Tag Archive | myths of the mirror

beyond lines and measures

beyond lines and measures s

The moon pauses, listening–
a painted backdrop bathed in blue,
a song returning to its beginnings–
Is it a permanent fixture or a trick of light?

A painted backdrop bathed in blue,
a tunnel lined with apparitions–
is it a permanent fixture or a trick of light?
The world approaches blackness,

a tunnel lined with apparitions,
lost in the far realms of the spectrum.
The world approaches blackness,
a stillness that eliminates the horizon.

Lost in the far realms of the spectrum,
unseen crows echo across the gap
with a stillness that eliminates the horizon–
is this the voice that calls the dying?

Unseen crows echo across the gap—
(there should be weeping)–
is this the voice that calls the dying?
There is not enough air here to hold my tears.

There should be weeping,
there should be an explosion of colors pulling at the soul–
but there is not enough air here to hold tears,
to keep the promise of breath.

There should be an explosion of colors pulling at the soul–
infinite branches of trees crowned with rainbows of wings.
How to keep the promise of breath,
to find the path of stars that carries the spirit home?

Branches, trees, rainbows, wings:
will you return life to its beginning?
Find me the path of stars that carries the spirit home–
the moon pauses, listening.

Another (non-rhyming) pantoum, for the Myths of the Mirror prompt for March, above.  dVerse is featuring pantoums this month, and Victoria has just written a post with suggestions to help in the writing of this form.

beyond lines and measures close up s

I would also like to dedicate these words to The Secret Keeper, whose passing was noted by her friend Shawn this week.  The many poems she inspired with her prompts live on.

 

Near

near stitched s

The end is
calling—ice spiders
weaving nets
blanketing
the unrelenting blueness
with crystal cold

Stripped down
to sheer form, chanting
syllables
bleak, bitter–
ancient songs of Boreas–
untranslatable

Gods become
disassembled bits
and pieces,
illusive
fabrications floating on
seas of sinking air

like final
notes of silence pitched
into the
void, cutting
holes with each unspoken word,
unthreading needles

Failing to
transform, to be borne
or reborn–
the years spin,
contracting—the lines
fall, disconnected

A poetic response to the January prompt at Myths of the Mirror, above.  Somehow working in blues always leads me to stitching…in this case I painted two circles and cut the smaller one up and stitched it on top of the larger one.

near close up 1s

Also linking to dVerse Open Link Night.

near close up 2s