after Ho Chi Minh
I
The stone basin holds
still water. The still water
drinks the arid sponge
as rays of pure energy
slake their thirst on
the ebon wings of crows
II
Yangtze flows from widows peak
pooling briefly in the lock
of a tired eye. Dirt
and salt cry brackish tears
before leaping from sallow chin,
like rain from languid boughs
III
Frogs turn dirges beyond
translucent glass, their croaks
fold and crease the air
putting dusk on the shelf.
Aphids eat the pithy stalks
and drown in sudden morning dew.
IV
No callused hand washes
in the same basin twice
V
The kettle boils, pallid
phantoms push through iron
walls. Prescient tea leaves show
time’s current—fish swim
upstream. Two worlds away,
a young girl draws a bath.
VI
Forehead donning liquid rosaries,
each dawn anoints a king anew
Each afternoon, grains of rice
cling to one another, fulfilled.
Ink spills quickly each evening,
the white page laps at pitch waters.
VII
Eleemosynary sunlight burns
through the keyhole, tumblers
click in the lock. The stone basin
is once again filled with still water.
The Oil Soft Yoke
Alas, the contest sponsors do expound
on how to sail your craft, and where it’s bound
thus must the muse-less vessels get in line
wander straight and never serpentine
for hearts are frail and distant widows peak
still hear cold vagrant cries of those who seek
a passage to a new world without rules
to build their frameless houses without tools.
And yet we stand in awe at castle gates
to view the masterpieces of the greats
ignore the splintered floors that bow and creak
believe the feather strong, the broadsword weak.
Embrace the furrowed rows, the oil soft yoke
for poetry when written ain’t no joke..
©12/24/2019
STRAND SPECIAL 8
On All Hallow's Eve,
They say can be seen,
A figure, alone and forlorn.
It prowls the high steppes,
Of Old Widow's Peak,
Mysterious, but meaning no harm.
The story is told,
Of two lovers of old,
Who pledged to each other they'd cleave;
But he had to sail out,
At dawning's first light,
Returning on All Hallow's Eve.
A storm came a-blowin',
And waves came a-crashin',
And soon not a thing could be seen.
He knew she's be waitin',
So without hesitation,
Headed home, no more to be seen.
Now each year on the peak,
Her vigil she keeps,
Faithful to her dying day;
And as she stands wating,
Her true love comes sailing,
Back to her arms through the grey.
Once more they're united,
Even death could not part them,
For love conquers all, this is true.
They'll play out this scene,
Forever it seems,
True love doesn't die, it continues.
So my friend never fear,
If you should come near,
And see that of which I speak.
It's two star crossed lovers,
Who come to each other,
The Specters of Old Widows Peak.
Judy Ball
All ghost stories aren't scarey.
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