Another poem about rooks

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.

Celebration!

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.

cold beer
burritos
laughter

A haibun for dVerse – the first of 2022.

Summer afternoon

Splitting one green stalk, then

threading through the next slim stem,

making a necklace, or a crown –

white petals tipped with pink, like shells,

or sunset clouds, or fingernails;

hot sun on my neck, legs stretched – grass tickling;

somewhere nearby a bird is singing.

Quadrille night! Our word is “crown” and the prompt is by De. Get over to dVerse to read the prompt and find more poems!

West coast

The sea is blue –
as if all the blue
was made here
before the world was born

as if all the blue
flowed out of here –

summer sky
winter twilight
jay feather
gannet’s eye
old sapphires
chicory flowers

and that’s why we pause
we breathe in blue
we soak in it, float in it

we rest in it.

My offering for dVerse tonight. I’m hosting, and we’re looking at paintings by Fay Collins. Join us.

eroded coast iso400

Haibun: gratitude.

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.

Oatcakes. Stoke.

running down the backs –
for a dozen. One in the hand,
hot. And the comfortable heat

of the white paper parcel
pressed between arm and chest.

Did I mention the feel
of old cobbles, smoothed
by a million footsteps,
the hot, sour savoury smell,

the hiss of the griddle,
the warm knowing
that there would be melted cheese
waiting in a Pyrex dish

and Granny’s hands, big-knuckled,
turning bacon in the pan?

A poem about memories, for Laura Bloomsbury at dVerse.

Prosery: reaching the line


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”.

Last light

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.