Rust

Look at the rust,
How it spreads like lichens
Over overlapping tin,
Turning panels rich red
Brown and bluish gray
And dusty black,
Until it grits the metal surface
To coarse sand and turns edges
Toward the sun like petals.
See the rust
That trims the drying buds
Of roses silent curled,
Paper-veined and thin,
Self-contained and beaten
By the peeling brown.
Listen to the creaking rust
Of threaded cap and pipe,
Complicit as they hold to one another.
Look at your rusty hair
Gone thin and white, my skin
Blooming with the creeping rust of age.
See us turn toward the sun
And hold to one another, complicit
In the silence of our veins.

- Posted by Karen

Thirst

THIRST


It's in the way the rain falls
     in sharp, inexorable drops

until the world is long lines,
     stitching sky to earth.

It's in the driving needles
     that push hungry fawns to group
          and bed beneath the drooping birch.

It's in the urge that makes them
     nuzzle sodden earth, returning,

 little by little, through a new washed world
     in certainty  and wonder

in search of tender shoots.

On Looking at a Photo of Robert Frost

  

 On Looking at a Photo of Robert Frost

Who would have thought

     that Frost,

who looks

      in all the books

like some grand father,

 who cleaned the spring
      in spring

and stopped in winter woods --

who, looking at this white-haired

     gentle man

        
would ever think
     that he,

 who knew that walls

     can't stand,

but built them anyway,

this white haired gentle man --

who would have thought
      that even he,

would be acquainted

     with the night

like me?

 

Pyre

The Poetry Jam challenge is to write an elegy. This doesn't fit the bill, but it is about death, and I already had it in the works. Go to the Jam (click on the pic on my sidebar) and read more. For that matter, look below this poem for another about death. Cheerful, aren't I?


















When I burn low--
Cooling off with age
So that the fires of life
Are full too strong to be,

When I am bent --
Drawn unto the earth
So that the narrow bed
Is all the world I see,

When I dissolve --
Sift away through time
So nothing else is left
Except what's best of me,

When I am loosed --
Clay begun to shed
So I am but a mark
In someone's memory,

Then let me sail alone,
Untethered by regret
Burning in the night,
Grateful to be free.

Glendalough

 

Glendalough

All around, the dead, they lay
In hillocks green, ‘neath mossy stone,
Unmarked, untold, forgotten now;
The trial, the strife, unmourned, unknown.
Interred here, the babe, the wife,
Sarah, Peg and Maryanne,
These least, they dwell among the best,
The ancient lords, the highest man,
Whose weathered crests, now ivy mocked,
Defeated stones on hummocks fall.
The honored place of weeds and green,
By nature claimed, is shared by all

In Glendalough, where servants lay
Aside of saints and lords and stones,
As all shall come to rest one day
Amid the ancient hills of  home.

MOONFLOWER

The creative Kat, Poetikat, who blogs here, is in charge of the Poetry Jam this week, and she's in full bloom, asking us to write about a flower -- only darkly. This may not be what she had in mind, but the jammers are a forgiving lot. You can find other poems here. Why not join the bouquet?

MOONFLOWER

In the dark of the night,
In the glow of the moon,

When there's no one to care,
And there's no one to see,

She opens her heart
And releases perfume,

Turns her face to the sky,
Dances wild, dances free,

Sings a dark, secret song,
To the sweet, sultry air,

And makes love to herself
When there's nobody there.
 

Under the Boardwalk

Slap my paw, and say, "Bad Blog!" I haven't had time to spend doing something I love to do -- read and write poetry. As I've said many times, life interferes with living, and making a living...well, read the poem, and maybe you'll understand.


This is my contribution to the Poetry Jam. The challenge is to incorporate the first line of a song into your poem. This one happens to be true. You can find others here.





UNDER THE BOARDWALK


All week long, the boss sang
Under the boardwalk
While we carried boxes and arranged chairs
He crooned
Down by the sea
As we covered tables
With productivity tools
He hummed
On a blanket with my baby
To the whirr of projection devices
Laptops and camera fans
His tune carried us
Through the end of the conference
To where he wants us to be.

Cherries

Cherry Jam, anyone? This poem is my contribution to June 13 Poetry Jam.

Faithful chef NanU is stirring the pot again, and this week's challenge is to choose a picture and see where it takes us.This one takes me back, back to an innocent time before I knew where else I'd go.

To read other takes on the Poetry Jam prompts, go here. Why not join the Jam? It's sweet!


CHERRIES

I remember the longest branch
of the black cherry tree,

how we swung bare feet
to the music in our heads

and shot round stones
as far as we could blow.

I remember dreams we had
of the places we would go

and kisses in the leaves
as warm and sweet as summer,

as full of promise as the juices of the fruit
we plucked from that young tree.

Saturday Morning

Saturday morning,

 I close my eyes, and I almost hear
The sounds of children coming near;

I drink my coffee undisturbed,
Nowhere in this house, a word.

Out the window, a young bird

On the plum tree sings
Of feasts of grain and seed

Unaided by a mother's beak
Or hand or heart or need.

Cutting Into a Sweet Pepper

Cutting into a sweet pepper
As red as blood,
I scrape the inner parts,

Spongy membranes 

With little seeds attached.

Hidden away inside,
In the lower chamber,
Like a secret heart,
Is a growing twin,
A perfect copy of the larger fruit, 

Clinging to the septum
So that it takes more effort than it should
For me to pry it loose.

I lay it on the cutting board
And tip it with my knife,
Almost sorry to have taken

Such delight in exposing
Something so safe, so private,
And so closely held inside.