matriarch

dust
spat to the sky with heavy breaths
to linger, gather
draw forth rain
that tastes of our mother's mouth:
the life from which we came.


--
Title is prompt.

across

a slant falls perpendicular
to the earth,
slipping shadow beneath dusky leaves of ivy--
hidden places gather secrets
silky as cobwebs,
though woven with much more care.


night breaks the silence,
as these hidden places open to the stars
and release a dewy trickle of whispers,
of all the deeds thought buried in this soil,
all the tragedies this garden remembers
without comprehension--
a repetition innocent as the first buds of spring
pushing, pressing on the flagstones;
as nothing more than a reflection
of the way things are
by moonlight.


--
Title is prompt. My brain interpreted it as both across and a cross, so I tried to pull aspects of both into the poem. Turned out odd.

torn from a glance

 stalking calendar myths,
may to december--
 the night sky spills like
a horseshoe losing its luck,
leaving a trail of candescent garbage
spread across the bowing wheat;

enough to follow,
just enough to find
until the words come like they were supposed to
the first time


as summer flips the last few rays of sun
like a butter-gold coin,
to decide each day whether to make the moment
last

until what came of late winter
is woven back
into the shirt that clings to bone too much (more)
every year

and my wayside wonder bites her thumb
before holding it to the sky,
courting the indecision
we threw away,
neglected in the fumble to make lips mean more
than spitting poetry into the breeze.

--
Word prompts: cotton, horseshoe, predator, kingdom

curled into the wall

curled into the wall,
a moment of complete distraction--
she watched the window break;
a shatter spread across the floor
met the dark stain of her calves,
as footfalls play
connect-the-dots
for the official story.

future

words written, held
especially in my hands
as more than just the universe
pours forth
without a reservoir of any consistency

but when the sun strikes the water
just right,
enough to melt this cultured ice,
and the shooting stars above
can bring the night reflection
and break this lonely mirror glass--
a shuddering wave,
the turning page,
brings this lifeblood back to my skin
enough to sink, to drown
or simply
dive in.

--
I drew a picture for this one as well. It was a fun concept I'd like to revisit with more skill, if I ever get that skill, since I so rarely practice.

bat

up to bat, all dirty knees and dusty shoes,
traveling the streets that brought the fog rolling gently in
at a dead run, bad pun
but better than splitting the thick grey cloud
with flutter of misplaced wings.

--
Bats--baseball term, vampires: I'm so original. Oh well.

winter comes

winter comes to burn the light I brought
searing through the snow of swirling thought.
find the words to turn the sunset back
as the ridges bruise an inky black.

winter comes to glorify the dark
space between the days which took my mark--
scrabbling for the crumbs I scattered, spring
holds the answer tied in tidy strings.

winter comes, and I am unafraid
chilled beneath stained sheets--the bed I made.
rest befitting wealth, this crown of thorns
pierces through the cross that I have borne.

winter came and left behind a dream;
I have not yet slept enough to see.

--
Thoughts about the coming cold, and how I'm struggling with NaNoWriMo this year.

sunshine

she formed her arms of crystal,
a spiral collapsing sun
as a glint in the mist of daybreak
split rays beneath her fingernails;
the world through mirrors spun.

--
This makes no sense at all. But I'm tired, and haven't written a poem for nearly a month.

call

across the space of sunlit curtains
comes the sound of pages turning,
and the summer buzzing silence
enhanced by concentration;

against a background of afternoon
a story unfolds,
spreading to every nook and corner
of the place her mind has found
to let these words flow
in a stream without breath--
patient syllables intoned
in the echoes of architecture
no cathedral could claim.


intimate, personal sound
of a voice given no lips,
no language of breath--
merely the resonance of a thought;
a calm moment forming harmony
with sun
and hearing answer from the only name
she ever gave her dreams.

--
Title and this picture are prompt.

hang

iron fence, open gate
seems enough barrier to suggest
something special is kept within,
but whether that be the bones--
dug up by roots, dangling
precariously in the ground--
or the tree itself
has yet to be decided

for the years seem to take these bodies
(certainly the souls)
and smooth their names from stone,
while all that centuries give to this tree
is more time to grow.

as the sun sets and shows
just how dramatic a shade it can cast,
I am left to wonder
if the years will find this gate still open,
or show nothing
as metal is warped and wound by fleshy trunk,
swallowed
just as all the starry nights
these branches have seen;
all the clouds this crown has cupped.

