Six poems and 16 fragments – the last of our poems developed from the recent Twitter poetry party hosted by Tweetspeak. All prompts were taken from Harvesting Fog: Poems, by Luci Shaw. And our thanks to Luci for participating with us (and she gets full credit for Fragment 15).
The Cinnamon Beetle 6
Lovers in the rain
I am rain, sweet rain,
and I am carried away;
hold my hand, love, lest I slip
Return to me, let me touch
the turn of your back, down
which a gentle hand might slide
and find its way to love.
The thirst is quenched
I slip on stars, careening
through the doorway,
falling, and spilling
into the river of my love.
A winter star, observed
through a doorway
will show us through
the darkest night of love.
And on till morning one star
turns milk-white, slips among
the stones, falls, quietly comes
and rests beside the moon,
and spell us for a moment
of enchantment awash
in moonlight, turning us
in a glass smoky with desire.
Memory and time both fade
like sunlight. Now I write
of doorways and wonder
who goes to their beds alone.
I reach through the doorway
to snatch a winter star, placing
it on your finger to light our way.
The winter star holds the eye,
arrogant in its crystal beauty,
sharp light reflected, in sharp air.
The doorway of memory has closed
upon me, the darkest winter night
hides the star that would lead me on.
A star through the window, like a kiss
in the night, opens a translucent
doorway, the face at the doorway.
Lay me down again, by the doorway,
next to the constellation of you.
Lay me down again by the doorway.
See the ashes, cinder-soot of the love
we had, the winter, the island, the dream,
of the doorway and the ashes.
A glitter of ash
I wait for you as I wait
for the ocean to part,
where I might fling
a glitter of ash you left.
Can a tongue taste
the clouds or speak
the lightning reflected
in your eyes? Can a hand
grasp the thunder?
His fingernails are translucent;
veins run through those hands,
Veins like strong ropes sew
their way through the tissue
of his hands.
He was crazy
He was crazy, standing in the doorway,
gun loaded. He asked if I could kill a man
cold-blood. The gun was heavy, cold;
I did not even want to touch it but I did;
I could not let him think I was afraid.
The bed, yes, always the bed; put away
the gun; follow me back to the bed.
Piles of pillows, shame hidden; come
back to bed now, put away the weapons
and trust my body to kill.
When I need to write I call on him
in the doorway, in the dark, with the gun,
and I ask him to write me again
and to the bed return, a winter’s memory
to dream on, the way a lover does,
enchanted, in the face of a full moon.
The faded blue sheets were all I had
to tell me of that night…
I was scared on the blue sheets
in the blue room with a wizard
on the wall and a trunk full
of my letters by the bed.
Sheets were borrowed; sheets
were blue; I was swimming
in blue sheets, diving through dreams.
The last blue sheets of paper
hold your last words to me
until the drip I hear in blue
plastic barrels washes your words
from the last blue sheets of paper
folded in your hand. Enfold the sheets
about me; life will live on the morrow.
I am tired.
When I walk down his staircase,
I let my hand trail the soft wood
of the banister. It is silk, like skin.
It is reassuring.
A verse in glass
to woo her.
What can one read
from lines in parts
a thousand miles.
Stick my finger in a jar
of peanut butter;
brush my teeth with it.
No one is watching.
If my fingers were candy,
could I resist biting them
I floated on a blueberry,
drifted to an island,
found an open bed,
Ashes pile up under the full moon.
The beetle crawls under sandstone
rocks. The stain of ashes is like a curse
in the dark.
I sat entranced
by a rainbow beetle,
a thick blue and red
beetle, with wings
of colored hope.
The water at hand
recalls the gentle
thrum of rain, and
to too late rising.
acid touches tongue
bright flavor carries
away thought, leaves
What are you doing?
Reading poetry online.
That sounds horrible;
I’m going to watch
something on TV.
That sounds worse.
His arms, a sail,
we soar in wind
and wave free,
I’d like it to be Lent again.
I feel like I belong in the ashes
of mourning. Instead here I am,
hurtling forward to Advent.
Tip your hand now
into the water, warm
close your eyes.
It really is time
to heal from this.
Rain finds the river
through forest and
road and rocky slope,
awash in moonlight,
Fun and fancy free.
in small chunks.
How sweet it is
Photo by Gemma Stiles, Creative Commons, via Flickr. Poems by @memoriaarts, @mdgoodyear, @llbarkat, @EricSwalberg, @luci_shaw, @gyoung9751, @RuminateMag, @mrsmetaphor, @doallas, @LoveLifeLitGod, @nmdr_, @KathleenOverby, @Sand_RAD, @mxings, @mmerubies, @charsingleton, @CherylSmith999, @lauraboggess, and @VinaMist. Cameo appearances by @LuvStomp, @poemblaze and @annkroeker. Edited by @gyoung9751.
- Poets and Poems: Peter A and “Art of Insomnia” - September 21, 2021
- Poets and Poems: Andrew Benson Brown and “Legends of Liberty” - September 14, 2021
- ‘Spoon River America’: Jason Stacy on the Myth of the Small Town - September 7, 2021