living still

pressed into the moss,
I am living, living still
breathing water green and stagnant--
a repair for what I've lost.

there are plenty enough holes
for the picture of this scene
to invade my very core,
climb inside and push away
all the things that once bought moments
in exchange for nothing less
than a moment ever after,
set as prop against the dream

but I am living, living still
decomposing by half-measures
as obscene amounts of nature
take the best of me away

--
Prompt was a lovely picture of moss and waterfalls. I then made it creepy, as I'm apt to do.

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.

sore

lying in the dew-laden grass
for at least the scope of a season:
summer enriches understanding
the night that sparkles through the gaps
of this breathing green canopy;

along with the things that seek to use me
to reach those heights--
just as I let them eat me, piece by piece
so at least some lesser parts of me
will one day scrape
across that glassy vista

when summer ends, I rise again
and pull the saplings from my skin,
whole except for breathing in
and just the slightest bit sore.

--
Title is prompt. Weirditudinal.

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.

kiss

it was nothing more than a rainy day
which brought these branches to the ground,
cacophony of falling water splits bark,
plucks blossoms
before they bloom.

she knew all this,
from her vantage under the bridge,
expecting the water to rise.

but instead she found a world mesmerized
by its own chaos--
a river from the sky pouring
just steadily enough
to leave no room for interpretation:
this was the end,
with nothing to cling to

but she remained ankle-deep in the mud,
bare calves flushed grey with rising chill.
it was the progression that most pleased her,
as the tingling crawled up her skin
like cool fingers leaving numbness
in their wake,

as they took from her
all that she was and freely gave,
and left her with nothing but
the taste of indifference on her lips.

for this flow would sweep past
even without her to be carried by it.

--
Title and the rainy day by the creek are prompts. Make that two not poetry days.

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.

shy

water brought an island something to believe in,
more than just a man caught by the winds,
this captured life glorified, described
by the stories
of the pagoda.


as the budding branches above me swirl
and make an ocean of air,
I wonder if the wind-crashing waves of sound
could propel my own dreams higher;
take flight
matching pace with the calls of the gulls
no longer out of place.

as the sky threatens to drown these hopes,
shattering storm into rain,
I wait for it to carry me away.
for the place my life is traveling to
seems to be the wrong destiny--
let ocean currents break these sails
and take me to open sea,

bring me to a place I can live
without my history--
anonymity; and with my death
create legend
from the quiet storm-tossed traveler.


winds of chance once brought man to the stars;
perhaps the spring rain
could do the same for me.


--
Title is prompt, as is this wiki article and the awesome storm that came up as I sat in the car today, tossing the branches in the tree above me so much that they really did sound like ocean waves.

puppet

birdsong echoes across out-of-place snow,
sparrow waking cold to the chill of bowed limbs
held tight to ground
with arch of frozen white, caught mid-fall
and full winter

captured branches waiting
for tenuous breaths of morning
to warm what the night made of green,
to scissor-melt these fragile strings
and weave a net of soft water sound
to cast into the clouds,
bringing back the steady patter of spring.


healing rain to mend broken bark--
shatter snap of freezing melt,
where the drips hang frozen in the space of yesterday,
reflecting where spring had found her perch
only briefly;

moments of heat and green glossed over
by the temperament of a single sparkling storm,
giving dawn something spectacular to break across
for perhaps the last time
this season.


--
Title is prompt, as is the storm that brought over eight inches of snow when just two days ago I was getting sunburned in the 70 degree heat. The three am backyard was like something out of faerie: bright enough to read by, pure white sky and muffled silence, the branches large and heavy with white, and the tickling of feathery snow falling gently on my face.