Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 56

Dissatisfaction

Dissatisfaction

In the mimosa tree
the jays perch,
to heckle the pigeon couple
producing yet more offspring.

Warblers have found
their tongues again,
after the drought
that dried up their songs

They sing for rain,
like the frogs in the pond,
but with a better ear.

And we walk in the evenings,
that fall so quickly, so dark ,
regretting the lingering,
languid heat of high summer.

A child sleeps

For the dverse prompt.

A child sleeps

The wind in the leaves, a lullaby sussurra,
smoothing his brow above tight closed eyes,
a cantilena he hears in his dreaming,
a mother’s singing that cradles his sleep.

She sings to the child as the first star appears,
a scintilla sprung from the depths of the dark,
lids in dormiveglia flicker, then close
as the sky’s glitter-glimmer trail arches above.

A cradle, a mother, a child’s milky breath,
a river of stars singing sparks from the night
lilting and whispering soft as the down
of a bird, of the wing of an owl in its flight.

Morning after

Morning after

I remember a night storm,
wind pushing wide the shutters,
sky full of light and the rolling of drums.

Now morning sun slants
deceptively soft across the field,
and no shred of cloud, no dripping stalks,

no pools, no rain-drunk birds stir
in this aftermath of struggle
between wind and cloud.

Distant storm

A quadrille for dverse.

Distant storm

In the dark of turquoise dusk,
a half-moon and the brightest stars,
the world of silence bathed in light;
prepares itself for restless night.

A single cloud mass, heron-grey,
squats in the east lit from within,
a billow-tide worked through with gold,
lightning-silvered thundergod.

September morning

September morning

Morning of sunlight
insect-hot and biting
skin scratching stalks of mown hay

life that balances with death in the night
a handful of pigeon feathers
a dead mole tasted but uneaten

scents stream where water should run
in this too dry calm
perhaps before a storm.

Random word generator

Late because we were out this morning. Not far, just meandering. Here are the words. Feel free to borrow and build some poems with them.

Haibun for a summer walk

Sun had burned off the mist, the lingering memories of smoke snagged in the bramble tangles, where a nest slowly unravelled in the wind.
It was cool in the narrow lane between the softly curved walls of the tiny church and the façade of the big house. Cool the lane winding up between oak and ash and Sunday silence. Silent the disused church, especially on Sundays. No fire had touched this place that held damp in its cupped carved hands.
We walked, dog-panting, dog-curious, up and round and back again, between stone and stone and tree-walls and lingered awhile before the glorious evening sky-blue of the big house door, wondering if it ever opened onto the courtyard beyond, drinking in the scent of over-ripe apples.

Summer wasp-buzzes
still—reluctant to let go
of its ripe wild fruits.

Lunatic

Another poem the Oracle gave me today.

Painting by Winslow-Homer.

Lunatic

The waxing moon
is drunk on music
her face trembles
uncertain in the ripple-mirror
hot and shining
with the belly-laughter
of the frog pond
her temples throbbing
in the summer air.

Earth music

The Oracle gave me this one from the first page of words. I have a feeling there will be more if I load the next page. There’s a sadness in the air this morning.

Earth music

This is all about her,
this music that never fades,
this sea-billowed white ship
that never sails out of sight,
the leaves, blossoms, branches,
blowing beneath a changing sky.

This mother would stop the madness,
dip the world in sweetness again,
but we close our ears with grubby hands
and race our bare dirt track,
senses soaked in illusions
and the smell of asphodel.

Another night

Another night

Another night
after the rain
has doused the sun

stars
like raindrops
dimple the celestial puddle.

At night

At night

At night I listen to the owls
that hunt about the house.
The rest is silence

until a distant dog barks
shrill, persistent, to mark
the passing of the deer,

until the wall of wind,
pushed before
the dry-mouthed storm,

hits the bending trees
and wrenches shutters,
rattle-shaken.

The time to close the window tight,
the wave has passed,
and silence falls,

nothing stirs,
the owls return,
the dog, still barking.