“In each of us there is another whom we do not know.” Carl Jung
how does one
measure life’s seasons
count the years
sixty-one
or two hundred forty-four
slipping into black
~kat
A Shadorma (3/5/3/3/7/5) for MindLoveMiserysMenagerie Sunday Writing Prompt.
you say I
could fix
this…if I cared
enough…an
apology is
all it takes to
make things
right, to damn
the water
hemorrhaging
under the broken
bridge, to
erase the ugly
words, to absolve
me of my
truth that you
can’t bear
to hear, but
you should
know, I don’t
believe you
~kat
A 52 word poem for Sacha’s 52 Weeks in 52 Words Writespiration Challenge with the prompt phrase, “I don’t believe you.”
‘We know their dream; enough To know they dreamed and are dead; ‘ —W.B. Yeats ‘
Familial Lunacy
their memories are like ashes
batty-brained ancestors, insane,
with progeny, who bear the stain
unwittingly, their singed remains
poison surging through red hot veins
manic peaks plunging in crashes
they can’t hide their damaged breeding
twisted helixes flexed in rage
bleeding ink blots on each page
pills and therapy can’t assuage
what is passed down from age to age
maddening, this inner seething
it is a wretched legacy
leering from mirrored reflections
souls trapped in predisposition
despite every well-intentioned
surrender to intervention
crazy is, as it does…crazy
~kat
Today’s quote is from ‘Easter, 1916’ for Jane Dougherty’s ‘A Month With Yeats’ – Day Twenty-Four. The painting above is entitled ‘All Is Vanity” by C. Allan Gilbert. (1892)
‘…your hair was bound and wound
About the stars and moon and sun:’
—W.B. Yeats
Spring’s Awakening
It’s only a matter of time before
the sky’s pristine cerulean darkens,
taunting her with its starry glimmering,
Luna’s empty crescent cup dangling.
Her limbs, once verdant lush, now bristle,
against the sweeping gale of frigid breath,
rendering her naked in the whirlwind,
to face her wintering season alone.
Does she not remember Spring is coming
as it has before, time and time again?
Soon she’ll sense the hopeful aspirations
of bursting buds now dormant ‘neath her skin.
~kat
I had taken a photograph of a tree this morning before I read today’s challenge verse. “Her hair”, the tree’s bare limbs barren against the blue. I thought, even when things are growing dark, even when we think everything is coming to an end, there is always something new waiting in the wings. Even in death.
A poem about my tree then for Jane Dougherty’s Day Twenty-Three of ‘A Month With Yeats’ inspired as well, by Yeats’ poem,‘He Wishes His Beloved Were Dead’.
‘I wander by the edge
Of this desolate lake
Where wind cries in the sedge:’ —W.B. Yeats
I have lazed for hours upon long hours
under cascading veils of willow tresses,
sipped sweet tea, beneath magnolias shaded,
contemplating dogwood’s pale bloody blooms
sometimes when it’s raining golden whirligigs
I close my eyes, and breathe amidst the flutter
imagining the thrill of falling, flying
a carefree, swirling dervish on the breeze
I have danced on tiptoes through bristled sedge groves
on tender shoeless feet, barbed nettles nipping,
to dip my soul in swelling, brackish wetness
with the gleaming shards of shoals ebbing
oh there are days I wish that I was fluent
in oaken-speak, in maple or mimosa
what wise time-measured wisdom I’d be gleaning
from rooted ancients practiced in surrend’ring
~kat
The pigs are are being tended to and my maddening angst is waning, at long last! And so, a meander to the brink for Jane Dougherty’s ‘A Month with Yeats’ – Day Twenty-Two inspired by the verse above from his poem, ‘He Hears the Cry of the Sedge’.
like mercury colliding... 