Good Friday Dirge

Artist: Lesley Oldaker Labeled for Noncommerical Reuse

Artist: Lesley Oldaker
Labeled for noncommercial reuse

Good Friday Dirge
an Octain Refrain

Upon the pond a cry of loons
begins its mournful, plaintive song.
I think of how it all went wrong.

Darkness still reigns ‘neath this full moon,
this early morn a mood forlorn
recalling loss, a cross rough-hewn.

And now in Belgium, hatred strong
prolongs the tragic cries of loons.

Written and Posted for my prompt at dVerse Poets Meeting the Bar. The form, developed by Luke Prater, is a High Octain, which I explain at dVerse. Tomorrow, Christians observe Good Friday as we deal with yet another tragic, cowardly act of terrorism. Because I was unable to join in for De’s prompt on Tuesday, I’ve given a nod to it here. Thank you for a great inspiration, De. I had no idea where that first line would take me.

Drought–dVerse Meeting the Bar

“Living (now) is like walking through a great weeping. It is like an ongoing funeral, a huge shedding of the life of the world…When the heart knows sorrow and never weeps, the sorrow gets locked like a storm inside the heart. When the sorrow can’t pour out, it turns…to stone.”
Michael Meade

Photo: sfgate.com These hills are usually brilliant green this time of the year.

Photo: sfgate.com
These hills are usually brilliant green this time of the year.

Drought

Last night Earth and I sat down beneath a moonless sky. The stars danced to music we could not hear. She sighed and I waited, listened for her to speak, but she held silence cradled to her heart.

“Do you know,Gaia,” I began, hoping to draw her out, hoping to touch the pain palpable on her dry, cracked body. “Do you know,” I said again, “the Mayan word for tumor means solid stone?”

She sighed again.

“Last week,” I continued, “I drove through one of your valleys. On either side of me brown, barren hills marked my passage. ‘I thirst,’ I heard them whisper. They brought to mind parched lips of the dying waiting for a kiss of water, fearing a lick of flame. Back then I gave comfort. I gave water. I gave hope. Today I have nothing to offer.”

I felt a tremor, heard another sigh. I waited for a tear, but there was none.

We sat together in deepest silence yet a while longer. In the distance I heard the howl of a coyote, the call of crickets. Together Earth and  I sat in quiet thought, waiting, hoping.

At last Earth turned and faced me. “When you, my children weep,” she said, “I will join them.”

While parts of the world are experiencing significant storms, in the West we are faced with a serious drought. I am near the San Andreas fault at right now and we experience a good number of temblors, most of them we don’t even feel. Just moments ago, as I wrote this, as if to respond, we felt a small earthquake that rattled the windows and shutters…Earth shuddered perhaps!

Written for and linked to Sam’s prompt over at dVerse Meeting the Bar where he challenges us to write Narrative Poetry. Drop by and check it out. The doors open at 3:00 PM EST.

Loss–dVerse Open Link Night

Photo Credit: D. Slotto

Photo Credit: D. Slotto

The year we lost our pepper tree
I died a bit myself.
Sometimes a history, a soul
is so tied into creation—
a bird, a cloud, a tree
or a memory.

Before we said goodbye
the world shuddered.
Brutal wind battered,
buffeted, swept through
our valley.

Today I stand alone
in a space reduced to emptiness.

 

Linked to dVerse Open Link Night where poetry flows freely. Please join us.

One Shot Wednesday–“Drizzle”

As the day evolves
from overcast
to sun to rain again,

the Artisan steps in
and brushes clouds
across blue skies—

wet-on-wet—
then takes a rag
and smears,

sprinkling sadness
into an otherwise
perfect moment.

Submitted to One Stop Poetry: http://oneshotpoetry.blogspot.com/  Stop by and browse some great poetry!

Note: If you’re looking for Wordsmith Wednesday or Sensational Haiku Wednesday they are posted under separate entries. Thanks for stopping by.

Big Tent Poetry–My First Time!

  

October Waning

Early morning sun kisses the foothills
with hues of bronze and purple.
You descend the staircase.
I wait for your touch to heal my wounds.

As always, you gloss over my sadness,
take me in your arms as though I were a doll
abandoned by a child in a corner of the room.
Your love restores my hope for the moment.

At noon we wander in a field of pumpkin gourds.
Among a bed of drooping roses, one stands tall.
You slice its stem with your pocket knife,
inhale its fragrance then hand it to me.

When evening comes we sit together on the porch,
extract the last ray of light from day’s end.
You hook your arm in mine
and lead me gently back into the night.

Check out Big Tent Poetry: http://bigtentpoetry.org/