the bride (for One Shoot Sunday)
dawn
settles on her barefeet
a starling craving to
flex wings
the ground quivers
from her tender steps unease
spreads
among wet stones
she wiggles
off her restless sighs
to undo her veil of wind
her hair loosens
strands of singing
rise over the heartbeat
of sparrows
she becomes a pair of wings
shirred skirt
the feathers she preens
to a sheen that stuns
a hesitant sun
the day flexes
on her limbs a thrumming
wakens the tender
lilies she stalked in her dreams
she steps into
her gaping red shoes
the brooding crows
scatter
a ruckus spreads
among the dandelions
the seagulls catch in fevered
pitch
she walks
parting the congregation
in blindness deaf
to the grumbling
over the rise
among the pines she raises
her arms an arc
to the sky
a swallow
skimming the meadow
where heads limp in the breeze
but balloons from her wedding
the gulls shriek
it pierces her flight
she careens
down the hill snags
a thread of her dream
first a thump
of the wearied balloon
that pumped her wings
next her toes
like a bird poised to fly
in a fall
(c) by Alegria Imperial 2011
Photo prompt by Lauren Randolph
For One Shoot Sunday at One Shot Poetry, winner of the 2011 Shorty Award for the Arts. Come check us out and share your art and poetry–it’s what we do her, share and nurture each other.
What do you see? (for One Shoot Sunday)
Photo prmpt by James Rainsford
1.
What do you see?
Not the span of my wings I ask not
Or the pin-lock of my beak
My eyes made of gems
Creation shielded you may not covet
If you could a universe
A glimpse of my wings
Such envy it has spawned in hearts like yours
The rufous I bank on in flight
If I perch on a shoulder
You could die in sheer awe of mine–ample
And reddish like the flare of the sun
Unsteady your life as your feet
Had rocked you solid blind to what I see
On my tarsus firm on a twig
2.
Stone from stone
That heart of yours locked in cold
I feel no pity
A head you preened
No sign of polish and spark
In coagulated cells
I squeal I do
Keee-r-r nothing to your hollow ears then
Mortar-filled now as your brain
A soul you wrapped
In manners as translucent as words un-rooted unlike
Mine seed-like but forward in my breast
I winter in forests you burrow
Lifeless in dark cavities imitating iridescent skies
Making it like home but you are wingless
3.
What do you see?
Battlefields you scoured between your agonies
And waning moons?
Or spires that sway under a mid-heaven
You strived to pierce to let spurt secrets
The constellations conceive?
Filigreed walls behind you
Await for storms to cease heaving
Whispering luring the darkness
Columns prop up the dome
You unfurled over the stare of an accusing sky
Do you see their spine corroding?
What do you see?
4.
As stone you see
Not twigs that soon arc to meet
A pink horizon
Or a black patch
Where drooping snowdrops
Bloom tufts on your path
You had trudged
On paths crushing crocuses and dandelions
Shredding silken azalea sighs
Eyes on grit you missed
Evergreens flailing in the wind to snag
the first low star
As you stepped into a
carrion’s day like a crow squawking at sky
hopping on a dumpster grinding by
I’m posting this poem for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry from a picture prompt by James Rainsford. Come join us in this gathering place where a most amazing selection of talented artists and poets share their work while nurturing each other.
you and i in seven pieces (for One Shot Wednesday)
1.
a flower basket moon—
tilting from a swing of arms
in revolving doors
our sighs uncompleted in the eaves
a storm hanging by a cloud
2.
squalling gulls
rip our day in shreds–
the only sound
between us and the stones
and the dying flowers
3.
why the mimosa
shrinks in pain at our steps–
i search for your scent
you squint from its thorns
i sip drops of night dew
4.
darkness leaves us blind
we grope for our eyes but find
our lips like embers
on a bed of pebbles left to die–
we thrum like restless stars
5.
we reap our moaning
gather folds of reticent dawn
into my breast–
you slice away your pain
my flesh thins out in your hands
6.
i beg for the sun
lodged in the cleavage of morning–
you toss it flaming
your destiny line singed
the line of your heart scarred
7.
i lie in wait–
the next moon comes astride
the east wind raging
washing away whirlpools of dust
baring the sun i conceived
soleil levant by Claude Monet 1872 courtesy of wikipedia
i dare you (for One Shoot Sunday)
1.
i ground my being
in search of truth
and found
a scoop of silt
superficialities
i basked in surfaces
the sun swarmed
beguiling
choked my truths
in flashes
glories in seconds
fallen as ash
my pretenses
morphing into
this mush slipping
between my lips
entrapped
in your weakness
i dare you
unclad who i am
2.
