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Waking the Mirror
The mirror sleeps the long night.
When it is dawn and the ritual begins
Waking the mirror
At first small bright flying things
Each shinning with its own light
Each admires its reflection as they fly westward
Then day glow white herons or egrets
spread their massive wings so that the sleepy mirror gets an eye full
and at last, the sun, burning with the white hot fires of a new day
marshals all the hues of the rainbow
calls them by name
and demands they speak their colors into the liquid mirror
The glass is full of light.
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Flower Poetry:
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White Birch
By poetryman69
lush green grass
thin white birches
an orgy of multi hued wild flowers
large clumps white flowers resting in a bed of green
flickering like green flames running up the mountain passes like wild fire
green like a stain like a stain on a stony face
green like 5 day beard stubble
echoes of a tropical wilderness in a tame western glade
fences like crosses or giant jacks dot the forest land
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May
It is May
and the rising wind off the restless waters of the lake is cool on a humid summer morning
and birdsong greets the dawn
and cars still sing metal songs and tires kiss black on black new asphalt and eat the miles
and contrails and mares tails play tag in near space
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| Return of The Kitchen God |
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A Catchment full of Moonlit Water
A misty river in a mossy vale
A catchment full to the brim of moonlit water
Lichen covered boulder worn smooth by time and water
Knee deep in the dragonfly grasses
Barren beach on a cold lake
Ribbed dry bones of the earth
a place of water ages past but alas, it flows no more
Stacatto cliffs like shattered bones and broken teeth
Twisted shoals mired in milky mist
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Moon hangs in the winter sky. Breath crystallizes and falls. I can still see branches of wood like stick fingers Through the clear ice. It is so cold the the trees weep and The roof cries tears of ice. More..
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It is Spring And the whole world is petal wonderful. Bright petals Pink as flesh Thick as snow Sharp and fringed at the edges And pink to the point of madness An old man in an arbor growing hope Andcherriesandapples. She was tiny and running and Dark to the point of Africa And she pointed to the tree with a pudgy finger And … More..
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In the Silence between the Thunders, the world is Rain. All natures applauds and there is a great roar as the crowd is brought to its feet. And the approbation gets so hard, and high that the roof is hard pressed to ward it off. But at long last, clapping becomes dripping. A shower becomes a drizzle. And the rivers, as thoug… More..
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Pink Roses
Pink Rose
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