vernal vespers
hush, ‘tis evensong
day’s fiery dénouement
sol’s final glisk
~kat
NaPoWriMo2022 - Day 2 Prompt: write a poem based on a word featured in a tweet from Haggard Hawks, an account devoted to obscure and interesting English words. My word of choice: Glisk.
A GLISK is a brief glimpse of warm sunshine.
first flower
hello there dandy,
first to bloom,
with golden mane,
frosted lightly,
buttons of tiny petals
to parasols of gray,
taking flight one day
on bursts of breath
whispered softly
to a crystalline sky…
it would seem
you are more
than a nuisance,
a weed deeply rooted,
it is you who dares
to bare your face,
to rise, to shine
in the light
of the worm moon,
to announce
the coming spring…
a dandy-lion who
dallies with tempests,
only to be plucked
from the loam,
soft, downy,
feather-light, ripe
for the kiss of wish-makers,
to dance for wide-eyed
innocents who dare to dream
~kat
falling to pieces
i’ve been watching the great oak
in my yard for several years now…
she doesn’t play by the rules
of autumn, clinging tightly to
faded, parched leaves against
the fiercest of tempests, through
ice and heavy lobs of wet snow,
though her branches may bend
to almost breaking, she holds fast
i don’t know what to think of such
a tree, is it vanity, stubbornness,
a lapse of memory? for as sure
as summer drifts to autumn and
autumn to winter, spring will come
as the sun grows warm and days
grow long, life will begin to surge
through her veins causing buds
to burst, at long last setting their
departed siblings free to ride the wind,
to taste the earthen loam, to rest,
to rest in peace in a sea of greening
i’ve been known to be stubborn, to
cling too tightly to things not meant
for me, to useless longing for what
once was, my memory forgetful of
the struggles of those glorified once
upon a times, and time again i have
been known to stand full-faced
against a tempest, convinced i held
on and on for virtue’s sake, believing
martyrdom raised me up, oh there
it is, the vanity, how loathsome
to be a tree that can’t let go
when letting go is one’s very destiny…
letting go to ride the wind, to fall to pieces,
to trust the seasons, to know that
whatever is left of me is all i need
and here, now is where i’m meant to be
~kat
letting go
from a distance
letting go takes one’s breath
a symphony of amber, crimson,
gold, emerald summer flare
fading, cool winds of change
wooing us to dance like dervishes
to break free of all bounds, to ride
the gale with abandon, to flutter
softly to the earth, in afterglow
of ecstasy, to drink the dew, to sleep
letting go takes one’s breath
from a distance
when one draws near
there’s no denying truth
clarity, reality, convey a somber
view of brittle bones, age-dappled
skin, fragile veins, the cusp of
death, spring, summer, now autumn
fading, letting go, the grim final
hurrah that exposes our nakedness
letting go is not so pretty, we cling,
longing for a spring we’ll never see
there’s no denying truth
when one draws near
in the end
when all is said and done
when all that is left of us is dust
when the earth reclaims our mortal
shell, what stories will our brief life
tell, memories perhaps of greening,
vibrant, shading, dancing, dreaming,
kissed by sun, caressed in moon glow,
brief, a blip, we laughed, we loved,
we lived life full…oh how we loved!
when all is said and done
in the end
~kat
mother oak
she stands, deeply rooted
amidst a grove of shallow-footed
firs, bursting with fruit; her evergreen
friends taunting her as she blushes
red, surrendering her modesty
to the cool winds of autumn
what dreams she’ll dream when
winter comes, memories wakened
in the deep, dark loam, buried there
where only her roots can taste them,
memories of seasons past, of
seed-burst longing to breach the
grave, to life, to feel the sun upon
her face and the sweet seductive
breeze, the thrill of greening
she stands, deeply rooted
amidst a grove of shallow-footed
firs, some felled by tempests, or the ax
destined to waste away to dust covered
in gaudy baubles and tinsel, their
ever-greenness an illusion laid
bare at the altar of lost souls, and
rendered to ash at vanity’s bonfire
yes, she stands, deeply rooted
in the bosom of she who keeps
this blue orb spinning, sailing
through a sea of sweet milk just
far enough from the sun not
to be consumed and close enough
to the moon to see her reflection,
light and shadow colliding, in
ecstasy, heart and soul all-knowing
~kat
-Inspired by a new book I’m reading… “Seeds From the Wild Verge” by Brendan Ellis Williams
like mercury colliding... 