In last night’s pajamas,
throw together:
Ambition, with a dash
of anxiety.
Just a sprinkle of
focus,
and a pinch
of “I got this!”
Add a cup of coffee.
(Make that two, actually…)
Shake and mix well.
Serve with a side
of “Oh, hell,
I forgot about that…”
The Monday Special:
Order up!
Poetry
The Last of the Year (A Poem)
The last of the year,
the shortest of days,
a high bright moon
in a new winter haze –
December descends,
the darkest of months,
in stoic shades
of white and gray.
But there’s beauty
in the spartan landscape
and comfort in the cold air:
a peaceful silence,
a slant of light,
a joy in rest
and in the hope of
fresh fallen snow,
a gift in the season of giving
and a spirit in knowing
the season is fleeting.
All things must
come to an end,
and in ending can
begin again.
The Language of the Grove (A Poem)
I’d like to know
the language of the grove,
to understand the subtle
conversation of the trees.
To speak without words,
to give and to take
as they need,
to sustain and support
through heat waves and storms –
there’s a special kind of magic
in those ancient roots
and rustling leaves.
Three Celestial Tanka
I wrote these for the November 2021 Poetry Challenge over at Fake Flamenco (which is a wonderful blog that you should definitely go visit and follow). I’ve never written a tanka before, or done a poetry challenge, for that matter, so I had some fun and wrote a few different poems. Enjoy! And if you want to participate, too, the deadline to post is Sunday, November 16th.
**********
The moon and the sun
They are sisters eternal
Each in her own place
They bring balance to the sky
And harmony to mankind
**********
I can hold it all
Stars and moon, the midnight sky
Wrapped close in my arms
The velvet dark and blue light
A cosmic lover kept safe
**********
Paint the stars with me
Dream the dreams and name the lights
Sing songs of elders
Deep in the dark sky’s belly
Awaken the living flame
My Monday Blues (A Poem)
And here we are again,
aren’t we?
A blasé Monday
spent checking things
off the list
(the interminable list).
It’s pretty mundane, sure
(but made better by sunshine
and maybe some good wine
at dinner).
And the hits, well, yeah
they do keep coming,
but that’s not so bad
because life does keep going.
And, hey, as it stands,
at least I’m not bored.
Letting Go (A Poem)
What’s left
when the leaves
have fallen
and the grass
has gone fallow?
Once the air’s grown cold
and the night sky’s shifted,
once the frost has
come and covered
the hills and meadows,
what’s left to us
in this new
season of darkness?
To rest, to sleep,
to build a hearth fire,
to watch it snow.
To breathe deep and
release a sigh out
among the coming
winter winds.
These belong to us,
are made for us and
left to us by the maiden
and the mother and the crone.
Just as it begins
when new things grow
in a world made bright,
the old year ends
quiet and star light,
with a gentle
and a loving
letting go.
EVP 2 (A Poem)
I wait here
in prayer
I am
forsaken and
forgotten
I cannot go
I cannot go
Until the
Lord
calls me home
Mine is a
just punishment
Though I am dead
I know
I know
I know no peace
*I thought it would be fun to try another one of these. For last year’s, click HERE.*
Luna Love (A Poem)
I’ve heard it said
the moon’s a melancholy soul –
up there all alone,
with no light of its own
and only sometimes whole.
But I spend a lot of time with the moon,
waiting somewhere between
asleep and awake
while the world turns from night to day
and the sky changes with the seasons.
And I say this:
It’s something truly special
(and not for all of us)
to keep close the company of the stars,
to see through another’s radiance
and shine a path bright and clear
in the darkness.
Ghost Girl (A Poem)
I am only a flash
in the corner of your eye,
nothing but a shadow,
or a trick of the light
on the stair,
there and gone.
You can try to catch me
in a photo,
or to capture
the sound of my voice.
Many have, and most leave
disappointed.
Are you scared?
You should be,
you know.
I’m not for everyone.
October Fire (A Poem)
Strike a match
against the October sky
and watch it burn –
blood orange and
blue hot with the fire
of elders,
of ages.
It rages and then smolders.
And in its embers lay the sands
that turn the year
from day to night,
and soothe the world to sleep.
A Virginia Writer's Diary 