hot crusted bread speaking truths
labouring backs bent over ovens
cows chewing cherrywood cuds cosy
what could be more knowing
as Nature spreads tranquility tacit ?
____________________________
GOLD PLACEMENT WINNER POEM
Contest : Brevity Poem : Allpoetry August 26
5 words x 5 lines
Prompt: Dispersion
“What do you see?”
A simple inquiry
requiring
A not so simple response
For I do not see
With my eyes alone
They are but a portal
To the insanity
Of a mind’s interpretation
A wilting flower
Lying beside a sleeping kitten
Perhaps a subtler inquest
“what does a painting stir in you?”
And “why”…”How”
Does a wilting flower
Lying beside a sleeping kitten
Reach through crusted paint
To hold you spellbound
Nature in a Mischievous Mood
Early Sunday morning;
nature rattling at the front door!
I accept its clamorous invitation
stepping out with nothing more
in tow than an upturned collar..
and a theatrical imagination.
The morning ground is well-baked pastry,
all crusted with a shiver of winter;
sunlight whispering across the ground
all sharp colour and playfulness.
So I step out, church bells skipping alongside
and light skating off in front of me.
Soon I am within reach of the beach;
my sandy sanctuary,
but nature is in a mischievous mood
the light fluctuating,
its moods shifting,
gloss turning to flat matt.
The sea offers up a cold, blue arm
encouraging me into watery depths
while the sky sits heavily
in a grey leather-weathered armchair.
Behind, peeking through a curtain of cloud
a new season waits to spring into action.
Ian Souter
Give me, oh give me that darkness from above:
let me drink just once from the river of your love.
Night never ran so strong through the trees,
waters never flowed so dark to the seas.
Music never stirred so deep in the earth,
winds never swept away Springtime’s rebirth.
Give me, oh precious, your life's saddest song
running in deep tides every night long.
Let me know, yes, tell me with your eyes,
what I think I hear shadowed in your cries,
spoken softly in your most questioning gaze.
Tell me what you said with such keening dismay
where whispers never uttered a syllable of sound
and moonlight kissed the sun-crusted ground.
Give me, oh give me that darkness from above:
let me drown forever in the river of your love.
Christopher M. Swan 2008
Daisy dark
moonlight denizen
of dream beds.
Red rose scents
beneath diamond crusted space
Dawn will come too soon.
Daisy grace
come what breezes may
still placid
still pretty.
Wonder waits in cool shadows
with red Mars in sight.
Daisy smiles
greet blooms in the night.
Redbirds sing
in plum skies.
Pink butterfly's done roaming
beautiful blackness.
Save the earth. Obliterate your world.
Begin by ending.
Let the sky-ceiling buckle and split.
You are the first to go.
Scrape the crusted-hard scabs from your skin.
Shred the nerves where the winter enters.
For the earth—which needs no saving—
your worldly heart must stop.
Your flesh feeds the gulls.
White wings. Red beaks.
Stripped clean.
(A child on the pier lowers her hand,
the splintered stick held mid-air.)
The gulls do not look up.
They finish what they started
and leave the bones to the tide.
Snowflakes flutter to frosted earth
On a perfect winter day.
They glide through frigid wind,
Refracting whatever threads of light
Peek through the sky's soft gray quilt.
I stand on snow-crusted ground,
Craving my neck in awe
Of the chandelier of quartz drifting down.
My boots leave indents in an ever-growing cushion.
I want to let one settle on my hand.
So I can run my fingernail across
One of its many crystalline branches.
So I may feel just how smooth
A rigid structure could ever be.
So I will know that something as grand
As the smoky giants that sleep
Lazily above the horizon
Can craft something as intricate as it.
But I worry that the heat from my hands
Will melt and do away its delicate form.
If I were to tap it, even with the
Weakest edge of my nail,
I fear I would cleave it,
Between the roots of its symmetrical beauty,
In two.
It rained like a random park bench.
Creations under us.
The sidewalk crusted over by our steps.
Made of ice, sometimes.
Skating around like there is never enough.
It rained like a crushing sound.
Tamed by voices and rumors.
I used to enjoy wearing sweaters.
Then it dissolved.
Like a crushing sound.
It rained like two summers ago.
