Such a Tiny Thing

Wishing you all the best for this season! Take care and stay safe! Today, years later, this poem resonates with me because of what we are all going through, and who we have lost, and our resilience. The tone is hushed, but strong and fast, as we encourage the bird to fight to fly and to finally sleep after all its endeavours to survive. Just, as I imagine, like us all.

Sing little bird,
fly overhead,
rest in the trees’
wavering breeze.

Lift the curtain high at dawn
let the flickering candles yawn.

Tall trees aglow,
clouds full of snow,
laden with light,
sing black on white,
snow flurry sneeze
small feathers freeze.

Fly little bird
lift up and fight,
go little bird
circle the light,
sleep little bird,
a peaceful goodnight.

Try little bird,
lift your wings while you’re still singing
soon the night will warm your dreaming.

Fly little bird
reach for the night,
go little bird,
shy winter’s light.

Warm your body, melt the snow
for the daylight crisp below.

Go little bird,
sleep little bird,
find the songs you sweetly sing,
nestle there ’til winter’s still.

Go little bird,
up to the night,
fly little bird
soundly tonight.

See the moon she’s smiling for you
shivering stars their arms are open too,

so go little bird,
fly little bird,
high little bird,
hush little bird,

soon will come the voices of the morn
joyous little creature of our dawn.

Go little bird,
fly little bird,
sleep little bird,
twilight is heard.
Go little bird…
go.

Dream Like Dali

Picture source: Salvador Dali 1904 – 1989

Majestically, she strode to the edge of sun baked
sand, like an hourglass held up by time,
before she became still; her long legs equidistant

man lay heel to toe with a savage sun –
humanity encrusted with parched earth,
it had partially eaten him –

a dried out white dove clung
to an exposed ribcage; a much needed perch
for a wasted observer
tired of flying,
tired of singing,
lost in his search for peace.
Its feathers, etched from
fine, dried clay – were fissure
like veins devoid of faith – baked
outside of death,
badly in need of rest.

Her elongated shadow buried
them both before she knelt on the earth
for water to pour from dainty,
silver rivulets
that ran her body,
which was smooth
and flowing sand

he watched her rise,
striking the sky
with her cool, black silhouette
but on the floor it lay
outstretched – as an amber pool
of honey;
he placed in it his hand
to taste her

immediately, he was quenched, fed. Arid skin
of dust and clay fell away, as did the shell of the dove,
which had replaced his heart –
its wings shattered
into a thousand pieces like baby soft powder
dusting the gritty, sparkling floor

in the breeze, billowing white clouds
conjured a magnificent
topaz bird; its plumage was a thousand lights
of peaceful nights held in its tail eyes
of beautiful iridescence –
tail eyes that had once glimpsed peace
in a thousand colours: turquoise, ocean green
and gold …

quill feathers wafted the zircon grains
of the sand, writing new rules,
posturing and reshaping –

beautiful but cruel foundations of peacock ore
too brittle to walk on, created swank waves
of peacock blues,

and it strutted till a thousand feathers
fell on the sand
rising once more as blood red poppies
that poured in an avalanche from the gaping
mouths of soldiers still inside tin helmets –
grown men like babes still fighting
inside their dreams

he tried to pick the wild flowers for her
but barbed, razor wire snagged
his crumbling fingers,
and hidden behind those were children’s faces
pressed against wire mesh
on the shores of green, unpleasant lands lapped by oceans
that gulped and gagged; force fed a rigorous diet
of helplessness and hope
each time sand was flipped inside the hourglass

he gripped her waist,
but, his reflection caught on her glass bosom,
it shattered her hourglass frame

she was released

a thousand more grains of sand
flowed like the salt
of his tears – sprinkling gently
from a watering can’s wise rose
to try to feed the presumption of green
leaves between his toes

his flaking sinews were pulled
to his chest; he wore a crude hole
where the dove had nestled –
dust stung his eyes
and, his tattered hands rose, forming a bridge
that the sun rode across
to join him at his journey’s end

red jewel fish swam ahead of her
in shoals of beating hearts –
riders corralled the sand storm’s cloth
approaching like a whirling dervish;
her titian hair draped those black, almond desert eyes,

and their glinting sunlit flecks
consumed time in their frenzy –
she placed the convergence of jewel fish; a plump,
red heart,
within his rib cage,

she was a belly dancer for a while
on the sand’s hypnotic gyrations
prompting creatures with a spin of time
to play music
inside of their shells

her lips were kissed by
one thousand butterflies, and her open palms
let loose a chorus of titanium white doves;
all of the notes to harmonise with man’s discord –
all willing one more time to fly away
in a relentless search for peace and to sing
for another one thousand years –

time enough, she thought, before they’d need
a place to rest

Notification brings me in

hands conserv

I’m apparently celebrating  three years of WordPress, which also means, I am reminded of the reason for my blog and the bare, three years without my dad.  But, please, when you find yourself there, do not despair;  remember that life happens.  It is what it is.  Enjoy your life, regardless.  I know he would be thrilled that I have embraced more than he ever saw as an inclination within me.  I got married.  I continued to write, became published, even became the activist in word and deed.  He always saw that, but I did not.

I don’t have it in me at present to write.  I could reblog, but for me, that doesn’t always  matter.   What does matter is that the souls of the young are not tarnished, not disillusioned by life in whatever form it manifests.   I can just ask from experience that you – love it, live it, create, and be your best to help this world and those that inhabit it.  We are ALL sentient beings with feelings.  To that end, we must campaign, build a better life for us and those without a voice.  We need to campaign,  petition and nag our political parties to eradicate endless suffering of us and our animal counterparts.   We should not be allowed to rule with impunity… simply because we can!  Climate change is real as is death and taxes.  Learn from it.  Use it.  If only to leave behind common decency.

Golden yellow cups
dressing the fields in harmony
soon drowned in water

Seven #Quadrille

 

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Quadrille for dVerse.  Other entries can be found here.

Black gossamer strands,
like grasping fingers,
pitch against
the brightest moon glow,
reaching and writhing
effortlessly, beckoning
wild, tepid winds of the night.
Silence bore chaotic sounds,
nature’s heartbeat
quickened as thunderous hooves
brought seven stallions
majestically to the bough of a leafy bend.

 

Comment-a-Haiku Poetry Contest! – Submit Your Poem

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Baton

Summer’s scorched burnt tip
Pierces autumn’s bronzed winter
Till quenched by cool spring

Have a go!

Vita Brevis Press

You all loved the last Comment-a-Haiku Competition, so let’s give it another go! Here’s What You Need to Know:

Support Us Here.


Vita Brevis is hosting another four-day haiku competition–taking place entirely in the comment section of this post!

How to Submit:

1. Submit one 5-7-5 haiku as a comment on this post — all topics welcome

2. Reblog this post on your blog or write a post announcing that you’ve entered the competition, linking back here

3. Give good feedback on other commenters’ work! [This is what it’s really about–you’ll be receiving good feedback, so try to give it to others as well]

Reward: Honestly, this is less about “winning” and more about meeting and communicating with other poets.But we will choose some honorable mentions, and we’ll publish our favorite haiku on the front page of our online poetry magazine (with a link to the poet’s blog)

View original post 29 more words

Screaming Shame #Quadrille

screaming windscreaming wind-tree-asitcomes

Foul words on screaming winds
attach to me vicious lies.
Soft in approach,
loud in defiance –
suckers lavish wounds
already frayed –
betrayal saps my strength.
Let its scorched touch
be enslaved by innocence,
and mercy unknown to me,
drop gentle from heaven.

A Quadrille is a new poem form consisting of 44 words.

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