Another poem from the Spring session of The Poet Within II, which can be read over on Kulan World Journal. It is related to two short pieces of prose already posted there called Companions of Harqual and The Lost Son of Silverleaf.
Click: Bactra’s Song
Run along the grass
A boy with butterfly wings
Beautiful art form
(A collection of borrowed lines from “Shirtless Tattoo” by Anthony Armstrong; “Go Leaving Strange” by Patrick Lane; and “SLANT Room” by Michael Eden Reynolds)
I have not knelt in twenty years
I never wanted more, took nothing less
Hold the next million years
Adrift a month of day the sun
Rising out of the smell of its own life
And the stars are in the lake
We’re a week from the moon
Six feet down and digging not a grave
Today there is so much good blood
The animal is nowhere to be seen —
His runt dog who’d found the bear
Now old friends see a phantom
On his his wrist, there is a slash
Let him spin, let him spin, they cry
The bird spreads its wings
Inspired by the same title in the book “I Heard GOD Laughing: Poems of Hope and Joy”, Renderings of HAFIZ by Daniel Landinsky.
The sun rises to walk the day
It has so many things to do
There are brows to sweat and dogs to pant
And yet the moon is also busy,
In its dreams it rides the waves on a starlit ship,
Across endless skies
It battles the dippers and laughs with Orion
Dreaming is busy work!
With winter comes a sentient celebration
A fascinating rush through streets and malls
Christmas is only a week away, and
There are red ribbons and bells on shoes
Ho! Ho! Ho! Sunny-secretly surly Santas on their Christmas thrones
Holiday telemarketers… Ring, ring! Ring, ring!
Serving all your business communication needs!
Stop calling me! Stop calling me!
Unplug the telephone and plug in the Christmas tree,
And, then, back out into the holiday for more seasoning
Enjoy the Festival of Lights, with a latte
X-mas marks the Day!
It comes! It comes! A clatter!
Chaos, chaos, chaos…
How long is it until the spring of Easter?
Weekend on the rise
Barbecue and fashion streeters
Lunar New Year on a Saturday
What could go wrong?
No participation at the Folk Club
Lost tickets at the box office
Weekend on the rocks
The gibbon-wind howls across the deck
Sailors are shivering monkeys swinging in the rigging
There is a deep freeze, the waves are cold animals, hunting
Solidarity in the ranks and against the white weather,
But energy wanes amongst the crew
Frost is everywhere, as the ship rolls on icy waters
Fingers and toes are lost to the bite
The deck is a slick monster
Frigid air burns throats and lungs
Teeth freeze and snotty beards hang with icicles
The captain went overboard hours ago,
His death shattered his immortal myth
Then, suddenly, the sea sleeps and all is still
Water freezes, and the ship becomes an iceberg coffin
The stark moon rises over, as their world ends
For the World’s End beckons the Baleful Wing
Dusty woodwind is a lost flute
A drum beats no more
Guitar strings frayed and snapped
Sheet music on the floor, crumpled
Melted triangle in the fireplace
Baby Grand covered in dust and webs,
Keys broken and blackened
The only rhythm is the flapping shutter
A cello’s skeleton lies on the floor,
Outlined in soot
The attic is a crime scene
Someone has murdered music
Blue marbles for sale
A French woman dressed in red
Green yoga shala
Metachromasis science
How to see things differently
What is it that I am feeling,
About this casual, far-off friend?
New emotions are revealing,
A hurtful truth that could me upend,
Or bring our amity to an end.
Longstanding respect for one wondrous,
Crafted by skilled Hephaestus.
A bridge of turmoil to the past,
Swept me away and so I wept.
The moment of joy did not last,
As the knowledge I now accept,
She cannot be brought into my sept.
Maiden of my mourning is consort,
To him—another in distant port.
Bel Izeard 