all so lucky. I count the ones who reach the line – three, nine, seventeen. That’s all that’s left of us. Eighteen, one with a ragged wound in his leg, one with blood pouring down her face.
We walk now, legs aching, longing for water and rest. We don’t even look behind, to where the castle is burning. Others will take over now, break through those walls, announce their triumph. They won’t mention us in their victory speeches. We have fire beneath our skins: we are the devil’s children. We’ll be kept hidden until we’re needed again.
One day we’ll burn everything. One day we’ll be free.
Merril is hosting a prosery night at dVerse tonight: 144 words of flash fiction, containing the key line. Tonight’s line is from Adrienne Rich’s ‘Planetarium’ : Here is the line: “I am bombarded, yet I stand”.
Sunlight broke the clouds at the last and we saw, and we rushed out to catch the last daylight
We walked up the lane, where the trees reach up to the sky. Stayed too long – suddenly it was twilight
We walked back as the night pulled our coats and the house was a black paper boat in the moonlight
We made warmth – we pushed out the cold with hot soup and red wine, and the gold of the firelight
And the room that we slept in that night was a palace of silver delight, so bright was the starlight.
This is a compound word poem, for a prompt by Grace at dVerse. You can find the rules on her prompt post. This is a new form for me, and I always find it takes a while for me to get my head round new forms! So this is quite simple, I think.