Hanging on an Echo

Twiglet’s #199 hanging on an echo

He stretcheth out the north over the empty place, and hangeth the earth upon nothing. Job 26: 7

Everywhere I look I see
the handiwork of One
who is greater than me,
other than me,
incomprehensible to me.

One who hung the earth,
the stars, nebulas, galaxies
on the stretched, mostly empty,
canopy of space and time,
molecules too distant to carry sound

And yet it seems as though
on nights of sleeplessness
when staring yearningly to the dark
I can hear the faint hammerings
of creation, an echo of that One’s art.

Trying to Set Feeling to Page

Poetic Bloomings – French poetic form, the Rondel Supreme

I write this poem but I don’t know what to say
though there is within me a torrent of words
fluttering, jostling, pushing against, like birds
at the feeder after the first snow fall on a grey

morning with the sunflower hulls splayed
like scattered sentences faint and blurred,
I write this poem but I don’t know what to say
though there is within me a torrent of words

Where are the words? They need to be heard,
to flesh out my howl – it is a hound’s bay
to soften the raucous – a donkey’s bray
I’m supposed to be a poet, it’s absurd
I write this poem but I don’t know what to say
though there is within me a torrent of words.

(The following was my first attempt, which did not follow the form.)

I write this poem but I don’t know what to say
though there is within me a torrent of words
fluttering, jostling, pushing against, like birds
at the feeder after the first snow fall on a grey

morning with the sunflower hulls splayed
like scattered sentences faint and blurred,
unreadable.  I don’t know what they say.
Feelings, emotion, angst, but no words.

Where are the words? They need to be heard,
to flesh out my howl – it is a hound’s bay
to soften the raucous – a donkey’s bray
I’m supposed to be a poet, it’s absurd
that words fail me that I can’t say
what my heart feels. Surd.  No words.

Definition of surd.
 1: lacking sense  
 2: voiceless —used of speech sounds.

  1. 14-line poem broken into three stanzas.
  2. Stanzas one and two have four lines and the last stanza has six lines.
  3. Rhyme scheme: ABba/abAB/abbaAB
  4. The (capital letters) refrains repeat as the last lines in the last two stanza.
  5. No restrictions on syllables or subjects.

Facing East

See the source image

Poetic Bloomings endecha

Growing tall and straight, stately
ash grey trunks rise, heads swaying
slightly in a gentle wind
surrounded by softest blue and clouds laying

down a wispy, longing mood…
autumn leaves in faded brown
scattered like tossed confetti
wait to be reaped in heaping piles on the ground

And as I survey this scene
of another season spent,
the rhythm of passing time
I stand tall and straight, head in the sky, unbent.

Process notes:
In Christian cemeteries, headstones traditionally face the east as a symbol of the deceased person’s anticipation of the second coming of Christ. 

A Chest of Childhood

poeticbloomings

In the in between of our autumn and winter years a quietness has settled in and I’m ready for a change. We are downsizing our lives. Buying a new place in the same town. Hungry for a new adventure. But downsizing has not been as easy as I thought it would be. Choosing what to keep and what to leave behind is not a cut and dried task; it is filled with land-minds of memories.

I was going through the cedar chest and under winter coats and summer clothes was a box I’d forgot was there. My son’s first set of walking shoes, scuffed and creased, took me back in a leap of years. A Jessie “Toy Story” t-shirt my daughter wore, Awana awards, report cards, post cards from camp… I spent so much time remembering. But, what do you do with all those things? The kids don’t want them, they are storing their own memories of their kids. The second-hand store might want the t-shirt but nothing else and I can’t bring myself to toss them. They go back in the box and back in the chest. The children can deal with it all one day.

Seasons of living
A chest full of memories
time etches in dust.

Nightingale Song

“A poet is a nightingale”  Percy Bysshe Shelley “A Defense of Poetry”

(Trolaan)

A poet is a nightingale
ambrosial melodies he sings
au bade to dawn, ode to dusk’s veil, 
aesthetically he stirs the strings

Poets emote upon the page
persnickety about each word
plying their trade across that stage
praying their message will be heard

Ottava Rima, lilting lune,
Ovillejo, golden vessels
offer ways to compose your tune
once done well worth the wrestle

the finished poem put you through.
Then, ended, the nightingale done
thinks of the next poem to do…
trepidly he hopes there is one.


Rainy Forecast

Image result for bits of blue in grey sky images

thetwiglets – sky holds blue

The sky holds blue in reserve
hoarding it like a miser
eking it out sourly
in pathetic dribs and drabs
between the cracks of grey clouds.
The weather station assures
tomorrow will be the same.
The sky holds blue in reserve
and I’m tired of rainy days.

Summer

See the source image

Poetic Blooming PROMPT #305 – SUMMER LEAVES ?

You’re leaving on a stilted slant of light
Indifferent, cold-shouldered you walk away
The evenings have become odd to my sight
Shadows in shadows, sepia array
Even the hummingbirds and geese take flight.

I say my goodbyes to your fading back
Used to your vanishing ways. But the air
(spice, leather, burnt fruit, a hint of cognac)
warms the cruel saudade of fall’s flair
and buffers the winter winds till you’re back


Saudade is a word for a sad state of intense longing for someone or something that is absent. It comes from Portuguese culture, and it is often expressed in its literature and music. Saudade is described as a kind of melancholy yearning.
(dictionary.com)

A Shakespearean Romance

The stornello is an Italian tercet (or 3-line stanza)
with 11 syllables per line

and an aaa end rhyme.

By starlight, by moonbeam, blindly, I sought
a true love, Romeo, Benedick, I thought
but all my seeking, all my hope, came to naught

And then by chance, by kindly luck, a blind date
a Romeo, a Benedick, not my fate.
Ah, but you, my love, the perfect surrogate.
  

Sleep Song

Youtube

poeticbloomings
(Golden Shovel)

“The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.” Langston Hughes

Listen – plink, plink – the
tap dancing rain
tumbles, rolls, kicks, plays
like Gene Kelly on a
puddled street. Little
drops on our roof sigh sleep,
a drizzly, sizzly, lullaby song.
A steady rhythmic beat – on
and on, on and on, on our
silvery, tin clad roof.
Our eyes at half-mast, worries at
last passed… sweet night.

We snuggle and
you say, “I love you” and I
say, “Mmm, I love
you, too. And the
rain. I love the rain.”