who am this
being a pallid skein
of desire tangled
in despair
words dangle
on tips of bones
their flesh i picked off
in my darkness
suns melt
on my breath
gods cower in fear
over my stink
stones corrode
from my tears falling
as flint on my trail
dead embers
rain pools
sizzle on my passing
burn secrets
my footprints bred
3.
taunt me
if you have grit
the songs i spew
rattle angels
wangle crests
of waves my stare
long petrified on seas
turned cesspools
dare to cleanse
the air i poison
my soul departed
litter ivy beds
comb my hair
your fingers hanker
for my silken scales
to root in spirit
grind your being
with mine scrape off
your bareness toss out
your soul i dare you
Photo prompt by Fee Easton
Posted for One Shoot Sunday from a photo prompt by Fee Easton at One Stop Poetry where poets and artists share their art and their passion for it, a nurturing gathering place. Check us out.
To write a poem (wordplay on an old typewriter for One Shoot Sunday)
image prompt by Jack AZ part2
is not to catch
the words unlatched:
it is to meet
a current against the sweep
against the words
the patterns on the board
the words imprint
that later fade so like river silt.
To catch a poem
you can’t, unless eyes firm
eyes glued to the vaulted
deep from where had bolted
these words you unleash
on lines that leap
your fingers balancing
thought on words that slink.
To catch the thought
that storms into desert draught
you choose the speed
or letters scrambling in the deep
delude the eyes
escape the mind on ice
old keys do creak when cranked
to catch the lines unlatched.
To catch a storm wreaking
havoc on a heart sinking
in a slew of silted dreams
rusting on dredged streams
where winds howl threats
of maddened sand and dust like breaths
the finger tips must kiss
the letters naming muses hissing.
To catch the muses
soothe their caricatured faces
bare your soul salvaged
from old thoughts once baggage
tear out the paper
spewing lies of hereafter
catch the words that spell
the truth about their names true to their spell
on you to write a poem.
Posted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry where a community of poets and artists share their love for their art and continue to sustain each other. Check us out!
mirrors (for One Shoot Sunday)
mirrors—
a stare that stares back
in whose eyes?
wheat fields glinting
bouncing beaten gold off skies
too heavy
to leap past the frame
onto infinity–
beyond the grip of stones
where shadows rumble
old bones
clatter awaiting the wind
in bed with the moon
petrified butterfly clouds fold wings
weeds ogle at blue gaps
thunder
conceives lightning flashes
mirrors eye
the brittle sighing in the cairn
far off where desires lie
in complicity
with the sun—who stares back
in the mirror? a stare that stares back
in whose eyes beyond the frame
but stone on stone
Neutral Hills by Sean McCormick
Posted for One Shoot Sunday on One Stop Poetry from a photo by Sean McCormick. Here at OSP a vibrant community of poets and artists share their love for their art. Check us out.
Heart on wings (One Shot Wednesday)
Stone on my steps,
is it? But a sparrow
side-lain, staring
ending a flight quite swift
arrow-taut toward water
that fooled its foolish heart.
How could pea-eyes
know traps between air
and sky could seem nothing?
Tiny hearts spurt sighting
their longing–to a sweet sparrow
wings on water.
Flitting straight on,
heart on wings
the water a beak within–
except that glass
is also water.
I am posting this poem for One Shot Wednesday at the One Stop Poetry blog.
Join us – throw in your verses. Here are the rules (taken directly off their blog):
1. Write a poetic piece & post it on your blog
2. Then let us know about your post. Link back to One Shot
3. Sign up in the Mr Linky list, linking directly to your post, AFTER you’ve posted it.
4. Go visit others who have signed up! Offer support & encouragement. Share your love of words and insight respectfully. Please try to visit as many participating poets as you can. We all could use and appreciate kind feedback.
Count 1234 (One Shoot Sunday)
*inspired by a photo taken during the Great Depression
1234 the counting beats
on soles the pavements
suffer through
–sorrows smudge hunger
pouting on granite
fissured by want.
Does counting
drill away the hunger?
As if to dig up
completes the burying,
hunger in bags
as crap.
What is the anatomy
of want? Under lenses
combine 1234 in thickness–
in sum, does hunger
make sense? Raking up
senselessness bares bones,
innocence the marrow.
In 1234 nothing shows but
the waiting as if
it were a birthright–
the anatomy for hunger.
Combine 1234 in lean-ness
in sum what rings up? Only
the stark stare, the rage
of hunger—the true sum.
I posted this poem for One Shoot Sunday at the One Stop Poetry blog.
