falling leaves

I have missed wordzzles, playing with the words and reading everyone’s quirky and inspired stories. To say life has been crazy busy would be an understatement. Last night, I took a look at next week’s words, and decided to jump in with both feet now. I must admit to feeling a bit rusty. Anyway, here’s my offering. Hello to all the wordzzle Houdinis. Hope all is well with you.

This Week's Ten Word Challenge will be: Tibetan sky, symbols, won’t you come home Bill Baily, shadow figures, brain cortex, practice makes perfect, life, start of school, lavender, chow down

And for the mini: mental hospital, falling leaves, apple cider, packing crates, clues

It was that time of year where everything from the mullet to the grasshopper was peaking. A full flush fanned the table. The ripened tassels swilled in the hills. Priscilla was afraid that all this brilliance would crest too soon, disappear without a trace. This damned season which caused her clouded blood to slow.

This was the 20th anniversary of the “unraveling‘’ which had landed her in the Oak Hills Mental Hospital. It was painful to think about. For so many years the memory of it had dwelled in her marrow, rebuffed. And the hooded dread had swelled and had its way.

With the start of school, she was hopeful again. Life was full of symbols. The falling leaves carnelian under a wide Tibetan sky.

Priscilla stared at the packing crates stacked in a self satisfied configuration in the SW corner of the room. They stared back at her. Filled to the brim with keepsakes not worth keeping. Spiral journals penned in lavender ink. It was the close of her 19th summer and she was tired of tracking down clues. Shadow figures lurked on every corner. Paul’s unsandeled feet portended death. The Phrygian caws were a certain sign. And the jam between her toes was full of mold.

She sat at the piano, fingering chords that filtered through her brain cortex like shadowed figures. Won’t you come home Bill Baily. Won’t you come home? She wanted to hear the refrain again. Practice makes perfect. She cupped the mulled apple cider closer. Then chuckled to herself, reinforcing the comfort that flooded. The falling leaves were at once beautiful in their covenant. Soon she would chow down blissfully on butternut soup. And open her books.

These were the burning times!

Fog

Thanks to Sweetest in the Gale for this week's prompt, fog.

fog

mornings
heavy and damp
hang
as doppelgangers

I have been
here before
afraid
at times like this
the tired air
must be plucked
tenderly

Romance

Thanks to Geraldine of My Poetic Path for this week's prompt,”romance”.
Please visit all the poets at One Single Impression to sample this week’s offerings.

Romance

-noun
the thrill of being dislodged

-verb
to court and to woo

(personal derivative meaning)


a lovely stranger
in the wings
shakes loose
a talus
of regret and old English



Summer’s End


A Temporary Blindness

this!
a temporary blindness
overtakes you
and you wonder
out loud
how can liquid particles
exhaled in this way
later return
so sweetly as rain.


Green

even the most
seasoned
among us
become unhinged
in the presence of
excrescent splendor

the hours turn green
all the waiting is done
we wrap our legs gladly
around the plump stalk
of summer
exhaling pleasure.


Tall Grass

Sonny’s long sleeved manicure
of summer’s overgrowth
tries in vain
to bring
the neighborhood back.


Mahogany

a fugitive sound
hurries by
on padded feet


Chinese checkers

words
bashful and unrehearsed
queen each other

syllogism is comfort
in dark corners

One leaf knowing

One leaf knowing
it starts
at the crown
with only
one leaf
knowing

soon the shoulders
catch on
and the whole
body
of rings
shakes
in quiet ecstasy



Black Bark
a nomadic kiss
makes waves
of consonants
and sets
black bark
to chattering

I am a spotted fawn
whose folded legs
fall into
prayer.

I am a turkey
drunk with rain
crossing the road
with lips parted.

Terpsichore

Thanks to Sweetest in the Gale for this week's prompt, ocean. Please visit those who were inspired to weave words out of the mist at One single Impression.

“Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence. And though admittedly such a thing never happened, it is still conceivable that someone might possibly have escaped from their singing; but from their silence certainly never.”

Franz Kafka

Terpsichore

I am
drunk on her song:
breasts
bob like gulls
silver bream
angle in conference
carmine lips
part before leaving

bird woman!
who can resist
your sibilant guile
in a blind sun,
in windless calm?

one day I grow weary
of asylum
stick my thumb out
in spoken mist
a rusty trawler
lists his load
“Can you play anything?”
he asks.
“I can whistle.”

We motor
through midnight
lightning
chasing dawn

I arrive altogether empty
of souvenirs
Crusted with pink salt.

First Rays

Thank you Christine of Quiet Paths for this week’s prompt, windows. Please go now and drink in the light of words.

morning stroll in old San Juan, Puerto Rico, spring 2007

The Dancer

schefflera
coaxes her green body
through rigors
in a blinded room
becoming crooked
for light


The Dormer

white moths flicker
silky, translucent
moving seamlessly
through the hours

loss floats
in aspic
and gravity
is negotiable


First Rays

Easing
the louvers:
a host of
top stitched shadows
breaks loose
of promise
and tumbles
into morning

Stone fruit

Thanks to Geraldine of Poetic Paths for this week’s prompt, fragrance. Be sure to spend time at all the poets’ roosts, drinking in their words.

Stone fruit

You have heard
about such things
happening
shamans, midwives
reaching in with the blades
of their hands
pulling up
tumors
the size of pomelos

one day it came to her
clearly
as she was shelling peas
now that the flesh
was falling away
and the lining
of what had defined her
was shaved to its pith.

(just how unbound
she was. )

she reached into her belly
and pulled out a stone
still warm
wrapped it in parchment
and buried it like
the dead sea scrolls

a girl
coarse plaited hair
and anthracite eyes
toes dug into the slope of summer
spied it among the seaweed
at neap tide

restless fingers traced the grooves
awakening
the fragrance of apricot,
cypress,
Darjeeling tea
it was then
that she caught
a first glimpse of
frangipane
on the mountain top.