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.

Angel

She has always been an angel –
no tinsel halo or cardboard wings required
to make her glow, to give her flight.

She has always carried a star,
not a silver-paper, gold-sprayed star –
something clearer, brighter, stronger –

something that lights her up
from deep inside.

Quadrille night at dVerse. Join us there! Mish is hosting, and our word is “tinsel”.

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!

Funfair

The rooks
are funfairing again

do you remember?
Being small? Spiralling
across the playground,
arms flung wide,
your coat
hung from your head

like a cape,
like wings,

your body the fulcrum
for the spinning world?

That’s how they are –
that’s how they fly.

A fair quadrille for Linda at dVerse.

Autumn

The trees catch fire –
flames flicker in the wind –
gold and red and amber –
and then the nakedness
of branches, ash-grey
against an ash-white sky
and deep deep down
embers are waiting
for a single breath
to leap up fresh and new –
green flames

I’m the host at dVerse tonight – it’s always a thrill to host the quadrille! Our word tonight is “ash”.

At the pebble ridge

All that time we spent

looking for stones –

no, for a stone

the perfect stone,

one small enough

to sit and fit

in your small palm;

maybe cut by a line

something to run

your thumb across;

cool as an ocean

in your pocket.

De is hosting at dVerse, it’s quadrille night, and we poeming about stones.

Lingering – quadrille for dVerse

Oh, but the last wasps

are lingering at the bar

already drunk –

gentler than they were,

slower –

hoping for one more glass

one more song

one more stumbling/fumbling dance –

still chic, still slick,

still mumbling foolishly;

looking round, wondering

how summer left

so silently

A quadrille for Linda at dVerse

She stands – quadrille for dVerse

sometimes she stands
and lets herself
be an emptiness
where there is
no rain. Sometimes
she is the space
between sunbeams,
the stillness
within the wind.
Sometimes she is
a silence.
Sometimes she is
the pause before
movement, music,
laughter. Sometimes
she is
enough.

Quadrille for dVerse

This marriage thing – quadrille for dVerse

I am
blotter smudger scrawler
you are
the reader of instructions
the careful butterer of toast
you
measure twice cut once
I
spill the milk I lose my keys I fumble

yet, somehow,
in this clash
we found a way
to build a home

A quadrille for dVerse – the word is “smudge”. Thank you, Mish.

Curiosity – quadrille for dVerse.

Curiosity
says eat me              drink me

takes the narrowest path
slips               between the trees

curiosity turns back
the white linen sheet
           hot wax drips
cinnamon-scented skin              sleeping god

curiosity fumbles              frantic
slick key                     screaming lock

pulls back         the curtain
lets in the light

a curiosity quadrille for dVerse. Thank you, Whimsygizmo. Lovely prompt.