A Dark Shining

Headlights pierced the gathering fog

and swept the side ditch and the

barbed wire fence.

 

Hypnotized by the sameness of nothing—

the fallow fields of winter—

I reached for the radio dial when out of the gloom

a lurching figure appeared.

 

All legs—a wendigo?—chase curtailed?

The headlights pierced the jellyfish eyes

of the crazed creature, its back legs snared

on the barbed wire of the fence.

 

Hung with weight, the doe lunged for freedom

over and over like the pendulum of a clock.

Her companions having long since

cleared the fence.

It's open link weekend at Earthweal  and the forum stays open until midnight. Lots of time!

Happy Sunday Funday from the sweltering Thumb of a changing world. 

A Good Day For A Burning

Grass won’t grow where the barrels were stored.
Three seasons gone; it wasn’t easy.
But then it wasn’t hard.
He cleansed the ditches with burning
And crossed the Rubicon.

Three seasons gone—sprayers, masks, drums that bled.

He took back the cultivator for weeds that don’t

glow in the dark—stooped into his father to embrace

the old ways. With each sluice of the plow

clean dirt is turned. But nothing will grow

on the north side of the shed.

 

Trees denuded by a weakened sun

are stripped bare as the arms of a refugee.

Unplucked apples, like rosy knuckles,

drop to ground and cling

to the bank of a dry creek bed.

 

We warm our hands at the burn barrel.

The jovial days of fall—

the kicking up of leaves—

passed in the night some nights ago.

It was a good day for a burning.

 

But nothing will grow where the barrels were stored

Posted with thanks to Poets and Writers for the writing community they embrace and Earthweal for their open link weekend prompting us to post a favorite poem.  I wrote this while my father was still alive. He liked it. 

Walk In The Dark

 In the quiet splendor of a predawn morn
the moon gilds the hoophouse in shiny opulence.

Lace riven configurations circle the sky

with the moon at their apex high above the earth

circling quiet, like a giant snow globe—

how could one ever think this world flat?

And I, an inconsequential ant of a being

Invades the quiet on a shuffle across the frozen grass

in my husband’s boots and a hand-me-down coat

and my daddy’s hat with the flashlight of my mother’s trepidation

in my pocket just in case.

But if you walk in the dark you see the dark,

the dark a friend if you see it thus,

but chickens need light as much as scratch and

I flick the switch in the pumphouse to juice one newly

installed that said husband thinks will fool them

into thinking we've reached beyond the darkest day

but they only blink and murmur and stir on their roost. 

An owl hootsfrom a branch with blood on his mind 

and I stop to gaze upwards in dizzying amaze

at the splendor of this quiet morn there for all to see if we but look up.

Happy Thanksgiving. May it be a peaceful one.   

Reminded to be thankful (and praising) by Brendan at Earthweal, 

with his shared story of the Austrian poet Rilke...

And if the earthly no longer knows your name

whisper to the silent earth: I'm flowing. To the flashing water say: I am.

Feeding On The Dead

 The fires took four houses down last night,

They’re miles away, we’re safe, you set me right
The darkling sky looks like a storm to me.
But still I watch the sky above our game.
You made a triple word score with a Z
and remind me where we are; it’ll never rain.

People have to have some place to stay—

desert rats without the sense to flee

and water is cheap pumped in from far away

to here where fires feed on the dead and leap the pass.

No looming thunderstorm those kites of black.

You remind me where we are; it’ll never rain.

The fires took four more houses down last night. 

 

 

The one-eyed bird sings

plaintive song from blackened stumps

on the clear-cut plain.

Today it's Haibun Monday at dVerse with a seasonal topic of fear. And over at Earthweal, a challenge approaching Samhein, clebrating that Day of the Dead. Let's!

