I’ve always thought that you had an eye for fire. An affinity for flame. It’s curious that we meet, unplanned, at these worshippings. And if by chance I see you in the cold air, your strange eyes tell of blue smoke.
***
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Out of whole cloth
A cloak is dreamt.
It is long, hooded, and heavy-
as iridescent as a fish.
Its imagined scales are of many colors.
They resemble organ stops, tombstones,
or pats of plastered paint.
When donned, its weight makes one stumble-
Accretions from an empath’s trove.
Photo Challenge: Black and Gray
Some of the stunning photography by Denise Ruttan…
The Rest of the Story
A story about a visit to Antarctica by Gael Mueller.
(For some unknown, unknowable reason, I stopped writing in June. Just stopped. Didn’t think about it. Didn’t worry about it. Whatever makes me write, stopped.
Then a few days ago, that part of my brain started working again. Just did.
So I looked back at what I had been writing about and realized—I didn’t finish the story of Antarctica. So here is–The Rest of the Story.)
The entire trip to Antarctica had given me an emotional high. I was were, for most of my adult life, I had wanted to be. I was on an ocean that few had the privilege to see. I was witnessing a landscape that was terrifyingly beautiful. I was acutely aware of the dangers that surrounded me as I floated on a small rubber boat among penguins and icebergs, whales and mountains.
The cold wind on my face, the sun…
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Pincushion
This skin
gets more and more thin,
and can’t stop what wants to get in.
What’s seen in crowding eyes.
What’s under, in disguise.
This night life sees the knives;
sees the fortunes of our lives.
Still it feels the warmth of smiles;
a lover’s selfless sweet denials.
***
My fear
~All of the old stores are empty now, musty and unused to windows. Locked in a tin room, I hear the circular saw start up, then the screams as they lop off the hands of thieves. Tonight, I will get my pan full of cricket meal. Tomorrow, in chapter and verse, my sentencing.~
Child of mine
~My child
What will you take up in your hands
and see as good
Will you see the falseness of sold things
meant as a siren song
and worry little over small matters
that fall away with yesterday
May you be nimble in your seeking
of love and of God,
and know that the two are one.~
Until then
When I begin to speak
a learned language
to a veiled world,
please know that I have always loved you-
my hand-holder,
my chaperone.
In shadow
At bedtime,
those dark blooms in her room.
In coffee mornings, the dregs of her cup.
At lunch, in her rusted car,
the depths of her purse.
The tunnel vision of her darkened spirit.
The hurried look of a long-time user.
And, on this day,
the hand-like shadow on the x-ray plate.
***
Asleep in sway
Refuse in the oceans.
God’s things caught in its mire.
In a come-lately penance,
I think of small atonements,
futile fixes.
If a poem had power, had sway,
or could be born of a prophet,
sleep might come more easily.
Still, I count the sheep of days,
the fish in a river’s flow…
***
image: https://pixabay.com/users/a_different_perspective-2135817/
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