Purring Snow #Haiku

basho_by_basho_by_sugiyama_sanpc3bb_1647-1732

Oh my lonely lap
Winter’s icy breath chased you
Now we both tremble

 

 

Advertisements

Ketley #A short story.

Torrey's_narrative;_or,_The_life_and_adventures_of_William_Torrey,_who_was_held_a_captive_by_the_cannibals_of_the_Marquesas_(1848)_(14596858440).jpg

Ketley was a burly man, and because of our differences over the years, he and I stood at the end of that aching pole; his muscled arms were bent on pulling in that monster.  He often snarled mid heave.  I was sure, at times, he would have loved the head on that line to have been mine.  I may have been wrong, but I had chills that morning on the river; strong notions, dare I say it, that I couldn’t cast aside.

He froze my core with his backward glances as he caught me reminiscing.  I knew how wrong, but at the same time, how tantalising my dalliances had been with his shapely fair-haired, sassy woman, whom I did love with all my heart.

Had I been altogether spoiled for choices, I could have kept her, instead of being plainly faced with death’s place underground.  So, I kissed her farewell and braced myself for the wrath of Ketley, but why we had to meet here of all places was, and was not, a curiosity to me.

His sights were held firmly on that there bleak as hell’s charmed water and god knows what he thought was underneath it all.

“Give me that small hook, will you?” He growled at me with a threatened animal growl, with that low noise in its throat – usually, it meant it was angry.  He looked at me hard, and that always made me go cold.

What he called a small hook could have suspended a small calf.  The cold steel was sharp and grey,  and it looked like it could pierce three men at a time – and I was just one.  Still, I had trusted him all of my life, and I didn’t necessarily want to stop now.  Also, I had an escape planned.

I handed the hook to him as I recoiled involuntarily, and at the same time, I watched my sweat be flung into the Four Corners of a god-awful night’s sea swell.  He swung the steely crook over the boat’s edge and it soon took hold of the hellish, glistening creature he had managed to draw alongside us.  It was magnificent. It was huge. It could have been the devil.  I’d never seen a catch that size.  Heh, in my mind, he should have rode off majestically then and there on that critter!

But instead, he started talking, and not in the angry voice I’d anticipated for most of the night; he was too watchful of the water, and seemingly, any possible onlookers.  I sat back away from him just in case.  He seemed calm and collected as he (just like that) asked me if I felt confident enough to run his livery, and that he ‘knew for damn sure’ I could take care of his wife.  But what about his three kids?

I stammered for quite a while, both inside and out – the words just would not come.  My mouth?  Well, that giant fish from hell was looking mighty interested in its large space as my jaw got wider and wider.   Despite the abundance of torrid sea water, my mouth just plain dried.

“Just as I thought.”  His creased to bust eyebrows all of a sudden burst.  He savagely continued with,  “Thinkin’ with yer groin, but with actions of a jellyfish.  So, yeah, meet yer maker, squirt!|

Plunging into the freezing dark perdition of my predicament, I felt a hitherto calming warmth, as if hell froze for me all that was bad.  Ketley saw wrongdoing and acted… and  I, at the time, only saw curvaceous smiles, fear, her desperation and a hallelujah heaven awaitin’, and so, I indeed acted.  But who was right?

By now that great creature of a fish was as damn inconsequential as one might get.  And me?  I was a goner, but also didn’t altogether mightily care two hoots.  Ketley went home, she froze as she always did and turned for warmth to another, who soon joined me in purgatory for cosy chats and fishing and good times.  I knew just by commons sense, she would soon be joining me.

 

 

 

Tone

96d45d2d09b55dde4a02c357e77e9cbc

With every sound
and each word uttered
there is pause,

a silence,
as if waiting for the touch
of a lover – distant still,
but out there.

Until such time,
words float as poetry
until caught and lightly wrought
on cool staves,

and as they stir,
no tone is forced, harsh
and breathy –

they wait and would wait
forever –
as every song, like love,
is incomplete
until it hears its own echo.

Sappho: a small tribute

9669618740_45936cecfa_b.jpg

I speak rightly –
set not my words to music,
nor douse them in tune to vast breaths
of  tempests’
contemplative praise.

I am among you as mortal,
still.  But, please, breathe freely –
at least for a time,
then let me be to eager rests’
devoted arms –

of course your strewn petals,
benign at my feet,
speak calmly of foe and friend –
draw me close to your wondrous
adoration;  so separate me not from music’s glow

when such fragments tear you
into fractious, scattered pieces –
and so it is perhaps that great art’s worship
be confined to symbolic gesture.

I am not lost, and I am not gone
whilst echoes play
with such innocence
and voices call me.  I am translucent.
Gleaned from me is the skin you were denied.
I am always yours.  I am diaphanous.

Dreaded Whispers

AF0EEDD8B65EF78E39DD438AD8C90519.jpg

Cotinus Young Lady-SmokeBush-writingasitcomes

Been gardening again… love this plant.

Strokes of moonlight smother
the inflorescent
whispers of the smoke bush

wavering against twilight’s
ghostly dreams
while pondering the water,
pondering depth and death.

Subdued, hushed panicles warp,
subtly interwoven
inside black steel ripples
made by water splashed sedge warblers
flung across the sheen of bleak, black,
stretched canvas

where streaks of my childhood run
wildly ‘til they bleed into the perfect wash –
disrupted only briefly by daubs of
my more morbid notions –

a thousand indigo butterflies
dotted like inky death
become pinned to the eerie flatness of water
and of life –

finally, my drowning memories
are absorbed by stagnant fluid –
the whispers are hushed in the black, dead air
where mosquitoes live instead,
and for the first time, I begin to thrive.

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.