I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world, to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')

These poems are works in progress and may be updated without notice. Nevertheless copyright applies to all writings here and all photos (which are either my own or used with permission). Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your blog posts as much as possible.

21 September 2013

Witch Disappointed

Oh she put on her goddess gown —
purple it was, and black —
in order to dance for the Equinox
at the Castle down the track.

And she put on her crystal point —
she hung it around her neck —
to go and chant for the Equinox
at Uki Castle, by heck.

And she put on her fine Spring cloak 
the sun appliquéd on its back —
because she would feast the Equinox
with her friends  … but alas, alack!

She turned the key; the car was dead.
She could curse and she could hex
but it would not take her down to Uki
to celebrate Equinox.

And brooms don’t fly as fast as cars —
isn’t that a thing to vex?
And so it’s quiet and solitary here
that she keeps this Equinox.

True story! Submitted for dVerse Form For All: Ballads.

17 September 2013

Her Cherished Face

her cherished face
disappears in smoke
evening clouds

This is a distillation of a poem from The Tale of Genji, 
used as a haiku prompt at Kristjaan Panneman's Carpe Diem blog.

15 September 2013

Naming the Places

I rest my hands on my body.

This is Belly,
where I round out,
where my breath goes down to,
and flows back up —
Belly, my centre,
below the navel
and just above the swinging hips.
Belly is where I feel solid.
Belly is where I am safe.

Here now is Thigh
spreading firm and warm 
beneath my palm,
settled, substantial, 
not to be ignored —
on which I sit,
with which I walk.
If Belly is nurture,
Thigh is support.

Mother and Father they are
to the child of the mind
which is flighty, and doesn't 
know how to sit down.
I rest my hands on my head,
feeling for Brain —
but Brain is behind the scalp,
and mind anyway is not there,
it is flying.

I bring my hands
to Chest and Midriff —
left across thymus,
right over solar plexus.
These are the centres 
of love and will.
I take a breath,
and think to draw down the mind
but it doesn't come.

These are my Hands.
I rest them on my body.
They are comfortably warm,
somewhere between 
firm and gentle.
I feel my edges,
I feel my bulk.
Also my mind
comes down now into my Hands.

My Hands are writing a poem.

Submitted for Poets United's Verse First: Places you love.