Caught in the Wind

leaves blown

Caught in the wind
like lonely crow’s caw of despair.
Caught in the wind
words spilled, lost to the world, then pinned
against a branch – a scrap of prayer,
tattered and flapping, yet still there,
caught in the wind.

This is a Rondelet (see below for sepcifics)  written in response to “Fussy Little Forms” at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

I couldn’t find who took the photo.  If it’s yours let me know and I’ll either credit you, or remove it, as you choose.

The Rondelet is a seven line French poetry from with the following rhyme and meter:

Line 1 :: A—four syllables
Line 2 :: b—eight syllables
Line 3 :: A—repeat of line one
Line 4 :: a—eight syllables
Line 5 :: b—eight syllables
Line 6 :: b—eight syllables
Line 7 :: A—repeat of line one

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Woman with Long Hair

woman-with-long-hair-1929.jpg!Large
Woman with Long – Hair, Man Ray, 1929

I am the woman with the long hair
grown through years of want
and waiting

I am the woman with the stillborn dreams
feeling them dry up within me
throughout my gestation

I am the woman with the red shoes
dancing for my life
as the crowd looks on

I am the woman with the arching back
bent to your will
always aching

I am the woman with the bloody hands
reaching for a cigarette
sick of all the bullshit sacrifice

This is for the November Photographic Challenge at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

Stepping into Darkness

We step into darkness
both knowing
and not knowing
that we know nothing

With hands
outstretched
feeling along cave walls
we come to
an opening
eyes wide
but unseeing
breeze whispers
at our cheek
if
we only
listen

What oceans, fields, forests
does it carry?
What skies
has it traveled through
just
to touch us?

This is for Joy’s resurrection of Friday 55 at her remarkable blog, Verse Escape.

Present

We rush through
a tinderbox world 
with an armload of matches
as the wind picks up

Skies darken
lightning flashes
but no rain falls

Ignorance and Want
follow us
track us
trace our steps
drawing ever closer

Then high above
the vultures begin to circle
and all our bad victories
catch in our throats

 

These 55 words are woefully late for Joy’s FF55 at Verse Escape.

Mid-Night

There is a time
closer to night than morning
when parties fall
into ruin
and the moon wearies

There is a time
when dreams are forgotten
and shades
lose their way 

There is a time
when the clock
gives up its hands
and the hours pool
on the ground
running to regret

This is my time

This is for my friend Joy’s FF55 revival at Verse Escape, even though it’s not Friday, and if you’re counting, there aren’t 55 words.

Nightmare

Days are dark
waters are rising
yet the world is burning
as we are being led
140 characters at a time
into the mouth
of the fire

False prophets promise
haven as they
steal the ground
from beneath our feet and
deport
our dreams

Turns out
the small-fisted, would-be emperor
is both naked and blind.

This is for Hedgewitch’s memorial FF55 at Verse Escape.