Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 40

Cloudshapes day 24

Late posting this one. The last 24 hours has been punctuated by loss of power and internet. I used Paul Brookes’ photo for the inspiration. You can see his and the other cloud images here.

Cloudpath

And if the cloud path led the way
to somewhere beyond night and day,
would we follow?

Would we dare to leave the known,
the gravel path, the ploughed field sown,
like the swallow,

that flies across the wild sea deep?
Upon the waves, how do they sleep,
land left behind?

Braver than I’d ever be,
to trust to wings to cross the sea,
my homeland find.

Cloudshapes day 23

Inspired by all three photos, you can see them here on Paul Brookes’ blog.

Cloudpools

Whirlpools in the sky
of dragon-feathers and bird-scales
the clotted shadows of sea fret
midnight-dark
turn with the constellations
glittering in the unsounded depths
of black space
reflected in still water
all anger stripped away.

Sunset

A short contrapuntal poem for the dverse prompt. I wrote a longer one and realised when I’d finished it that it had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with drinking. It’s not right yet, but it’s late.

Cloudshapes day 22

This is based on all three photos. You can see them on Paul’s blog here.

If

If the sun is fire
and clouds are ash
what is the blue?

Mirror, illusion, a wish?

Skyscape always in motion,
tracked and driven
by the winds of the world,

trawled, not by the finger of God,
but by veils of cormorants,
grey herons,
white egret drifts,

through reds and blues
and into night.

Haibun for autumn’s voice

For the dverse prompt.

Haibun: Autumn’s voice

For too long we heard the voice of someone else’s summer, the crackle and soft thud of leaf clumps falling, dried to a crisp, the air singing with insects over the stony stream-bed.

Blackbirds fall silent
listening for the patter
of wishful rain.

Too many trees failed, plants and bushes shrunk with the drought, and butterflies settled on any hand with a drop of water to offer. Sun baked the clay until it cracked, boughs broke and the meadow mown, no new flowers grew.

Kestrel
Holy Spirit beats hot air
with sacred wings.

But even desert winds falter, pirouette and swap gold-red skirts for black crow-wings. The rain falls at last, from a dull sky, whipped by angry gales from the western ocean.

Salamander
baked in summer’s furnace
revels in rain-damp.

Is it anger, at our blindness that tips scales one way then the other? I listen to the wailing of its endless speeches in the chimney, and I think I know the answer.

Stoves glow red
rain pounds the shutters—this is
only a foretaste.

Cloudshapes day 21

This one was inspired by all the photos you can see on Paul Brookes’ blog here.

Circular economy

Nothing is ever wasted,
every mark and sign recycled.

Trees brush away the shreds of cloud,
bustling scudding flocks of dogs and sheep
fill both sky and deep water,

soaking up the last of the light,
and looking down fondly
on the sleeping shadow-sea,

where the long bones of sky dragons
lie, lapping cold water
where polished glass gems gleam,

dreaming of the high, crisp air,
and sunfire blazing in the west.

Piece in Visual Verse

Thank you VV for publishing this piece of prose.

Random word poetry

Just the way things are

1
Weep is what the clouds do,
what marble angels do,
what women do so often,
more often, it seems, than the clouds.

2
The wren in the honeysuckle tree
shouts at the robin, dip-diving,
deep into the tangle, bird spats,
even among the gentle folk.

3
Tree rings speak of things
we could never understand,
though we poke at them
like the entrails of sacrificial birds.

4
Listen to the silver-tongued water
sing the enduring story
that flows and flows,
ripening as it reaches the sea.

5
Sometimes we tell ourselves just living
is heroic. We wrap ourselves in togas,
wear laurel in our hair, when we
could reach out a hand instead.

Cloudshapes day 20

For Paul Brookes’ challenge.

Our small town hit the national news yesterday for all the worst reasons—a fourteen-year old schoolgirl from the collège was abducted and murdered on Friday. The police arrested her killer within four hours of the girl’s mother sounding the alarm, but it was already too late.

Nowhere is safe for girls or women to walk alone. Yesterday 80,000 women marched to protest against our political leaders’ lack of interest in the crimes perpetrated against 51% of the population. It’s 2022 not 1022, surely time for women’s rights to be taken seriously.

Small town Sunday

We walked beneath the heavy clouds
en deuil beneath the spitting tearful rain,
in the tolling wind we trod a pall of leaves.

Herons called, untidy flocks
of cormorants black as priests, stilts
in the river water, egrets statue-white,

and through the heavy tolling sky,
a single gull headed for the open sea,
a grieving townland watching bid you fly.

Random word generator

Seems like an interesting mix of words today.