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.

Me, You, Mockingbird

Much Madness is divinest Sense to a discerning Eye ~ Emily Dickenson

Sometimes a poem means just what it means. This is inspired by the Wordle of We Write Poems, a play with sound and sense.

Somewhere 

in the Madness Woods,

across the Rabbit Blue 

far beyond the Melting Wind,

"You, me, Mockingbird."

It teases life again, 

faint and growing thin:

Me, 

       You, 

            Mockingbird.

Caterpillars drop from trees

Photo of African Emprer Moth caterpillar taken by Lillian Reddy; borrowed from (and poem inspired by) Kerry O'Connor and Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads

Caterpillars drop 

             From trees,

                Curled with hope

                          And possibility.

                            Watch your tread;

                             Even one less

                          Is one too many.

                      Even one moth

                  Less is chaos, 

              A kingdom

Of infinite loss.

After

AFTER

After, suddenly, 

                     

silence.

Cotton in the ears,

underwater bottom 

quiet.

Stopped clock, 

empty house,

                    

Absence quiet.

Transcendent, ascendant

chrysalis quiet.

On being a poet

On being a poet 

It's awful, having nothing to say,

To sit silent like a toad,

Breathing in and breathing out.

Yet how pleased he seems

To sit, sun and shadows,

Breeze to stir the reeds.

Look how his sides heave,

A bellows of deep rhythms.

Nothing in the bright bead eyes

Of shame or want. No whipping 

For missed flies, regret or condemnation.

Only is. Only am. Only he,

Uncensored by his mind,

Free to breathe. Little Buddha, 

Free to be. 

Old Wounds

OLD WOUNDS

Old scars if rubbed

Will scab and bleed;

Old aches return

With pressure.

A wounded heart

Of anger freed

Heals and breaks

In equal measure

Snow Day

Snow Day

Again, the call disturbing fitful sleep.

The ground, the whole world,

White and swirling.

The children, swaddled, nestled, snug,

Turn in dreams,

Their math the geometry of crystals,

Their compositions written in the sky.

Honk If You Love Jesus

Honk  if you love Jesus

From Heaven, it might sound 

like bleating sheep;

Up close, a gaggle of geese,

warning one another.

Right here, it is the horns 

of locking cars, testifying

that we store up earthly treasures 

against the dangers of church parking.

"Wonder is Not a Disease"

Photo taken from Facebook page

I've been reading a little of the writings of Alan Watts, 20th Century philosopher. I won't try to characterize him or his thinking here, as his beliefs and teachings are too complex for this space and time. You can find much of his work on the Internet or as curated by his son, Mark Watts.

This poem is inspired by a phrase from his writings.

" wonder is not a disease"

In this sac of blood and bone

is wonder,

budding like a leaf, 

whole and green.

This bursting, if not soul, 

what then?

Not rudimentary output,

hair and and skin.

The universe, at once

strange yet familiar,

is self-contained;

imagination blossoms from within.