Beautiful birds are gone, surrendering this stunned forest
to raucous call of crows; those omen-bearing messengers
bending branches too thin for their ebony weight
dark-well eyes; flashing menacingly, and malignly,
like puffed up politicians ready to pull another plug
of carrion in this drained ditch between slump-shouldered mountains
and a sea of sighs that every woman knows
come night, when we should sleep to humming stars
that pierce seas and skies, yet unnamed, purple drawn
curtains that hide such massacre of harvest,
we lie, startled as found rabbit, in our same prickling skin
listening ~ trying to translate the silence
woven between a nightlight and a shadow, between
crack in ceiling she has made visions of, or wishes,
breath-holding belief that,
when sun comes beaming up from below
it will be a new world, a new day, a new way
to make old things matter
digging through morning’s seasonal blanket of fog,
a crow tears at slumber’s quilt
and she rises, dreaming of gargoyles ~ or saints~
that can save her
from herself
or a new message, falling from fluttering skies
she fears looking, hearing, knowing
this vacated yard, turned gray with waiting
for good news, just this once
Author notes
Prompt:
“...When the weary sun lifts itself into a vast and shuttered sky,
nothing else matters...“ Night Hope – excerpt from “Harrowed”
jpg - Grace, from photobucket
In a list
- Beautiful Words by Beautiful People I Know • next in list
- A Woman's Writhe • next in list
- power poetry • next in list
- Honorable Mention • next in list
A contest entry
- Quote Inspired #7 by Danny Beatty.
1800 points, ended November 8, 17 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 10 of 10
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this ode to the power of seasonal transition and the birth and death so intricate within natural spheres, we included, is sad as mourning and bright as a resurrection, for though the beautiful birds are gone, and the humming stars (love that image in your poem) where we lie beneath startled as found rabbits, we try to translate the silence and search unrelentingly ...
a cry as metaphor for us and as a crow, digging and tears at the seasonal blanket ... the final stanza is purely beautiful and respectful of the reader, for the reader must make this journey ... must
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ty, Danny, is....is... *smile*
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When I saw your entry in the Prelims I had to come in to read!
This is beautifully melancholic. It sounds as if the woman in this piece is stuck in a rut, perhaps finding herself more and more buried beneath a column of solemnities and sorrows, the blocks of which keep crumbling away to add their weight to that already in her heart, as the gravity of life brings down all around her, leaving her restless, waiting in abeyance, dreamless and yet there is a defiance which ignites a flame of hope that each new day might bring something ... better ... brighter ... a changing thread in the pattern of her tapestry of days, if nothing else ... if nothing more definite.
I loved the lines: ~~
bending branches too thin for their ebony weight;
of carrion in this drained ditch between slump-shouldered mountains
and a sea of sighs that every woman knows
&listening ~ trying to translate the silence
woven between a nightlight and a shadow,
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I come back and read this poem and realize that the soul knows what to be prepared for. Ty for your comments. It matters!
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Wow! So eloquently expressive! Thanks for the read!
Marlene
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You are welcome mgmc. A poet writes, not for the read, but for the relief..and, when someone does read it and comments as you have, it is a perk, to be sure!
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I'm into rhyme but this blew me away. Awesomely awesome
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Of all the genres, I lvoe this the best. It allows me to freedom to let the soul speak!
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Ohhh.
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