The sky is coconut ice. A robin bursts with song, Sharp and vortexed. How does he not freeze? Not tumble through the stiff bareness of the elder, Fragile feathers catching at twiggy spurs – A small ball of puffed air and folly, While I mince on the shined sandstone Sprinkling a safe salty path.
Trinity of suns.
Morning, afternoon and eve.
Each cast their light
Fanning their own shades of brightness
Spanning our hours, our fathers' hours,
Our children's hours.
There is comfort here, now, in the solid stone,
The unadorned simplicity.
And , if we pause a while,
We realise that
Time is our only constant.
Linking to Sunday Muse Blogspot. Thank you Carrie - your images continue to inspire. http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/
Dusk peels into night.
Gold brush strokes
and Nyx emerges
through the skin of day
to share her moonlit face.
Linking to K. Hartless's Petite Pen (https://khartless.com/2022/09/20/its-permanence-that-petrifies-her/) which features this wonderful image from Suzanne VanBebber. (Nyx is the Greek goddess of the night. The only goddess Zeus was truly afraid of).
The season's hands now point to three p.m.,
as autumn's air subdues our summer sighs,
when one o'clock burnt like a fiery gem
and we were pressed by heavy, humid skies.
By six, the trees will shiver, bare and leafless -
the hands, set far and wide across the face,
will slowly scrape through winter's torment darkness,
as spring waits patient in its quartile space.
Linking to this week's W3 Weave prompt on The Skeptic's Kaddish, where Val , aka Murisopsis, invites us to write a Dizain from the perspective of someone who has synaesthesia. (https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/09/21/w3-prompt-21-weave-written-weekly/). I have always seen the seasons in my mind as a clock face, which I believe may be a kind of spatial synaesthesia. Summer is at mid-day and winter at six o'clock.
It was a slap, more than a punch. A Spanish back of the hand, more than a puñetazo. No warning. No leading up to the main course with some pequeños platos to help acclimatise, to give one a taste of what was to come.
Coming to the end of our visit to Cordoba, in Andalusia, South Spain, where it has been scorching. The heat really hits you! Linking this to d’Verse poets and this week’s Monday Quadrille which is brought to us by Whimsygizmo aka De Jackson who asks us to write 44 words of poetry which include the word ‘punch’ or variation thereof. https://dversepoets.com/2022/09/19/quadrille-160-poems-that-pack-a-punch/
Myriad fragments glisten. In the bare glare of bleached sunlight flutters, my heart listens for a meaning that cannot be reached.
In the bare glare of bleached thoughts, wrung out like tea towels for a meaning that cannot be reached, I seek to add colour to their swells.
Thoughts, wrung out like tea towels, Notions caught in the breeze – billowed. I seek to add colour to their swells. But all sense evades my pillow.
Notions caught in the breeze – billowed sunlight flutters, my heart listens. But all sense evades my pillow. Myriad fragments glisten.
Linking to this week’s W3 Weave prompt on The Skeptic’s Kaddish (https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/09/14/w3-prompt-20-weave-written-weekly/). The poet of the week is Aditi Sharma, who has asked us to write a Pantoum poem; The theme should be: Anything dreamy, something non-existent in the real world, or just about your real-life dreams.The Pantoum seems a perfect form for playing over the undecipherable images and thoughts that come to us in sleep. Thank you Aditi for the challenge.