Panic

I began writing this for the contest celebrating dVerse’s first year anniversary, (for the urban theme)  but I wasn’t able to complete it in time, so I thought I’d link it to OLN. I’m beginning to think I’m a rural recluse at heart!

Photo: Google Images
howtogeek.com

Panic

I fear the city.
I fear gang-
ly groves of trees
that prowl,
pursuing bedlam.

I fear unknown
faces, unfamiliar voices
lurking in night-black
alleyways,
their purpose
fraught with pain,
ambition,
ill-intent.
I fear their primal rage

and I fear FEAR,
that hurtles toward
destruction
or success,
anonymity amassed
in closed-in space
that sucks stifled
stale air.

I fear the loss
of open fields,
of earth’s dank smell
and Gaia’s grainy touch.
The loss of birdsong,
and of honeysuckle scents,
of water running clear.

How I fear height,
the towering structures
pressing on my freedom.

I long for mountain tops,
escaping expectations.

Join us over at dVerse for some wonderful poetry and good friends. The pub doors open wide at 1500 EST on Tuesday.

Walking Between Worlds

Troy Lim photography via Photobotos

Last night an owl
visited my dream.

At first, a shadow
till the moon reflected
layer upon layer,
feathered phantom,
snowy countenance,
searing eyes,
her image in a well
of watery, starlit magic.

Gift of wisdom:
darkest light that shimmers—

plumbing fear,
extracting secrets,
harboring power
of the womb.

The risk is this:
you dare not go within.

The owl totem is a symbol of the feminine, the moon and the night. It is a bird of magic and darkness, of prophecy and wisdom. When she visits your dreams, you are well-advised to look within.

Written for Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets’ Pub hosted tonight by Joe Hesch. Stop on over. I suspect he’ll brew up a magic potion just for you.

Photo Credit: This photo is the work of Troy Lim as featured on Photobotos.com  It is my understanding the work featured on Photobotos my be used for non-commercial purposes. If this is incorrect, I will be happy to remove it from this post. It was the photo (and a dream) that set my mind to working. I highly recommend this site to fellow poets as a marvelous source of inspiration.

Fear–dVerse, Meeting the Bar

Image via Wikipedia

Fear

Incense settled in the air,
masking the taste of bile
rising to the back of my throat.

Downstairs, in the bookstore,
chattering sounds, muffled—
New-Age sorts milling about in search
of answers to Age-Old questions.

She sat across from me, eyes closed.
clutching a pillar of clear crystal,
sandaled feet obscured by folds
of a voluminous purple skirt.

I folded sweaty palms together,
clenched my jaw and waited for her guides
to tell her what they wanted her to know,
fought the urge to bolt down stairs
into the frost-laced autumn morn.

Warning words from long ago:
Père l‘Aumonier, a gaunt aesthete
cautioning in a whisper:
“Mefiez-vous de la magie noire,
meme de la magie blanche.”
A shadow poured across the loft.

At last her eyes flew open.
and she placed a globe of amethyst
upon the edge of the weathered
wooden table that marked a boundary
between her world and mine.

“This is you,” she said, pointing
to the lilac orb, “and this is who
you can become,” she said, point to another stone,
a glowing golden citrine on the far side of the table.

And then she took the heavy chunk of quartz,
warm now, no doubt, from the cradle
of her palm, and lay it down between the others.

“And this is all that holds you back.”
She pointed to the crystal, and named it.
Named it then the very same name
that I have chosen for this poem.

Linked to dVerse Meeting the Bar, which I had the privilege of hosting. I hope you will stop by, join in. Bring a poem, have a drink and enjoy the work of your fellow poets.

Note: the French translates: the (priest) chaplain said: Beware of black magic, even white magic.

Untitled Octain–One Shot Wednesday

Image via Wikipedia

Here’s another attempt at an Octain, a poetic form created by Luke Prater and linked to One Shot Wednesday: http://onestoppoetry.com/

Untitled Octain

How many lives are spent in vain,
too conscious of the voice of fear,
thoughts muddled so that sight’s unclear.

They creep through days avoiding pain
or, warped by hate, they learn too late
to trust that love should ever deign

to visit them and draw them near.
Too many lives are spent in vain.

Sunday 160–”Fear-Mongering”

Image via Wikipedia

Submitted to Monkey Man’s Sunday 160 in which you are challenged to use exactly 160 characters, including spaces: http://petzoldspracticalprose.blogspot.com/

I found last Tuesday’s newspaper—soggy, torn—
half-buried in a corner by the geraniums.
The crisis predicted on page one
had slipped, unfulfilled,
into obscurity.