Before the lightning made me crack.
Underneath the pine tree.
I’m a lightning rod all by myself.
Burning metal and oneness.
It rained like the pillow under me.
Wake up sweating.
Creations under me.
Tamed by voices and rumors.
Like a car crash and other odd feelings.
Vines cling to rusted rails
Glider, in crusted red
Sometimes there are loose nails
Faded and worn by time
Only hearts can accept
How destiny travails
She sat by the edge of a resting stream,
where her reflection peered at her sadness.
She threw a stone to still its mocking glare—
the ripples spread and swept away her image,
as if eager to dissolve her gloom in obscurity.
Before long, the current found her face again.
She watched it mirror her stare once more,
and though torment gripped her trembling face,
her tears rolled—coins sinking into depth.
The birds ceased their songs; the frogs stopped their croaks.
Their silence ached her head, throbbed her chest,
till her skull seemed to burst with anguish—
yet she watched as fry darted in the stream.
The salt-white path of her tears had crusted dry,
begging weary glands for more to cleanse them,
to join those the stream had already swallowed,
as if its waters were made brackish by her tears.
Though soiled by the drops it drank before,
it still awaited more drops of her misery,
polishing its mirror to reflect her sadness once more—
while her body stayed pressed to the sand by its bank,
till daylight waned and twilight veiled the sky.
Today I am without inspiration
and write a poem
not with words but with
chuck beef cubed and coated
in flour, seared in a pot
until golden brown
then deglazed with a good cup
of cabernet sauvignon - I pack
the lines with shallots, celery,
carrots, seasoning and a can
of crushed tomatoes and then cook it
for hours in a gentle oven.
I savour the smell all day,
hear it bubble in the silence
as it deepens
within the dark magic of itself,
taking on meaning beyond
its mere ingredients. Lifting
the lid, the thick crusted gravy
announces its completion.
Come, take a spoon
and plunge it into its depths.
Taste poetry.
Oh, October, you fickle feline
A silenced garden holds its breath
Rose petals tremble in your chill
Maples bedecked in hoar frost white
Soft clouds rise from long idle chimneys
Cold worms wriggle ‘neath softening leaves
Squirrels draw maps of hidden treasure
Sparrows skate on the ice crusted bird bath
Oh, October, you stealthy creeper
Your shadows book flights for the geese
Scar-faced pumpkins snarl as you pass
Knowing your demons will soon arrive
Yet still you quietly purr
A harvest scented song upon cool winds
Nature in a Mischievous Mood
Early Sunday morning;
nature rattling at the front door!
I accept its clamorous invitation
stepping out with nothing more
in tow than an upturned collar..
and a theatrical imagination.
The morning ground is well-baked pastry,
all crusted with a shiver of winter;
sunlight whispering across the ground
all sharp colour and playfulness.
So I step out, church bells skipping alongside
and light skating off in front of me.
Soon I am within reach of the beach;
my sandy sanctuary,
but nature is in a mischievous mood
the light fluctuating,
its moods shifting,
gloss turning to flat matt.
The sea offers up a cold, blue arm
encouraging me into watery depths
while the sky sits heavily
in a grey leather-weathered armchair.
Behind, peeking through a curtain of cloud
a new season waits to spring into action.
Ian Souter
Sunlight Whispering
Early Sunday morning;
nature rattling at the front door!
I accept the invitation to bond,
stepping out with nothing more in tow
than an upturned collar
and a theatrical imagination.
The morning’s ground is well-baked pastry,
crusted with a shiver of winter;
sunlight whispering across the ground
all sharp colour and playfulness.
So I stride out, church bells skipping alongside
with light skating off in front of me.
Soon I am within reach of the beach;
my sandy sanctuary,
but nature is in a roguish mood,
its light fluctuating;
its moods shifting;
gloss turning to flat matt.
The sea offers up a cold, blue arm
encouraging me into watery depths
while the sky, heavy in thought, reclines
on a grey leather-weathered armchair.
Behind, peeking through clouded curtains
a new season waits to spring into action.
Ian Souter
The
gift
of
life
is
a
loaf
of
love
Wrapped
in
the
warmth
of
its
sharing
And
its
supreme
nourishment
is
the
crusted
peace
of
each
shared
slice:-
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