Within the ancient tent of meeting shade
A woman stands where vows are made
The barley offering, silent, coarse, and dry
Is placed before the priest and searching eye
Her tresses loosed, she lifts a trembling hand
To swear she wasn’t with another man
The oath is written, then dissolved away
In bitter waters, a curse or hope’s mainstay
The waters heal and bless if innocent
If not, she bears the pain and embarrassment
In jealous ages, where doubt and faith collide
Her wantonness lingers if she has lied
From ancient scrolls and whispered fears
Sotah’s tale persists throughout the years
A ritual etched in Jewish writings and art
Recording the proceedings of justice, faith, and heart
P.S. If we draw on the Incarnadine Strain
We will not be drowned in the flood, but be blessed by rain
Written: August 09, 2025, for contest SEASONS NOW AND AFTER Sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
************
Aurora sheds her velvet, gleaming flame,
Dusk with iridescent shades fills the air.
Molten winds trick hearts in taking a game,
Grooved meadows grant obedient despair.
The alabaster clouds sparkle with grace,
Empyrean dreams appease the reek ache.
Fertile roots stir zymotic in their place,
Anodyne stars at triptych kindly break.
The swarm is a hive of busy tough bees,
Pavonine clouds, incarnadine with thrill.
Multivocal leaves—ethereal, breeze—,
Rapture in desiccation, soft and still.
On supposedly eternal shore,
steps purposefully wander as they did before not long ago
when existence swoop with the bow over strings-
its created harmony an unseen, camouflaged racket-
where trampled and washed sand
allowed more human traces - inexperienced and confident -,
unlike the possessive waves and foam
who's stones shall not be tainted by the joyful rays or incarnadine.
Memories, new chains, recall
a suave voice and an uncertain ( expected ardous), yet determined one
piercing the darkness; when torment inside and out
covered minuscule, clingy fragments of hope/optimism;
where rusty vision scrutinized distant gas spheres, contemplating.
When chocolate eyes gazed at the timid orb hiding its ablazed cheeks into azure - familiar scenery, unexpected mise-en-scène -
let an suppressed thought take over: they'll never witness nature's paintings again.
At the edge of day and night,
a silent joy reigns between
thoughts in unison.
Ocean’s field shimmers blue-green
beneath a sky, tangerine.
Our sailboat’s hue is mirrored
on the sea, incarnadine
cast by light of sun.
Skin against tanned skin, we lean -
our eyes on our horizon
May 13, 2018 for Rob Carmack's 'Premiere II - Open' Poetry Contest
Dear Sire, minstrel and poet oh most dear
prithee doth tell whilst thou with quill adore
thine art of rarest breed, mine heart doth peer
whereon I do beseech thee write me more
of yesterday's sweet sinks, for ne'er in hie
didst ask of thee, why doth mine eyelids sleep?
such was the word upon ye lips to die
for sake of passion is to live in deep
E'er mine memory serveth long and true
aside the likes of you none else shouldst do
forsaking all the glories of a strangers brew
I choose thine own to rest upon thy dew
Oh flower of incarnadine and shine
in dainty maketh dearth as rare as thine
We met in rage, incarnadine fury,
meandered, then, became tenacious friends.
From wary circling hearts, we took the chance,
we joined our hands, we spun in place, we laid
a spiral architecture down, we formed
a spring, mosaic metal, powerful
enough to shoot us through life's remainder.
Our kids launched off, angelic, ravenous,
diaphanous, eloquent quintessence
of you and me, the luminous javelins
so deftly thrown, that hit the lustrous mark,
where they began their own soliloquies.
So placidly we now relax, with love,
For azure shards and lyric gleams we seek,
the moonlight in our glade, mellifluous
in all its soundings, serendipity
of sylvan lore, ephemeral saffron
at birth the lunar light, it shows your face,
it coalesces inception's recall,
I see you as that first explosive day.
December 6, 2016
For the 'SHOOTING BLANK VERSE - Poetry Contest' sponsored by John Lawless.
Like a bridegroom crowned in crimson,
He rises out of his chamber,
Scarlet circlets round his person,
Bedecked in tangerine amber;
With tears of joy* shed on the grass,
The world rejoices when he comes,
His smile's reflected on the glass
Of each river, as daylife* thrums;
An incarnadine cirque, he glows
From one end of heaven's doorway,
In merry-go-round, he follows
His circuit till the end of day;
The birds belt out ballads divine
When he stirs them with soft caress;
But, he's barely a ball of shine
Before the Sun of Righteousness*.
-------------18.11.16-------------
( *Tears of joy - dew;
*Daylife - opposite of nightlife
*Sun of Righteousness - Lord Jesus Christ )
Haiku 107
reading poetry...
The Wasteland Incarnadine
winter afternoon
01.13.2014
Incarnadine, by Mary Szybist, is the 2013 National Book Award Winner
for Poetry.
Unhooking my bikini, I fall in
to Utah Lake; it’s thirteen years ago!
I’m naked, and the sun - incarnadine -
like me, has also slipped itself down low,
(though into dusk), while, I -in water -glow!
My arms are freckle-speckled, lightly tanned.
Beneath my skin I’m feeling golden, and
my breasts are buoys, round and pearly white.
My legs kick strongly; they are lean and grand;
I’m sturdy - yes - but now I’m sweetly light!
For Cyndi MacMillan's YOUR BIRTHDAY SUIT Poetry Contest
I am red as murder
I have done it again
Incarnadine and destructable
I have done it again
My hideous trick
The lids eclipse my hollows
Nothing. My body lies to me
And breathes a web of smog
If I trap the dirty oxygen
Just long enough
I have done it again
My body ticks relentlessly
And evaporates mouthful after curdled mouthful
I feel like a red balloon
Bursting a birth of shadows
To die
To die by science
And swallow those missiles.
And if one could see me
If one could feel me
Inside their mind
Phobias arise in a soul
Recalcitrance done unto thyself?
Possibly futile claims of sanity
And you try to make me
Try to tear down my animosity
Never can you find reverence
Stuck within a passive perseverance
Schizophrenic in my eyes alone
Psychosis so close to my thoughts
Feeble-minded you are as a human
Or something held to that nature
Try the claws, dig the paws
Never knock fur until you taste it
Shine through my senses incarnadine
Tear through my flesh the anguish
Pain envelopes only those who feel it
Learn to welcome and hold onto agony
Awake forever, seeing nothing significant
Of course, that is but a tapestry
Placed upon your human eyes
And a specialized ethos to your species
Alas poor consciousness, I knew thee well.
You of a wonderful nature-
Of passion and fury,
You of desperate desires-
Of anguish and ecstasy.
What has become of you?
Have you lost your fire-
That incarnadine glow from within?
Though it was certain to falter
It did produce a lovely light.
Alas poor consciousness, I knew thee well.
It pains me to see you now,
Cold and callous.
A chambered nautilus that has long since been abandoned.
I held such fond memories of our time together,
Yet, as you are, withered and dying
I fear the curtain has been drawn
On our period of deliberate living.
Alas poor consciousness, I knew thee well.
Few novelties can be afforded,
With one as literal as you have become,
So I shall expend no more energy than is necessary.
No longer are you the image of a Man who farms,
But that of a lifeless farmer.
Grant yourself the luxury of kneeling
Next to the stream we did so cherish
And gaze at what you have become.
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