Gone With Fairies

 

bluebells pd

There is an incline in the forest where bluebells blossom, dense as grapes, heady as lilac. I stretch out on my back. Green stems, like octopus tendrils, tangle my hair. The land shifts perpendicular.  Down, down I slide, damp earth brushing my elbows. I land with a soft jolt onto ripe grass. The smell is beetroot, radish and earthworm.

Consider magic.

Underground rogues, fey and trolls

guard hidden treasure

beneath marbled walls. They keep

secrets, bargain dark wishes.

 

blue fairy

From a fog, metallic as pyrite, they emerge.  Blue skin, sapphire eyes that stare still as stone. One of them hands me a violin.  Aged from wear and tear,  its wood is warped, strings stretched.  With a rickety bow, I play.  Joyful noise spills from my fingers.

And yet.  I do not know a single note.

fairy violin

 

**NOTE: This poem is in response to Colleen’s Poetry Challenge/ Fairy Magic.  It is my first attempt at Haibun.  (Not sure I did it right, but hope you like 🙂  )

Happy Summer Solstice! “Always go with fairies.”

 

 

 

 

Our Darkest Hour

 

dark hour

A dark moon shines, dead of night, invisible                                                                                    to  the naked eye. Mounted with power we wait, a quest of

mystery

and vision

dreams deep. There is a secret unspoken:                                                                                     The best creation comes from

desperation

found  only

in the sad reprieve, the fluttering grief  of                                                                                         our darkest hour.

dark sky pd

 

 

 

Mother

 

mothers-day art

She is the first

pink smile, bright force, propagator of all

Humanity. She

has but one egg, he a thousand sperm

and for that they place her

on a pedestal

of impossibility

only

to knock her down again and again.

 

She weeps. She bleeds. Endures

a maze of obligations in simple

Obscurity. Her work is the hardest, her task Divine

sandwiched between the pure Maiden

and waning Crone.

 

Not all are mothers, but all have a mother.

On this day, honor yours.

maid mother pd

 

 

Mirrors

 

mirror 3

They fuse our vanity with imperfection, reflecting bone hair skin

undeciphered as we preen

fuss, adjust every eyelash every detail

and yet

fall prey to an astounding

disconnect.

 

Caught perpendicular, a grim imitation, false

replication

passed like alchemy though glass, copper, halide

and silver, a vast shattering

We are not

what we Are.

mirror 4

 

 

Mother Earth (a rondeau)

 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

She is not ready for your tomb

Of rancid waste, of filth and doom

There is much life in Mother Earth

A wealth of riches, home and hearth.

Gestation beats within her womb

 

Azalea, daisies stretching bloom

Her blossoms delicate perfume

The lady presses sun and mirth

She is not ready for your tomb.

 

Her skillful weaving, fruit from loom

Touch wheat fields of her sweeping broom

Where golden ores are forging birth

With gemstones rich, she’ll find her worth

In treasures more than you’d assume

She is not ready for your tomb.

ophelia

**NOTE:  This poem was inspired by John W. Leys  and his use of experimental poetry forms. The Rondeau was first used in thirteenth-century France, popular among medieval court poets and musicians. Because it is named for the French word ’round’ I could not resist using it as a tribute to Earth.  Read more about the Rondeau here.

Happy Earth Day! 🙂