Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 31

Sunday in the country

Sunday in the country

Another dull day of khaki greens,
the wet black of charcoal stick trees,
of cloud thick and grey as a military blanket
slides into dark.

No sun shone,
laid gold medals on this silent field
or glinted on the gunmetal
of men dressed in the motley or war

and there will be no moon.

Random word generated poem

The poem is inspired by the words and the unsettling news that bird flu is now going through wild populations, something it has never done before. It’s endemic to many bird species, but rarely causes a problem except to captive birds in unnaturally close promiscuity. This is different and as yet, there is no explanation.

Photo ©Jeremy Bolwell

Influenza gathers in her flock

Black sand, sky specks,
birds billow in flowing sea-movement,
wandering the wild open spaces,
stitching the roof of the world.

Nothing can stop the diminishing,
not the warm winter sun,
the days growing longer,
the bird-comfort of semblables.

Something has broken in the cycle,
we have broken something in the cycle,
the stitching comes undone,
and one by one they fall

until all the sky is swept clean
of black sand,
of songs and twittering,
of feathered beauty.

We will point
to the whitening bones
and blame bad luck, cruel nature,
and in our waking sleep

wash the bird spots
from our wringing hands
in the multitudinous skies,
making the green world black.

Hope springs eternal

The Oracle poured this out in a rapid silver stream. Grateful to whoever/whatever she is.

Hope springs eternal

It runs beside me that bright gleam
and sings between the banks
of the diamond stream.

I hear its heart beat steady
as a deep deep sleep

and taste all the honey of the world
in its rough raw breath.

Sun rain I turn my face to both
until the ache has washed away
and the sky rises clear and high

so I can see the wheeling hawks
hear their cry.

There will be no more madness
in these coming days no bitterness
searching through the rubble of the past

I leave the husks and shells for the woods
with squirrel panache to whisk away

and walk with you the gleaming path
of the eternal mother’s way.

Desires

9. (seven lines)

9.

Days of Christmas are over
the lean times return
and the year stretches
flexes its muscles beneath heavy cloud

insinuating that we have a choice
as if forward is not
the only way open.

8. (seven lines)

8.

There’s a sort of anguish
watching the grey sky lower
the rain-rush over sodden fields
hearing the screaming of trees
slick and dark as oil.

We snatch at memories of when
a ray of sunshine was enough.

Pain (and rain)

Pain (and rain)

Head hurts
hair-roots tugging
tingling the skin

and deeper
into the meshed muscles
tendon-taut

and trees sigh
roots clenching
the earth’s scalp

while the mingy rainwater
runs through their pale fingers
just so many clay-sodden tears.

Sallow times

Sallow times

It’s hard to see when the light
is flat, un-shadowed, no relief.

Hard to dream when there is no mystery,
no half-suspected tunnel in the hedge,
no leaf, twisting golden, then gone,
bright eyes that blink in a stray beam,
before the black returns.

When the light is dull as a puddled road,
a hollow in the asphalt,
reflecting the backsides of low clouds,
their faces to the unseen sun,

all birds are black,
all wings beat slow, heavy,
pinions dripping,
with the leaden weight of winter.

Lost horizons

For the dverse prompt. Apologies in advance to those whose comments WP won’t let me reply to.

Lost horizons

We cast our nets with longing
into the distant childish past,
of golden clouds of glory, trailing

from the land of Counterpane,
the wardrobe door that opened
onto magic snow, those lands

where carpets fly and unicorns,
of Pegasus and Lamassu,
the burning dunes of Samarkand.

We wander the deep dark forest paths
In search of our child’s garden of verse,
innocence and Paradise lost.

Not lost for me,
for I was never there,
or perhaps I simply never left.

7. (seven lines)

7.

Today the sky is too full
an ocean not enough it pours
grey as gulls and as loud
through the dull light.

Water lies in pewter pools
winter rain cold as sin
reminding us of the worst times.