Orchids

orchids

In these chaste chasms of dreams,
embers lay solemnly,
their dying breaths long since gone,
ushered away and of little consequence now.
The undisguised dust, like gentle butterflies,
finds a place in the air.
The soft eyes of fate watches the dimming cloud
filter out of view, then as wind
she blows it back in our face.
Despite lost fulfilment,
and rather than choke, we breathe deeply again
like new-born infants crying out for a chance,
luck and good fortune to
clothe us on the coldest of days,
and perhaps for well earned rewards to litter our path,
the rains to pour down and the heavens to smile
on us when we stoop to pick up the promised orchids.

Dawn (Ghazal)

DAWN.png

Poetry challenge #44: Ghazal by Jane Dougherty

3rd draft and final attempt  – slightly diff but technically accurate.

Maidens tell tales when love remembers,
flamed arrows shoot a heart’s dying embers.

A stinging love’s smouldering ashes cry,
on dove cheeks, cute, unlike hearts’ dying embers.

Awaken Dawn with a dearth of kindling,
two souls, torn fruits of hearts’ dying embers.

Day perfumes rosewater of sullen dreams,
day wakes to salute  hearts’ dying embers.

Clasp as partners to the edge of all love,
hands sieve moot ghosts from hearts’ dying embers.

2nd Revised version – I had missed out the internal rhyme, but this spoiled the first

Maidens tell tales when love remembers,
flamed arrows shoot a heart’s dying embers.

A stinging love’s smouldering ashes cry,
on dove cheeks, mute, like hearts’ dying embers.

Awaken Dawn with a dearth of kindling,
two souls, red fruits, hearts’ dying embers.

Day perfumes rosewater of sullen dreams,
drank to salute hearts’ dying embers.

Clasp as partners to the edge of all love,
hands sieve moot ghosts from hearts’ dying embers.

1st draft – without internal rhyme

Maidens tell tales when love remembers,
flamed arrows shoot a heart’s dying embers.

A stinging love’s smouldering ashes cry,
on dove cheeks, plump, like hearts’ dying embers.

Awaken Dawn with a dearth of kindling,
two souls laden with hearts’ dying embers.

Day perfumes rosewater of sullen dreams,
drank to enliven hearts’ dying embers.

Clasp as partners to the edge of all love,
hands sieve ash ghosts from hearts’ dying embers.

 

Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild geese chatter.

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The hollow cheeks of winter scantily cover
the skeletal lantern jaw of spring; bones
bleached white by receding frost are free
to begin their stiff rattle for warmth
and to generate the spirits who come armed
with bare bodkins. Spindled fingers, barer
than the twigs, mesmerise waves of air;
cajoling it, shaping it –
sieving from it whiter ghosts whose jangling,
laden necklaces jump up and down
to distract nature while they attempt to mix
together taboos with pestle and mortar
made from the wood of hardy grapevines –
its pounding fists crush green snakes with albino
to sedate her lust for colourful concoctions.

Meanwhile, the elixir created for the belly
of spring is fed intravenously – nature’s essential
essence and innate disposition doesn’t allow
for winter’s voodoo to dance past its time to rest
and it calls sap to rise, but not before
veins of ochre pump the hesitant glimmers
of warm sun to feed feathers on new growth –
the fair down worn by earthy women – dancing
to death storms under foot – mulching in croaking
remnants of damp and decomposing cloth.

The gaseous canary sings louder, happily shifting
its weight until coldness is gone
and its old clothes are discarded for new
they are tossed into the fire; smells
from warmed bones meet a sky heavy
with murmuring, and amber sparks
hanging from its underbelly cling like
new born kittens from snagged cotton
waiting for a cushion – as time waits for new flesh
to stick to spring’s ribs. And, like the certainty
of kisses, sweet and plenty, winter’s stuff
will not endure the warm rains of its graven image
burning in effigy –
springtime’s triumphant rebirth
is the flame of winter falling as golden daffodils.

*Title partially nicked from King Lear.

Blue Moon

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spread fingers are useless for grasping
inevitability and disbelief…

is it possible for a blue moon’s light
to lose its grip and slip
into master waves
to drown in a thousand fathoms deep

or for the night to thin, stretched and taught
as wretched twists and turns
of hearts once gold
turn away to sleep one thousand dreams deep

and all the love you have becomes billowing
draft swept under cold sheets;
wrinkles are bolstered by shadows, their carved
blood seeps from wounds one thousand cuts deep

spread fingers stroke contours less lifelike, touch becomes
sharp like cold air inside lungs when it runs loose.

 

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