Braying Donkey, Gao Qipei, 1713

Today is International Donkey Day, so please enjoy this little salute to one of the humblest, yet hardest-working and most reliable, of creatures.

Text: BURRO

Where Apache and Comanche have galloped, where cowboys black and white have thrashed their herds into frenzied movement: a burro, climbing slowly.

He forgets the burden of his drowsy rider, thinking only of the sand that slips beneath his hooves, the wind past his nostrils, the scents it brings.

After ten miles of silence he brays, thanking the setting sun: its rays have laid a scarlet carpet down the arroyo, all, he dreams, for him.

A little something fun for anyone out there celebrating May Day/Beltane. Whether you are or not, I hope you have a good day today.

TEXT:

BELTANE

Comes the summer, comes the fire, Gaily fed and leaping higher--

Comes the ash, to keep at bay Cruel ghosts and crueler fae--

Comes the dancing in the dell, Bidding Mother Spring farewell--

Come the ribbons, merrily Wrapped around each bush and tree.

Welcome, days of warmest sun, Welcome, May-month just begun,

When the fields of golden grain Are made to grow by gentle rain,

When the cattle calmly graze According to their ancient ways--

Linger, summer, linger here, O most enchanted time of year.

TEXT:

SPRING PRAYER

God grant me the courage of the unsteady foal that picks his gangly way through spring mud, startled afresh each time that his hooves sink, yet forges on, refusing mulishly to seek refuge under his mother, until he takes a stand on dry ground at last.

God grant me the wonder of his eyes as they struggle to take in so much green, so much world.

Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day, so here's a little poem I hope you'll like. (Please forgive my presumption in sharing one of my own--I couldn't resist.)

Text:

BOTANICAL AUBADE

Waking just like a seed today:

drowsy heavy coat splits--

toes extend into the bedclothes, warm, dark, rooted--

arms above head rise, tug at shoulders--

on each hand pink jointed leaves shiver in thanks

for the taste of sunlight

Merlin's Song

Hidden and alone In a jail of stone, Hating the deceitful nymph I thought was all my own,

I dream but do not sleep, I mourn but cannot weep, While all along my supine form The dust is growing deep.

The final toll is pealed, My liege's doom is sealed: Without my arts to lend him aid He'll die on Camlann's field,

And Camelot will fall-- The throne, the Table, all. Sad Guinevere within her cell Will weave her love a pall.

My books of prophecy Proclaimed that this would be: A fool was I to challenge Fate And cruel Eternity.

So farewell, light of day. Like air I fade away-- Upon my cracked and mildewed lips, The name of Nimue.

For World Poetry Day

LOGOS

In the beginning were the words.

Fast like rivers, slow like honey.

Sharp like quills, soft like wool.

For every picture a thousand words,

speaking the world and all its creatures.

Where are we born? A sea of words.

Where do we dance? A floor of words.

What is death? A return to words.

And heaven a tale that, like a moth,

flits about from lip to lip,

chasing the lamp of eternity.

TEXT:

THE TASK

This cracked-china world of tulips and leukemia, of warm wheat bread and bombed-out houses:

on a dark table we lay it and mend it. Again and again.

Happy New Year. May it be a good one.

TEXT:

ANNUS NOVUS

Now is the time for an alchemical touch. Now is the time to turn into gold The tin shards of the old year, To make red gold so bright the eye cannot bear it, And hang it from the eaves with a laugh That runs over and over like champagne.

This is just for fun. I hope you enjoy it.

TEXT:

THE GREEN MAN

The Green Man's not so far to seek: By glinting brook or flashing creek, You'll hear his chuckle easily In grass and flower, fern and tree.

If you're lucky, you might spy Him from the corner of your eye – But if you look at him straight on, A blink or two, and he'll be gone.

How old is he, this laughing soul? Before the plowshare took its toll, Before the soil began to bear Wheat and barley, he was there.

He leaps above, he creeps below, He makes the twining ivy grow, He calls the blood-red holly too: He makes the sleeping earth anew.

Tread lightly, all who dare to come Into the Green Man's forest home. Spare the axe and spare the knife, Claim no gentle creature's life--

Lest, straying from the wiser path, You rouse a deep and ancient wrath. For once the Green Man pulls you in, No man will see your face again.

A little something for the Halloween season, about the Unseelie Court. Enjoy.

TEXT:

The Seelie love the fairy ring, To step and turn and turn and sing, And every bright and gleaming thing-- But we are otherwise.

The Seelie on their seats of gauze Have bound themselves by ancient laws To slay no mortal without cause-- But we are otherwise.

The Seelie choose to bargain fair, To honor what they once declare, To tweak the proud, the humble spare-- But we are otherwise.

We who hide in slits of night, We red-capped spawn of spit and spite, Whose every breath conveys a blight-- Oh, we are otherwise!