Join us – throw in your verses. Here are the rules (taken directly off their blog):
1. Write a poetic piece & post it on your blog
2. Then let us know about your post. Link back to One Shot
3. Sign up in the Mr Linky list, linking directly to your post, AFTER you’ve posted it.
4. Go visit others who have signed up! Offer support & encouragement. Share your love of words and insight respectfully. Please try to visit as many participating poets as you can. We all could use and appreciate kind feedback.
paper moon
paper moon—
too high
for the autumn wind
by Alegria Imperial 9th place haiku kukai Sketchbook 5-5 SepOct 2010
I am posting this poem for One Shot Wednesday at the One Stop Poetry blog.
Join us – throw in your verses. Here are the rules (taken directly off their blog):
1. Write a poetic piece & post it on your blog
2. Then let us know about your post. Link back to One Shot
3. Sign up in the Mr Linky list, linking directly to your post, AFTER you’ve posted it.
4. Go visit others who have signed up! Offer support & encouragement. Share your love of words and insight respectfully. Please try to visit as many participating poets as you can. We all could use and appreciate kind feedback.
“…but i beg for eyes…” (break from haiku)
From “a beggar’s prayer”
“…
but i beg for eyes that open skies
hooded by grease,
a warm brew to douse my morning
to wash off the grit of my waking…”
by Alegria Imperial published in “Let Us Pray”, Sketchbook SepOct 2010
I posted this poem for One Shoot Sunday at the One Stop Poetry blog.
Join us – throw in your verses. Here are the rules (taken directly off their blog):
1. Write a poetic piece & post it on your blog
2. Then let us know about your post. Link back to One Shot
3. Sign up in the Mr Linky list, linking directly to your post, AFTER you’ve posted it.
4. Go visit others who have signed up! Offer support & encouragement. Share your love of words and insight respectfully. Please try to visit as many participating poets as you can. We all could use and appreciate kind feedback.
About
autumn wind
wondering about lilies
in a mountain pond
Tell me a writer who really gets a satisfying jornal, in Spanish a daily wage or its equivalent, and I’ll bare a spirit in constant bouts of doubtfulness. Does a writer earn more because of what he writes and how he does it? Or is a writer paid more or less because of who he is? Is it money or honor he expects to receive?
Ahhh … but money as wage, and praise or honor as reward would be too predictable, too common as Job lamented in the Book of Job. It is in these lines that read: “Is not man’s life on earth nothing more than pressed service, his times no better than hired drudgery? Like the slave, sighing for the shade, or the workman with no thought but his wages, months of delusion I have assigned to me, nothing for my own but nights of grief. Lying in bed I wonder, ‘When will it be day?’ Risen I think, ‘How slowly evening comes!’
Restlessly I fret till twilight falls. Swifter than a weaver’s shuttle my days have passed, and vanished, leaving no hope behind. Remember that my life is but a breath, and that my eyes will never again see joy.”
Not money but joy is the ultimate wage as the passage implies. And joy is not hard to earn for it is in everyday life if we have eyes to see, a nose to smell, fingers to touch, ears to hear–a heart beating. This to me, is how a writer earns a daily wage. His wages then take the guise of treasures his heart can transfigure into a universe of thought that taps into other hearts, that causes a swirl in the depth of other souls, or that makes wings to sprout on leaden heels.
Sometimes not joy but rueful, poignant moments are my pick. Take what I earned once: On my walk home in my neighborhood, I caught two clumps of snowdrops–such tiny blossoms smaller than fingertips that do not look up but shyly droop close to black patches on the ground winter has frozen. That afternoon in the frosty wind, they trembled as if ready to turn away and run but how could they? For that poignant moment on seeing the wintry rain beat on the fragile snowdrop–as if pushing it to go home now, go to sleep–I earned my jornal, my daily wage.
Once on summer walk, the crackle of dried leaves just hit me both like the laughter of children and sobs long suppressed. Neither one of them would resolve the dryness, but I recalled how each does bring tears: laughter for joy, sobs for healing that comes with the release of a dammed-up pain. My jornal that day came as two haiku.
Fall has since shortened the day and the heart begins to crave for lost space that it doesn’t even recall which or where. I feel that most treasures have turned into mush so much so I wouldn’t be able to sift them off the ground. Yet I caught the dying day yesterday–so glorious in the gold of autumn it opened a flip side of serene heaven. Blades of grass coated in diadems of rain that carpet the lawns render royal walks poor by imitation. A burst of red maple against an inky blue sky humbled me, a soul bragging about her skill to recreate beauty in words.
I suppose I’m taking Job’s reflections to heart. I’d rather not gloss over each day and look beyond what’s there, right before me, or else fragile as is my breath one day “my eyes may never again see joy” to write. With what then will I compare the eternal joy, the ultimate wage I await?
Yet for now, as other eyes hanker to make the invisible visible, I put a tag on some moments of joy. Like on seeing the snowdrops, I paid myself $200 as my jornal.
What could have been yours?
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