I am planning to be absent for a while.
Planning to swing from cloud to cloud
Across the waters and
Along forest and city trails
On da Vinci’s imagination,
Monthly Archives: September 2013
All The Colours
One pretty evening’s
Never-to-be-repeated shore.
Autumn-beginning’s sunset
Casts her bronze folded nets of waves
Against the welcoming pebble shelves.
They break into scattering strings
Of brief-life jewels as
Arachne’s Cauldron*
Quiet tears rim the eyes of the slim figure, back-lit by a honey coloured moon that hovers over wine-dark seas, it’s light flaring across the path its reflection makes and climbing in through the creeper framed tower wind eye. The glamorous light also picks out a brace of looms and whalebone chairs in the floor’s centre.
A second source of light grows brighter. This light is warmer, the scent of resin and burning herbs fills the heavy night air. Above the fire is a cauldron, hanging by a thin chain from a tripod. There is little smoke. This is a witch-fire. A strong enchantment is being prepared. There is much to be asked for; and it must be done well; done without fear. In all honesty.
Be Sure
Be certain-sure that the full
Treasure-moon also rises; that
elven-blued stars wing across autumn skies
In the rich fairy lands; the realms we
May be lucky enough to glimpse
Only behind our eyelids;
Beyond our fragile, tip-toe dreams.
Related articles
- The fairies sing to the moon – a poem (magicandmarvels.wordpress.com)
- Harvest moon rises Wednesday night (wwltv.com)
- Dreaming (aaapoems.wordpress.com)
- The Wolf That Weeps (kdavisfanclub.wordpress.com)
Insomnia
After Mercy’s wine-sweet twelve,
There’s insistent, chain-gang
Routine-carousel one again.
The roads, skies and
Melody-hung rivers
Pour their silver,
Sinful invitations into
My reluctant-to-ignore ears.
The moon and the rainbow,
Still as distant as they
Ever were.
It’s Been Raining
Drum comes in; steady and
Lacota-Sioux, ghost- beat strong.
She’s standing, tall and proud
Behind silk scarfed microphone
In seen-better-days snakeskin boots;
Butterfly Dreams
Pink, Prosecco procession sky
Tenderly unwraps protective
Tendrils of overnight mist
From the crowns of autumn-glory,
Turn-leafing oaks; liberates quiet,
Banner-winged butterfly dreams.
Darker Than of Late
Equinox-near morning
Is darker than those of late.
The tack-carry walk passes
In glorious, spiritual-dawn silence.
Greenwich.
Time begins in space
(Or is it the opposite way round?)
Begins at this fragile
First web-line, this
Green meridian.
Waiting for the Wolves.
Like liquid-drop
Spatter-rocks,
Debris thrown from
Heaven’s crater-cloud volcanoes
Spots of rain congeal briefly,
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