Koan poems: Sepia sky and faded lace

the red silk embroidered robe
bereft of buttons, wide sleeves edged of gold. 
a white swan walks in salty mud-stained shore,   
her graceful neck arched to the sepia sky.    


~0~0


she was simple farmer's daughter,
living on goat's milk, eggs and sweet purple yams. 
a black swan glided with bright red bill, crooning softly, 
the buttons of her dress fell into cornfield and sun.  


~0~0


she keeps a jar of odd buttons, fabric squares and 
torn lace from old dresses, along with faded ribbons.     
a man in the street plays a violin by an empty cup.      
she knits a quilt, one square a day, till she is whole.        

Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub:  Poetics : Button, Button 
and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Chinese Koan poetry form - In four lines

Line 1: The first part makes a statement about one's subject.
Line 2: Continue to describe the subject of the poem with a new image:
Line 3: Start a new subject. The third line of traditional Koan poetry leads the reader away from the subject of the first two lines into a completely unrelated topic.
Line 4: Relate the lines. The fourth line unites the themes of the first three lines. Think of it as a circle that comes back.

A mid-summer night's dream

she was confused 
as the moon crossed the northern solstice 
a snapped sprig,
a fish out of emerald sea 



her lover was bewitched 
by magic potion on the eyelids, 
as if the Gods played a cruel joke
or changed the rules, she didn't know   
   
love is a battlefield,
a sharp knife on her breast, a cut in her wrist,  
when ardent eyes turn black and empty river  


or a theatre for entertainment 
for the puppeteers and forest imps,
playing chaos and bumbling actors, but for her   


the foolish one who gave everything away
in exchange for a night of passion and 
promises, now gone on the whim of wind  


or maybe it was written in the stars
that she will get a blank tarot card,
a jester's awkward lines instead of a love letter  


maybe all is just a cloud's figment,   
a chimera in the pool of fallen leaves,   
we are all made fools of love 
in this mid-summer night's dream




Posted for Kerry's Wednesday Challenge:   Our challenge is to find a phrase or quote from Shakespeare to either inspire a poem or to use as the title of the finished piece.   
and Poetry Jam:  Mood Swings 




picture credit:   here

Glass and lavender

in this land 
of maple trees, i am a

sugar cane harvested in summer 

stripped of roots and leaves, my tongue 
twisted   as   you   blow   pipe   my   ears 

give me your lips, open your thighs, 

come  to   me  like  a   thunderstorm 

pen drips of molasses, darkening spoon on white plate 

rippling the rock garden, raked into stillness by monks 

how   well   you  cleave  me,  my  wind   whisperer, 

i thought i was made of hollow bowl, seedless grey,  

but i am young again in mouth-blown Reidel glass 

   flowing ice wine, soft lavender on your palms,      

stem bent listening to the  

    

sea and sun 

Posted for Imaginary Garden of Real Toads and D'verse Poets Pub:   OpenLinkNight 


picture credit:  here

Windswept

                                                                 @Margaret Bednar


i am windswept for words
in these long sun-baked nights


sometimes i stand, immobile as moai* 
on Easter Island, lost-angst lover


i throat sing in my bid to find you, 
pulsing click-chunk-click, galloping the field, 


until the emerald sea whispers to me  
Come and be with me  


silky mane and forelock flows
as i hurl myself over the white edge,  


your hand urges a tumult run, wild grains on hooves,   
until all i see is blaze marking on my nose     


there is no safety net when i free-fall
you are either a ball of fire or silent stone falling    


i choose with my eyes closed 
as the wind lifts my wingspan on my descent   




Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Photography by Margaret Bednar
and D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   Logophila 

* Large stone statues made of volcanic ash in Easter Island

Slow beating of the night

Clasp your moon heart to mine

in the swelling waves of shadows,

closely entwine our cold hands  

like twin seed pods with wings    

Carry me across the ocean steps

where the tide is blue and sand washes 

shore in quickening shades, elusive wind

to artist's fingers huddled over the canvas

Love, because of it, hold me close   

as if an arrow pierced your side, 

as if it is the last call of midnight train 

hurling over the bridge of mud stones

Tie your heart at night to mine, love*,

so I awake to slow beating of your

chest underneath my palms, to the breath

of summer and crust of freshly baked bread       

"So that our dream might reply

to the sky's questioning stars

with one key, one door closed to shadow."