--
Prompt is title in that it inspired one image, and helped me found the picture which this actually ended up being about.

boss

a splash of red shouts authority
to the timid pastel sighs of spring.
as branches open slowly to the sun
he is gone--a flash of wings in motion
and a call that shivers from crown to roots.

he rises as a shape against the sky
to break apart the florid silhouettes;
feet caught in bark, he hangs sipping freedom,
knowing power comes of more
than just the color spilling from his brow:
the keen senses that overtake the afternoon monotony--
no lazy warmth to be found in the green
as each moment is spent in competition with
the rest of the world
that wakes from long winter with the want
to fly again.

--
Title is semi-prompt, in that it made me look for something assertive to pair it with. I chose this picture.

boat

a leaf carried on ripples
traces basin rim,
as nothing more than fate
prevents meeting the drain;
for however ornate
these patches of rust
the rain will hold her place,
until the water flows no more
from the lips of this cup.


a castle around my moat--
all stone and filigree,
to keep the dreams from dying
in the scorch of summer sun.
though the still water grows hotter,
I am cooled by the tides
as water rushes back to meet the moon.

but lacking a reflection,
I am left to watch the stars
through fingers filtering light--
I can see each constellation
in the freckles on my arms,
but as the midnight rain grows colder,
even these will fade.

and the rumbling clouds above will swirl
and turn a different shade;
with the moon as water's witness
and the sky as castle stone,
I will raise the clear-sky drawbridge
and drink in this night
alone.

--
Title is semi-prompt; mostly this was a free-write stream of consciousness thing. Not feeling particularly poetic today.

empty

casual wilt gives petals to wind
as spring is come and gone in one
snap of frost; flash of snow
melting green from trees
and weaving fragile new sprouts together
in a desperate bid for warmth.

I sit in the aftermath
sipping the warming air, slowly
between my teeth--
trying to taste that elusive sweetness
of blossoms on the breeze.


I slept last night to the empty call
of winter sunset, spread across my lawn,
and expected to wake to the same.
but morning came with a clamor,
senses filled with the boisterous calm
of nature's strength--persevering growth,
as once showy garlands
find their footing again,
and spread brazen arms to the sun.

--
For whatever reason, there was no instapoem prompt for today, so this title prompt fit as well as anything. I think I've fallen back into my 'easy' nature description poems again--I want to try and branch out into different forms, because I feel like I'm just using the same tired imagery over and over again, and no longer telling stories.

grave

arranged in a loose spiral,
the woodland creeps across the stone--
slow steps of century allow roots
to break words, to make carvings
of their own in the vestiges of life

ethereal things,
carried by the wind like spirits
knowing their place in fog,
as seeds peel back the green
and steal the grey,

and each fall leaves more gentle rot
on the encroaching forest floor,
patterns drawn in wind and time
across the fading courtyard,
paths which no longer know human steps
to disturb the ground
with remembrance.

--
Title is prompt.

poke

a place for healing hands to dig
the dirt of the human soul,
to find what grows of darkness;
carving recesses for fragile roots
with hands made strong by tradition
and hope

she wields nothing but a chonta wand
and a calm, unbreaking spirit,
but draws from all the things
that come of believing
in something more than a simple reality,
divesting power from spirits
who seek to plague the weakness of men.


time-honored fingers to silence fluttering lids
and bring peace to that which can only be cured
by faith; gaudy flash
of feathers, as healer comes
like hummingbird to fragrant flowers.
prodding the seed of sickness
and drawing it out as sacred duty,
sweet on the tongue.


--
Title is somewhat prompt; mostly prompted by this wiki page.

match

a darkened tunnel gives illumination
to lines in the sand,
fingers that draw with the striking of day;
a palette made of pointing at falling stars.

images that light me like sunfire, dragged across stone;
finding every crack
with the raw skin of my back--
an uncomfortable sensation
between my shoulder-blades,
of being watched for things accomplished
in past lives.


these shining sins draw a fetching border
for the lies I weave today
with cast away stone and towers
of blessed loneliness,
a place for the sky to describe these destinies.

one last flick of a broken wrist
cupping glory to my breast;
shaded lines of veins
trace my softly fading eyes--
no longer befitting of a soul.


--
Title and this picture are prompt.

three

words embossed with captured sound,
mouth pursing murmurs to press to the page
as the swirl of thought creates a moment
lit like fireflies and summer breath.


each gentle curve of soft-lit serif
mimics the limbs caught in motion;
fingers wrapped decorously in ink
spend a languid eternity
trapped in a phrase

as her lips flutter stories to the captured wind--
gossamer emotions and letters
stacked like bricks,
with her mortar-twitching fingertips
to build a life
and draw an end to the dream.


with both eyes open,
clasping the last memory of sun:
three butter-yellow pages
crinkled by time, worn
as a weight around her neck.


---
Title is a bare prompt--it worked more to draw my eye to this picture, and the three pages she holds in her hands.