Malcolm The Cat

The sleet quietly turned into snow in the night. Nothing moves on the road, like the snowy mornings of old. The snow deadens sound, but I see our fat cat has emerged from his house on the porch to observe the day. He has a rug and shelter under the overhang. His dish is empty. I warm up some broth left over from our Christmas Day Beef Bourguignon and drizzle it over his food, now fit for the king cat he is. A morning like this makes one feel lazy as a cat in the sun.  

Things cats can teach us:

Be curious but cautious
Pay attention to the weather
Sharpen your claws but know when to run
Know your friends.
You can see in the dark when you walk in the dark
Eat slowly then wash your face.

Happy New Year writers and poets and friends extraordinaire, especially those at earthweal where you will find poetry for and of a changing world.

Concurrence

Snow fog encases each blade of grass,
each winter’s branch in wispy ice
as the hunter hidden in his blind
rests his weapon on the sill.

The rising sun lifts the fog—

a breath, a pause, a trigger pull.

A rush of wing, a whoosh of air

the ricocheting echo fades.

Steam releases from the kill

and quiet calms the forestland.

This hunting season inspired poem is linked to Earthweal (poetry for a changing world) and their open link weekend.

Fairyland

Dressing in the dark in winter clothes
I turn on the coffee to a rising death toll.
Under stay-at-home orders and weeping skies
I need a haircut and larder supplies.
Jigsaw puzzle spread out on a table,
piece by piece I construct a town.
Tulips, groomed grass, and houses that house people.
Lecture halls and libraries and bustling alehouses.
Bartenders with white towels wiping down bars,
Cracking jokes and drawing pints in a fairy tale land. 
With writings and books and time for it all
I should be content but I miss my pals.


Linked up with Earthweal and the weekly challenge,"Flattening The Curve".

To date in America there are 183,000 cases of Covid-19 and 3,774 deaths, a sobering number as it doubled in two days.
 

Feeling Small in a Multitude of Ways

If the sky were any bigger it would kill me clean.

like an iceberg into the melting sea.

The sun colors the sky best before it breaks dawn—

each wisp of cloud a red kite on a string.

It enhances the tree clinging to life, to its last wind-torn leaf

like a child to her mother through the fence of the king.

It’s bigger than a barn from afar, that tree

limbs full of birds’ nests unraveling in a breeze

and I don’t know how it escaped the clear-cut of the king.

Too lazy to have walked through a field of grass

to stand under a tree, the vast sweep of its shade

and pay homage to that which is braver than me.

Too cowed to lobe arrows at the wall of the king, 

my capacity to feel small is undiminished  by lies

as the sun travels its arc across a blood-splattered sky

and I finish out the day in a multitude of small ways.

Humbly offered for Poets and Storytellers and likewise for Earthweal, the weekend open links for writerly laments.

Assault on a Dove

A flock of birds swoop down the road

in the face of a churning, tireless blow

skittering the ditch, they flutter and spin

to stay in sync with their fine-boned friends.

Pellets of snow fly in opposing drift

unlike these birds who would flock together

if only they could. They circle the house looking for calm,

break apart and converge in the shape of a crown.

One lone dove drops from the sky
like a plumb line to my porch and hops chair to a chair

butter soft gray, dusting snow off her feet,

she rests on a cushion out of the wind

and tucks her head neatly under her wing.

For Sherry Marr  at EARTHWEAL, poetry for a changing world.

Rising temperatures have a major influence on wind speeds. This has been especially noticeable here in the Great Lakes Basin. According to a study published in the scientific journal Natural Climate Change, winds across much of North America, Europe, and Asia have grown faster since 2010, and the speeding-up trend is expected to continue. That's good news for renewable energy production and could be a boon for the wind power industry but brings an added risk to birds. 

Researchers estimate that up to 328,000 birds are killed every year in collisions with the blades and support towers. But back to the affect high winds in general have on birds. The ability to land is critical, especially for fast-flying birds. High wind is an assault and particularly dangerous to cliff-breeding birds. It can prevent them from accessing their nests through loss of flight control.

Wind trumps fossil fuels, hands down, but solar trumps wind. No creature likes windy days, least of all birds.