Wordless Wednesday - End of Days

 

We've Got Cows - The Sunday Muse

 

Come, sweet Hathor
my space-cow
bring your children
back from playing leapfrog
with the moon.
 
The glass on the counter
is half full
and the sweet clover
is blossoming in the field
and soft, September breeze
spills milkweed seed everywhere.
They fly with exuberance,
though they will die,
preparing for next year’s
butterflies.
 
Come with me, Hathor,
from the Aaru
back into to time,
back into this world
of grass and dirt and sun
 
back to this afternoon
of warm sunshine
and soft grasses
of falcons circling high above
and crows preening
in a nearby oak
talking amongst themselves.
 
Of course, it won’t last forever
my dear,
that’s what makes it
perfect.

 

The image is provided by The Sunday Muse.  

 

Aaru – in ancient Egyptian mythology the Field of Reeds, is the heavenly paradise

Hathor - ancient Egyptian goddess depicted as a cow, or a woman with the head of a cow, considered the primeval goddess from whom all others were derived. 

Friday 55 - Look Out

I think one day

the world will be taken over
by grey haired, women poets.
They are a radical bunch
eloquent, but enigmatic
with their coffee and tea and gin
their gardens, their books
and their views
that society should
be tipped on its head.
So, if you’re at the top
brace yourself
because it’s coming.

Image:Author unknown. Please email me for credit or removal of image.

Wordless Wednesday - Maurice and Otis

 

Offer it Up

It’s not the wickedness that kills us
but the expectations
and the pretense

It’s not the poison apple

or even the apple

of The Knowledge of Good and Evil

it’s the hundreds of apples

over the years

bruised and mealy

offered for our own good

 

It’s not the single, clean stab of a blade

it’s a thousand paper cuts

it’s not one deep gash from the sword

but a million little jabs of the pen

that add up to our demise

 

Death by hypocrisy

death by conformity

death by good intentions

 

Image by Brooke Shaden.

Written  shockingly late for The Sunday Muse.

The Trouble with 'The Trouble with Poetry'

Today I read

the 'Trouble with Poetry'

by Billy Collins

and the trouble with that is

that now I want to steal

those words he has written,

which is exactly

what the poem is about.

Well, exactly, sort of,

in the way poetry is always

about something, but it’s really about

something else altogether too.           

Autumn Fruits

 

Over at dVerse Poets' Pub Laura has asked us, keeping September in mind, to write a nine-line verse, taking one of several lines from different poets so that each consecutive word becomes the start of the next line of the poem. I chose the following:

Those/ pale /flowers /might /still /have/ time/ to /fruit  from Karina Borowicz’s ‘September Tomatoes’ 

 

Those autumn evenings grow crisp at the edges.

Pale moonlight spills on fields as that first star

flowers in the darkening sky.

Might this inexorable transition towards winter

still surprise us, still catch in our throats?

Have we lost our awe of beauty, death,

time slipping into past?

Today we should enjoy the final

fruit, sweetened by September’s breeze.

Wordless Wednesday - On My Walk

Wordless Wednesday - Almost Autumn

 

Over Time

I make these plans

and sometimes they work out

but sometimes…

well, it would be interesting

to eavesdrop on my self

five years ago, or fifteen, or fifty

to hear the things

I thought were

so important

then turn to

my worries of today

This is a quadrille, for dVerse Poets' Pub where Kim has asked us for 44 words, exactly, that include some form of "eavesdropping."

Wordless Wednesday - Summer Smiles in Yellow

Back in that other place there was a thing called Wordless Wednesday.  You post a picture with no explanation and the hashtag "wordlesswednesday" (and whatever others are fitting).  So, this post is not wordless, and it's not Wednesday, but I'm going to start doing it here with this "wordy Thursday" picture. :)

The First of September

So what do I write on this first day

of this new month, September, this

almost autumn?

Do I write about how the garden

is nearly exhausted?

Do I write about how the leaves

are already beginning to turn?

Do I write about my dad, born in this month,

whose favorite color was red,

whose favorite flower was the American Beauty Rose,

whose favorite season was autumn?

Do I write about his strong, freckled hands,

or his neat-nick habits

or his quick mind

or his laugh that filled rooms

or his clever sense of humor?                  

Or do I write about the cooler nights

and the shorter days

and how death is coming for us all?

This is linked to dVerse Poets' Pub for their open link night.