The Passionate Crone (poetry): July 2015

31 July 2015

Night of the Blue Moon

I use my laser-tipped shaft

– a long crystal laser –

wand and athame both.

I cast a simple circle,

no elaborate ritual tonight.

I’m a plain and basic witch.

I welcome the elements,

creating sacred space

in my small back yard.

Even in moonlight

the trumpet creepers

glow bright orange.

The trees bend in

above me; the rose bush

has tight new leaves.

It has been a strange day.

Now I reach night, and accept

that some friendships grow old.

This, though, is constant: me

and the full moon together

in a garden, year after year.

I let the day go, in its pain.

With raised arms, I accept

into myself the moon’s white light.

I draw it down, and use it

to bless the plants and my cat

and the listening nature spirits.

I ask that the world will know

love, peace and truth. I ask

to be strong. And wise.

Linked to Poets United's Midweek Motif: Acceptance

This poem also appears in Sherry's Poets United feature: A Chat With Rosemary Nissen-Wade ~ On Poetry and Witchcraft; and again in her later feature: Poems for a Witchy Halloween, along with poems by herself and Magaly Guerrero.

Sky Haiga

One magpie: haiku, July 2015

one magpie

the gurgle of a stream

over stones

no traffic

along the winding road

trees close in

***

winter sun

the hills across the way

hazy grey

3/7/15

gurgling rain –

waxing crescent

six days old

***

waxing moon

rain gurgling

all night

22/7/15

roses –

dark shadows

on the wall

24/7/15

black-topped

mountainous clouds –

bare trees

25/7/15

Linking to the Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

29 July 2015

Now I can speak: Tanka, July 2015

now I can speak

of him and our life

with no tears

as I found out today

in the doing

15/7/15

on cold nights

I read love stories

very late

until warm sleep

embraces me

21/7/15

they rev cars 

chatter, drink from cans

 not sleepy

 this warm afternoon 

young men out of school

29/7/15

28 July 2015

Now Falling

Now

falling

through soft rain

comes the slight sound

you almost dismiss,

the one you tell yourself

is imagined, but you know

it is the tolling of that bell,

it is your death announcing itself
although only faintly yet and far off.

An etheree for the latest Play It Again at 'imaginary garden with real toads.
Also linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #263

27 July 2015

This Poem Is a Cup, a Woman, a Late Hour

This poem is a warm cup of cocoa.

This poem is a woman resting.

This poem is a late hour alone.

The cup has been drunk

as she leans against her pillow.

She has almost drained it now.

Its warmth comforts her.

This poem is a warm cup of cocoa.

She decided to come to bed early.

She has propped the pillow

to support her back, so

she can pretend there's no pain.

This poem is a woman resting.

Her eyelids droop. She ought to

close them, she had such good intentions.

But the poem has overtaken her.

She has no-one to tell her, 'Go to sleep.'

This poem is a late hour alone.

This poem is a warm cup of bedtime cocoa.

This poem is a woman resting on her pillow.

This poem is night, is reflection, is a late hour alone.

At 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are asked to revisit an earlier challenge. I chose Hannah Gosselin's Boomerang Metaphors.

Thispost is alos linke dto Poets United's Poetry Pantry #262

15 July 2015

Coming to Rest

I was in Venice with you, and

Kathmandu with you, and Cusco

with you — beloved cities.

They are gone now, irrecoverable,

not what they were (places of singing,

shining) seventeen years ago.

Is Venice still sinking? Kathmandu

is rubble. The people are old, we knew

in Cusco. And you are dead, my dear.

I’m glad to remember those cities, our cities;

and glad to be here, home, remembering
you, my journey’s companion.

At dVerse Poetics we are asked to write 12 lines including three words that mean a lot to us (mine are 'Venice', 'Kathmandu', 'Cusco') and three words describing people or things we're grateful for (mine are 'remember', 'home', 'you').

Coffee with a Friend

I was a bit early.

He was a little late.

(He got slightly lost

on the way.)

I stood on the corner

where I’d told him to turn,

leaning out over the rail

of the café’s al fresco section.

I wanted to be highly visible.

(He said later I looked like a beacon.)

A toot from a white sports car.

Yes! I waved like mad.

I hugged him too warmly.

(Old lady’s privilege.)

Slightly taken aback, he

responded with kind grace.

Once we started talking

we could hardly stop.

Poetry and physics;

our marriages and kids.

We couldn’t keep the grins

off our faces. We lingered

until the last minute

of closing time.

I gave him directions

to the best local crystal shop,

which was closing

and selling off stock.

Now he’s posting

polished fossils

and amethyst obelisks

all over facebook.

It was fun. He always

felt like a friend.

It’s so not true what they say,
that fb friends aren't real.

11 July 2015

Life Purpose

‘Come to the workshop I’m hosting!’ my friend invites.

‘The presenter is so insightful, yet gentle. Wouldn’t it be

wonderful to know your purpose? Just think of the ways

that knowledge could transform your life!’ I smile

and say I can’t go. Not exactly true. I won’t go. And yes

the money would have stopped me anyway, but it isn’t that.

At 75, I have mellowed into my purpose. It’s been

a very fine life — of highs and lows, joy and pain

‘and the whole damn thing’. I wouldn’t swap much.

Confusion and struggle may be necessary, I think.

Sometimes our purpose presents us with hurdles.

We gain power and direction as we run and jump.

For the life that remains to me now, my purpose

is to read poems and love them; to write some

that others may love; to exchange thoughts

with my friends, and spend time together;

to visit with family; take good care of my cat;

stay healthy if I can; give help as needed or asked.

To breathe in deep delight, along with the life
I breathe in; to cherish equally ocean and leaf;

to pay my bills and clean my home; to laugh; to dance;

to know myself blessed. My purpose is Love, and to be

an instrument of the Universe when I am called upon:
guided and used, a vehicle for Life’s purpose.

Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #260

6 July 2015

Ripping It Up

Hypnotised by his own music

dances to the beat

JIG jig / JIG jig / JIG jig / THUMP!

and the guitar whines

and the guitar shrieks

and the guitar becomes

a deadly mosquito

cre-SCENdo-ing

to stab, to pierce.

I am all over the floor

destroyed

remade.

There is nowhere

left to go
and no need.

Day Two of facebook poetry chain. Linked to Gillena's Monday WRites and to The Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

5 July 2015

Versification Unsublime

Pain defeats poetry;

I resort to mere verse.

My back in spasm

demands full attention.

Doggerel or worse

is my best. The orgasm

of lyrical beauty eludes me,

as does invention.

Yet, may this exercise in rhyme

(called bref doublé)

rate some mention

if only as a weird phantasm

in the annals of poetic divers-

ity.

A 55-word piece for 'imaginary garden with real toads'. Also my Day One offering in the facebook poetry chain for which I was just nominated. And, finally, linking to Gillena's 'Sunday Lime'.

3 July 2015

Purring: Erotic haiku and tanka, May —June 2015

he strides
firm buttocks and thighs
tightly outlined

19/5/15

he strokes
the cat on his knee
I yearn

****

his fingers flex
massaging her fur ...
purring

4/6/15

too old now
for limbs no longer lithe
to exit with ease
a bath whose embrace has cooled,
I love my hand-held shower nozzle

29/6/15

Linked to the latest Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.