Lines and Inspiration from Pablo Neruda:   Tie your heart at Night to mine, Love

Posted for:   Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and D'verse Poets Pub : OpenLinkNight    

picture credit:   here

Away from you

 firestorm falls, blue fingerling

yonder the lake shore, adrift

memory, wood chiseling 

 grave marker, numbed with snowdrift

i  catch, all of yesterday 

into a  farewell album,

when someday, like saturday,  

i listen, dance, high volume 

your  words  still a  seasoning:

salt, cloves, sage, peppered windstorm, 

exile heart throbs, rupturing

 blue sea, unto you, firestorm 

Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub:   Exile - Thanks Karin for the lovely prompt ~

and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Celtic Quatrain - Thanks Kerry for the form ~

Each stanza is a quatrain of seven syllables. Lines one and threerhyme with a triple (three syllable) rhyme and two and four use a double (two syllable) rhyme.  The poem should end with the first word or the complete line that it began with.

Picture credit:   here

To the young lady

summer sun fills windows
with burst of crimson and yellow blooms,
trumpeting blues and shadows of winter

golden glow envelops your body,
colt with long flowing legs, not a child
but a budding teen, newborn butterfly

your brownish eyes, still innocent,   
look at me like the clear water by creek, 
gently flowing and trusting the wind

do not hurry to grow up quickly,
I say but tarry awhile and run in fields,
chasing squirrels and red breasted robins     

cusp of leaves fall on your long hair, 
as you chat and giggle with friends, 
portrait of woman to be, full of promise 

do not fall in love with boy just yet,
I say but with the wonder of crystal raindrop
and wingspan of the eagle above   

blow dandelion seeds in afternoon sky 
as you walk home,  forever framed, 
as it is the best time to be, just my daughter




Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads   
and D'verse Poet Pub:   Triversen   


picture credit:   here    

The piano

midway during the concert 

the piano waited in pensive mood

ignored in the pocket coat of playmaker

when she came with arrow fingers,

red rose on soundboard  

something snapped, 

jaws of the whale opened

silvery waves rose and crashed

against the salt sprayed mouth,

breaking the emeralds

and ivory keys into shells 

falling to the foamy depths

of the blue sea

echoes of the bullhorns,

trumpets blaring castles of the moors,

thundering the night,

cries of the eagle 

circling the breasts of the moon

then in the dying notes  

melody grew softer 

warm milk,

trickle of sweetness,

breathless sigh

the piano and pianist plunged

downwards, oblivious  

until all was a 

pitter patter of rain,

a dewdrop

   

the man with the baton 

came back 

like a wounded mad crow,

jaws of the whale closed,   

and man walked away 

to silence   

                                                                 abstract art by Ashok

Posted for:   Imaginary Garden for Real Toads and D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight  

Ashok has requested that I write about his art work, music abstract. I drew my post inspiration from  Pablo Neruda's Oda al Piano .   

Thanks for the visits and lovely words.  I appreciate them.

Stumbling for Forget-Me-Nots

 Still Life, 1670, detail by Jean François de Le Motte

you wrote a letter

and pinned it on the board

forgotten

you scribbled sweet nothings 

across pamphelt and left it 

dangling      

you hid the truth under the 

flowing strokes, obscure lines 

in the journal of us

your words hammered  

until they were rubber bands, 

wounding tight around my chest

so don't look for me 

in the wooden panels of the room,

pining for the ship to anchor us    

i am outside, 

stumbling for Forget-Me-Nots,

and dancing with the wind  

                                           Copy Right © 2012 Hannah Gosselin ~ Stumbling for Forget-Me-Nots

                                                                    
Posted for:   The Mag 121
and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Photography by Hannah Gosselin  

