Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 43

Cloudshapes day 10

For Paul Brookes’ Cloudshapes challenge. You can see the beautiful photos here.

Elementals

Liquid skies
setting gold
molten water
bronze and lead-woven
elemental fusions
and dispersals.

We walk softly
between transformations
quicksand
or quicksilver.

November rain

November rain

It rained enough to wet the ground
till all around, without a sound,
the ghost of evening fell.

Hands cupped we caught the crystal drips
from sedge spear tips that filled the lips
of arum lily flowers,

and walked beneath the golden light
until the night and dark’s cold bite
turned our steps homeward bound.

Cloudshapes day 9

Today’s poem for Paul Brookes’ challenge. You can see the images here.

Wondering

beyond this dull day
of coming winter, parched grass
still brown, browner leaves fallen,
to the times when spring will not heal
this cracked and broken land,
blood and sap no longer course, rise,
bones snap like brittle branches.

When the earth sighs,
the life that once teemed dies,
will clouds still roll across the skies
in battleship grey like today?

Wondering,
for a thousand billion friends.

If only

For the dverse prompt. I’ve chosen to try the Welsh Awdl Gywydd form again. Feeling masochistic this evening. For those who are interested, it’s four lines, seven syllables per line, the final syllable of the first and third lines rhyme with the 3rd and 5th syllables of the following lines. The 2nd & 4th lines rhyme.

This poem doesn’t sound finished to me, but I’ll work on it tomorrow.

If only

If all was dust, swept away,
Would we say, a day well spent,
Or would we long for lost things
Cold bright springs, hawk wings wind-bent?

If I could keep each bright hour,
Each flower and tower high,
Would happiness wait for me
On the sea, where free birds fly?

Cloudshapes day 8

For Paul Brookes’ challenge. You can see the photos here.

The uncertainty of clouds

They are fickle, the clouds, speaking
languages that change from day to day.
The sky is all some of us have,
especially on days when the world is mute
and dumb and indifferent.

I watch Manannán’s horses tread white,
scattering foam from their manes,
hooves scraping, then watch the light sabre
cut across their path, chop them
into a flock of docile sheep.

They call first in the ancient tongue
that echoes across green hills,
then in the alien clicking of electronics,
dials and meters. I lose the thread,
the drift, all out at sea.

I wish not for stability,
for who ever heard of a stationary cloud?
But for the story to be told to the end,
before they break into another darker tale,
before the failing of the light.

This dark night

Last week’s poetry form was the extremely tricky Welsh form, awdll gywydd. It took a lot of fiddling with, but I’m satisfied it gave something pleasant to listen to. And a chance to repost Kerfe’s owl painting. You can read the other poems on Paul Brookes’ site here.

This dark night

I heard owl call this dark night,
When the light so bright had dimmed,
Saw his ghostly, silent flight,
Eerie sight, bone-white, sky-skimmed.

This night they walk, fox and deer,
Without fear, not here, for we
Are abed until the lark,
Though dogs bark, too dark to see.

Dawn will break, mother-of-pearl,
Day uncurl, unfurl, fill soon
With swifts. Till then shadows creep,
Blackbirds sleep, hares leap the moon.

For you

144 words of non-poetry for dverse.

For you

In the street of the sky, night walks, scattering poems. In the lanes of the farmland, day stalks, tossing anathemas. In the alleys of the sea, twilight sinks, drowning litanies. And in the ways of my heart, I dance, singing songs my voice could never find. Because I am not a singer, any more than night is a poet, day a fanatic, the sea despairing. But we can paint whatever pictures we like with our fingers, build a ship of dreams, fill it with jewel-words.

Perhaps tonight I will grow wings and fly, catch one of night’s discarded poems. Or I could wait for morning and pick one from among the roses. Whatever. I will hold it up to the light until the words drop into my hand, and I will paint you a better one, in all the colours the night never dreams

Cloudshapes day 7

I’m afraid it’s just that time of year. This is in response to Gaynor Kane’s rainbow photo. You can see all three photos on Paul Brookes’ blog here.

Another anniversary

I can never stand beneath
a grey November sky,
where a rainbow’s arc joins here to there,

never watch those receding clouds,
grey, still full of rain, beyond the gleam
that fades before I find the gold,

never look to see a running dog,
paws treading prisms, scattering light,
young again, who was old,

because no matter what they say
and what the heart believes,
I know, he won’t be there.

Saying goodbye (again)

Saying goodbye (again)

Morning full of light,
bright as summer,
dew deep and damp,
silence of woodpeckers, a tractor,
dog-bark.

We walk, sniff the smells.
Listen. Deer in the trees.
So much, the world is full,

yet I carry a weight that lies dull,
filling the space beneath the ribs,
rising to fill the throat
with what feels like the choking of tears.

There is always a space at my side,
in the air too light and transparent,
sometimes one, sometimes another,

but too many leave-takings,
too many receding futures.

Why is it easier to believe in improbabilities,
than the easy words spoken,
see you soon?

Cloud-break

In response to the photos, day 6 of Paul Brookes’ what shapes can you see in the clouds challenge.

Cloud-break

a shaft of sunlight
streams in golden glory,
cathedral-filling,

dust mote-floating, touching
the shadowed fields below
with the echoing voices of infinity.

In pale imitation, we scrawl our names
in exhaust from screaming engines
across the purity, scratch the coping

of the sky with fingernails,
until the white stuffing bursts,
disperses, sea foam.