One More Day

Blue as the sea, Sierra Madres rim Bandaras, bay of flags. 

Mist bruises the mountains not yet burned by sun.

Time for us to go, even though the colors hold like glue; 

magnolias and wild flowers beckon.

One more day, you sing. 

One day more I sing in chorus.

In days, the sea will be a spectre,

pirated colored glass the only reminder of paradise,

fossil, flesh, and sand.

How to Read a Poem

What I want to say is
you can't rinse and stack a poem.
You have to let your hands
slip across the page.
Wrap the rhythm round your fist
and plunge into the lines.
Turn the words until the stains
of last night's tea are gone.
Get between the tines.
Feel the sharp knives inside the soapy sea.
Wash, rinse, and hold it to the light.
Let it shine like finest crystal.
I want to say
a poem must be scrubbed
before you place it on the shelf
like last night's news. 
Rub it. Read it clean;
Read it, feel it, repeat.

Mystery

This poem was written after one glance at Odilon Redon's "Mystery" and as part of the IGRT challenge by Hedgewitch to write an ekphrastic poem on one of Redon's works. The lamb in the poem is from both the painting and an experience shared with a dying loved-one who asked, "Who is that man over there?" When asked what man she meant, she pointed to blank space and said that man with the sheep." She was a lifelong Catholic. She "should have" seen a man with a glowing heart. She saw lambs. Mystery.

Mystery

the final mystery

hanging on the wall

a man

a lamb

a cup

a man with a lamb in his hands

a man cradling a cup

like Lazarus, a man raised up

around my neck

upon my wall

that man 

that plan 

that mystery

What the Net Holds

“the tongues of dying men / 

enforce attention like deep harmony.”

                                                                   —W. S. Shakespeare

One final time, we wait 

for you to speak the truth 

we know you knew.

Your dry tongue clicks,

lips like gaping fish.

Not air you strain

from or to, but the wish 

to speak of beauty, harmony, 

and truth. Too late.

We come too late in the day

for you to say, and yet we stay

suspended in the possibility

that the air we breathe

has molecules of you

dissolved and thrown 

against the deeply mortal reef.

When finally we leave,

our nets are filled, heavy with

the poetry we seek.

How the Peacock Got His Tail or The Night Has a Hundred Eyes, a Hundred Eyes, but None Do See

In mythology, the story of Zeus, Hera, Io, and Argus is a tale of lust, trickery, death, and honor.  In brief, jealous Hera turned Zeus's lover Io into a white heifer and set the hundred-eyed watchman Argus to guard her. Hermes, a god known for trickery, lulled Argus to sleep by playing music on a reed and by telling monotonous tales. Zeus was able to recover Io, and Hera placed a hundred eyes in the tail of her favorite bird in tribute to Argus.

This tale of the tail is written for the April 1 d'Verse prompt to write about an animal. That's my recently created artwork up there, so I have peacocks on my mind (obviously). Why? I don't know. Why not?

How the Peacock Got His Tail

or 

the night has a hundred eyes, a hundred eyes, but none do see

One hundred eyes to guard the prize,

But every eye did close.

As Argus fell to Hermes' spell

That lulled him to repose;

And Zeus did laugh to take the calf,

Sweet Io, from his queen;

The watchman gave his life to save

Hera's pride supreme.

And Hera, moved by gratitude,

Although the fight she lost,

Placed the eyes to memorialize

Poor Argus and the cost.

The peacock's fan, to modern man,

A thing of rare beauty;

In ancient days, a tribute made

To eyes that no more see.