Of green apples and old bike

sun creeps like a trickster's clock on wall



to get up now or fold under white sheets
to break the eggs with a fork or boil them in water   
to cut the blooming roses or let them fall like rosary beads 


it besets her that simple things 
seem like shaking the trees for just a leaf  
(knocking heads is probably more apt) 

to push or pull the doors
to walk to the park or skiphotch to wheat field,         
she jogs her memory of what happened last night 




torrential rain lashing her skin,
fear snapping on heels like demented dogs    
while running headlong into the city smog   



she is lost in the river tide, 
adrift in choices that roots her feet while others fly
(her son buys a second hand bicycle 
because it's dirt cheap than paying for a car)  


until a hand settles firmly on her arm



scent of pine cones and green apples
warm as honeysuckle in springbed,   
kisses cheek in gentle whisper 


it is going to be alright

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:  A word with Laurie:   Dementia/Insanity
and D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   It's a matter of Choice

Picture credit:   here 

Insignificant

drop by drop
fading against the midnight sun 


grey to white
melting peacock feathers into ashen dust  


red lined lips
chewing the bitter wood


emptiness
licking the salted wounds on breasts 


long tapered hands
turning into knives and scissor blades


if i drink the bottle of mercury 
will your needle eyes move to the right ?



a strange thing 
i have become in your house full of mirrors       



time is irrelevant 
if it breaks the river heart into a thousand stones 


darkness is more than just a moonless night
if i am now  


an insignificant dot in your palm




"“One person's craziness is another person's reality.” 
― Tim Burton 


Posted for Poets United:   Eccentric : Congrats on the 100th prompt post ~
and D'verse Poets Pub:    Where in the world?   :   Thanks for the visit.

picture credit:   here

Like Mexico

you look like Mexico, 
                              familiar old soul
                    
sitting in the silhouette of sunset
gazelle eyes, lips inked red as your corset   
lingering notes from flamenco guitar
you play a thousand times, by the bar

each sharp crescendo, each staccato beat, 
crimson, emerald and indigo bursting heat
fireworks, heady like tequila lime and salt    
i drink like i don't care until 
                               i am full of thunder 

you smell like Mexico,
                               familiar old soul

roads under our wheels, sand everywhere
tequila lime, salt, beer on breath
summer heat blowing from the border,
Mexico gets into my head,  and suddenly

you are more than just a girl in my arms
making me wish for more than just this road trip,
when i see a shooting star
in the pale moonlight, I kiss you hard     

you taste like Mexico, 
                               familiar old soul 

my hands reach for you as I come alive

    


Guitar and original music composition of Herotomost of Mexican Radio * ~ Thanks Corey ~  





Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - OpenLinkNight - Monday
and D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight  - Tuesday

Working for a price

at the studio


i switch the stage lights to
capture the sun falling on the model,
$ 8000 Birkin handbag on her feet   


she awaits patiently for my time,
unlike the files on my desk with a 
RUSH stamped,  


i search for numerical beauty of her back, 
consistency and safety pins on hair,
and hint of summer underneath her corset,


but it is the eyes I am aiming for,
deep, full of emotional connections,
i strip away the clothes and make up


to figure out the shape of the face, bare beauty,
a year from now, maybe another wrinkle or line,
but nothing like depression drugs or cancer 
(the file will be DECLINED) 


my fingers frame the picture i want,
the angle to capture the light behind, 
like a buyer checking an auction find, carefully


subtract the claims from the payments
check the trends, set minimum threshold, LOWest price, 
before sales negotiations begin, because there is NUMBer 


to be negotiated, nothing, not even love
is fixed and constant, forever is an ILLUSION, 
(it exists only in my poetic head) 


like my polariod camera, catching fluid moments
into fixed frames for sale, for artistic expression, 
but always a showcase to the HIGHest bidder   


because there is a price 
to pay for something that you want 


or not  


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   Workin' For It - I should have posted this in my other blog but I want to write without fearing a backlash from my (real world) friends and workmates.  Thanks for the visit ~ 


Picture post and inspiration from Photographer Paolo Roversi