Tanka

Clouds cluster on hills,
rain streams for days without cease
drives birds from the sky.
When you left all air went too.
Skies gray, leaves fall without sound.

Yesterday, Kerry posted a third article on Tanka over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads. It took me a while so I'm posting this for open link Monday.

When Veil is Thin

When veil is thin between the worlds
candles set in windows swirl
to drive out darkness, bring the light,
welcome ancients, bless the unquiet
dead on their way. Realms unite, twirl

together, liminal time unfurled,
a crack between worlds, learned in oak- burled
woods from spirits this night outside time
when veil is thin.

Lives flow through currents of the soul hurled
from Source, otherworld wide open, curled
visions, elders and fairies- one tribe,
presage of winter shines lighted fires,
kindles kinds of knowledge between worlds
when veil is thin.

Offered for Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets Pub to celebrate the festival of Samhain, the start of the Celtic New Year. Tony Maude wrote a fine post on the rondeau on 24 October and I was inspired to write this in that form. I took the photo at sunset over a lake in my husband's cousin's back yard in County Clare, Ireland.

Spring Sijo

White flowers billow like cloud mass, our neighbor's wall a sight feast.
What equals this in our life, bids us break through in beauty?
Spring buoys us, blows lightness about, bestows fine'ry in search of awe.

Offered for open link night at dVerse Poets Pub using a fascinating Korean form of poetry called Sijo introduced by Samuel Peralta of Semaphore last week over at the Pub. Took me a while to get the hang of it. My neighbor's flowering tree that I pass on my runs inspired me.

A Day's Run

It's the moment in a run
when warm up is done,
resistance abandoned,
muscles move in rhythm
slinky under my skin,
a cadence kicks in,
my body thrums,
finds the day's hum.

Day 2 of NaPoWriMo and a prompt from Fireblossom at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads to go back to the afternoon of Sept. 9, 1958, the portal suggested in Stephen King's novel "11/22/63" and say what you would do. I was 12 and I loved to run. I rediscovered this love in my 60's and the poem speaks of this and an experience I had during this morning's run. Also, it's Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. There's some great poetry happening over there so check it out.

What Role We Have

What role we grands should take fills mind and heart
these days, 'sides love them well, the roots of roots n' wings,
love fierce, connect to all who ancest'red them, bring
complete the circle with them the purpose, the art,
entire, achieved, concluded, free drawn, writ large,
us left breathless at the specter except to sing
our songs for them and attend to theirs gathering
pieces to swell the family trove with their charms.
It's not about them at all, of course, but us,
death's incursion that lies beneath all else
and stands in contrast to their upward slant,
throws us back to what we do with such
lives as we've been given in gen'rous grace, not false
striving to garner praise but pouring hearts 'till spent.



This poem actually was inspired by the dVerse Poets post of September 13 about sonnets. It was a generous and meaty article by Gay Reiser Cannon with lots of information about various kinds and structure of sonnets and splendid examples. I've been working on this since and finished it yesterday. I'm amazed that others wrote theirs so quickly. I post it tonight for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub hosted by Claudia, an inspirational poet in her own right.
(photo taken on my recent trip to Ireland)

Summer Heat

Plants line my balcony parched
in the unrelenting summer heat.
Even with daily sacks of water, leaves
tip brown, flowers fall, unable
to hold. My neighbors say their herbs die.
Against all this my basil thickens, greens
and lushes, reaches to that scorching sun
and grows heedless of what withers others.

My neighbors come to beg basil. They want
what that plant offers, want to eat it, add it
to their food, feed it to their children,
watch it lurch up as most succumb. They tell
friends and friends seek some. The more its shared
the more it grows. Basil takes that blazing
sun, paints yellow on its green leaves, sports it
like a scout's survival badge and just keeps growing.


This is posted as part of Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets Pub hosted today by Natasha Head. It's a talented group, decidedly diverse, who love poetry so check it out.

January Child (The Full Version)

It's Open Link Night - week 18 at dVerse- Poets Pub, devoted to the encouragement of poetry and community among poets. Check it out and tell your friends.

January Child

I came along in the dead of winter

born in my own time three weeks late.

Father was at work.

Mother begged a ride from a neighbor

to go and do her woman's work alone.

She napped me on the porch

to be toughened by the snows

and gales of winter,

to cut my teeth on New England nor'easters

and fight the undeclared war against girls.

Middle child, only girl, small for my age.

Both brothers slept the porch in spring

took for granted the abundance

of our neighborhood, the visitors and friends,

the elms and hyacinths, maples and forsythias,

spring greens, yellows and new hues,

the migratory flocks parading back to northern homes.

Both boys read books, played quiet games

grew fat on father's favor.

I grew to a storm-wintered warrior child

sight practiced on bare lilac thicket,

schooled by wind in how the world sounds,

cries accompanied by blackbirds and jays,

layered against the elements.

Perhaps my skirmishes were attempts

to win that unwinable war

but I fought with the fury of calling,

battered brothers' enemies,

marshaled anger from hidden fronts

as I gave birth to myself.

Mary H. Warren

(I published a 100 word version of this poem on 9/30/11. This is the full poem that needed to be written.)