Some poetry for your Monday. This was ostensibly inspired by an IG prompt "bonfire smoke," although it pretty quickly left the prompt behind. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

SACRAMENTS

Your midwife was A bonfire's flame. Thunder named you With its name.

Baptized by A double priest (Waves on the shore, Sun in the east),

To follow where The wolf may lead Is your one And only creed,

Your catechism Is the cry Of hawks descending From the sky.

When you die Black soil will take you, Countless creatures Will unmake you--

Chilly dew Upon your face The only unction In that place.

To such a one, A golden ring Would be a feeble, Foolish thing:

We'll wed, therefore, With fingers bare, Our notaries The earth and air.

A little Saturday poetry for you--perhaps a bit gloomy, but I hope not unduly so. The prompt was "a character visits a graveyard, mausoleum, or other resting place of the dead". Enjoy.

TEXT:

SOLILOQUY IN A NEW ENGLAND GRAVEYARD

There's moss grown on your name-- I don't know who you were. But that you grinned sometimes and sobbed Sometimes--of that I'm sure.

I don't know when you lived-- Your dates have worn away. You might have been born in Pilgrim times Or just the other day.

The angel who surmounts Your tombstone has no face. His wings have lasted, though, and grant A certain heavy grace.

Most likely you're just bones, Or even dust, by now. But kneeling in the cold, I feel That we were friends, somehow.

Today is Film Noir/Talking Tough Day. (Yes, that's really a thing.) I decided to write a little something to mark the occasion--I hope you enjoy it.

TEXT:

TALKING TOUGH

Listen, sugar, listen, doll. It's time for straight talk, you and me. No more lyin', cryin', all That rigmarole. You gotta see

That life is one big game of dice And the dice are fixed. That's how it goes. It ain't much fair, it ain't much nice, And what it smells like ain't a rose.

So go ahead and call me cruel, Or screech and yowl like an alley cat. It won't work, toots. You know the rule: No cookies till dinner, and that's that.

It's Monday morning (at least where I am), and Monday mornings are rarely easy, so here's something to lighten the mood a bit. I hope you enjoy it.

Text:

SONNET FOR A RAINY DAY

There's plenty to complain About a driving rain: The way it falls in sheets, Tangles up the streets, Lurks in gutters too To swallow sock and shoe, Steals the Sun away And leaves a smudge of gray.

Yes, lots of fault to find In case you're so inclined-- Hey, wait a minute! Wait! You can't go jumping straight Into a puddle. It's wrong... Oh, fine, I'll come along.

One more goofy Halloween-themed poem, this one written to the prompt "party in the cemetery". Thanks for your indulgence while I post these.

Text:

DANSE MACABRE

It's time to dance, the skeletons say, To twirl and whirl and spin away: To sound of drums and xylophones We'll shake the dust right off our bones.

It's time to dance, the vampires say, Who love the dark and fear the day: While the cowbell rings and rings, We'll toss our capes and spread our wings.

It's time to dance, the werewolves say, Who at the moon are prone to bay: Waltzing here and waltzing there On feet with matted copper hair.

It's time to dance, the mummies say, To hum an old Egyptian lay: Let them mock and let them scoff-- We'll tango till our wraps fall off!

It's time to dance, the monsters cry-- No need to ask the reason why. It shouldn't fill you with surprise That even ghouls need exercise.

And anyway, it would be wrong To spurn the haunted fiddle's song On Hallowe'en, a time for fright: So join them, twirling through the night.

I know I post a lot here that could qualify as "bleak" and "heavy," so here's something that I hope is less so. It was written to an IG prompt "little ghost".

Text:

Little ghost, little ghost, Through the forest flying, Little ghost, little ghost, There's no need for crying.

Little ghost, do not fear – Wisps and sprites will guide you. Little ghost, love is near, Keeping close beside you.

Little ghost, where you go, Trees are gently shaken, Owls hoot, cattle low, Dancing mists awaken.

Little ghost, comes the sun: Now let sleep enfold you. 'Till the night's new begun, Gentle dreams will hold you.

Written to the IG prompt "doomsday". If this is too depressing, I apologize. It turned out as something of a primal scream, born of my frustration with the world at present.

Text:

There'll be no trumpet on that day,

Nor any breaking of the clay

When humankind has passed away.

No thunder from a rolling cloud,

No seraphim who cry aloud

The sudden downfall of the proud.

The mountains will refuse to fall.

The dead, indifferent to the call,

Will sleep, nor slither from their pall.

Only a fatal lethargy

Settling unhurriedly

On all the works of land and sea;

A blind and deaf and stumbling Fate

That merely seeks to demonstrate

The overweening power of hate;

Raw indifference, in sum,

Thumping like a kettledrum.

That is how the end will come.