Each month, write a new collection.
the sun grantsglimpses, quiet stagingto the grounds that demandtending sheepskin sails catch the airon false colored lines, a fisherman’s best intentiondisturbed by a child’s misbehaviorof ancient buildersraising island structureswhile a Blue Jay sings the morning through,heard and unnoticed.
I like that last line. You're continuing the theme and idea of the other poems!
The evening sun has started its descent along the roaring ocean’s horizon. Ships chase it, pushing forward through each ebb of the tide—the promise of a golden age reflect in the pupils of their crews. The plowman is three quarters through his field when he hears a splosh from below—someone is drowning. The plowman follows his donkey’s hind thinking, ’The shepherd is closer to the water, surely he’ll do something’. The shepherd, though closer to the water, stares up at the clouds. Had only the good Lord granted him access to those wooly monstrosities, he could earn a place as a statesman. His ears are all but completely deaf to the water as his many fluffy sheep circle the field, baaing at various decibels. Down upon the shore, a sea turtle is poised over its nest, the hundreds of newly laid eggs sleep close to one another because there is strength in numbers. As the water sloshes from the feverish flapping of a winged being in the water, the turtle stays put until two bubbles plop and the gigantic seagull has sunk. With its young now safe, the turtle swipes sand over its eggs and returns to the ocean, following the path of the ships before. The gray buildings along the perimeter loom over the ocean, like headstones in a graveyard.
For someone who says she doesn't write poetry, you have written a fantastic prose poem. That really strong.
Thanks, John. I guess it's easier when you have a source to examine. :)
A gentle breeze drifts along the shorethe mist is lightly creepingadding to the mystery and lorethe plowman carefully carves the groundhis donkey is ever steadyits hooves project a gentry sounda ship bobs lazily on the tideits brothers in the distancecapturing the wind in canvas handsthe falcon guards no eggsbut waits for the fisherman...Wait, Is that a pair of legs?
Love the way that ends!
me too. Because of this poem I've been laughing about the pair of legs all week
In the midstBruegel let the sheep in the field Run wild with the shepardAnd the ship in the baySail gently awayAs the farmerTended to his plowWithout a second glanceTo a boy drowningIn the midstOf their daily routineWhere all heard the Splash!!But unconcernedAs this tragedywas one of manyIn their livesHerding and plowingAnd without turning back into port
On the Fall of IcarusBruegal’s man heaves the weighty plowEyes sifting dirt in sync with scratching bladesStones and harvest past uprooted Icarus crash into the sea unnoticed As muscles sweat to dispel hunger I plant lavender and sage todayWatered sparingly from my bucket I sift the clay in my handsWondering if the wild turkey Will nip away the tender shoots.My picket fence stands firm in weathered grayStreet people pass and nod my wayMy neighbor dies in a pool of blood aloneAs the wind whips litter to my garden’s edgeAnd I dream of butterfies and bees that will someday visit.
I love how you've brought this in and made it personal! Actually it works with your medical collection as well.
Hi John, Thank you for the awesome and thoughtful prompt. I'll be playing a bit of catch up. From The Prow We SeeNo ploughman—no winged person falling from the sky made grey green contiguous by suspension in oil with the spat-up belly of sea, an illusion of connection painted by us, untouchedby either of these elements. Lamb-look into the laid aside pleatswhere the womb-land veins pulse—where our furrowedbrow opens it—riverdreamthe mercury pushing through the delta into the groundwater like mistyped blood. This patient writhing. See these clay gill slits through whichthe seedlings once gathered the wet breathleft by the calmbay,this trudger whom leansinto her load city-ward in the splitlip of the well bled horizon of gasping sunfish unblooming while we prow, a bellyunder sail,mind full of coin.
I love it man, and I love that you're on board! Saw you at the reading the other day, but didn't get a chance to say hi!
"from the sky made grey green contiguous by suspension "I keep thinking about those seshades of green.
Hey! Sorry I didn't get to say hello! Thank you. This is a difficult/different sort of work mode for me. I love it.
A painter transfers Daedalus onto canvasDrawing the inventor as a field hand who plowsuneven furrows that match the folds of his clothing A tunic that should be long, flowing and Greekboats in the background that should be pointed, narrow and sleekBruegel’s painted world is medieval, staid and woolenBut it captures a moment the father will remember foreverthe hard brightness of the sun as itis reflected upwards into an expansive skyShining with cheerful possibilities as Icarus splashes in the sea below, and dies
Wonderful poem, Judy! Great work!
the fools have fallensun slides into the seathe plowman's sweat