Some Wore Armor

 

Some wore armor,

those freshbread women

with plums for eyes.

The River God said,

a lot of good it will do you,

then sank down

into a water lily dream.

One went to him

holding a blade made of summer.

Some say he married her

but she never came back to say.

Some wore bracelets

made of fall leaves and owl call

with sorrows lined together like dolls.

The River God said,

one is wise, five are deceitful

and none can sing, or love.

Then the water iced over until spring.

The women went to the silent edge

bearing a robe made of crows and rushes

but when he didn't appear, then or at any other time,

they gave the robe to the morning.

Some wore armor,

but most wore willows.

They were freshbread women

with plums for eyes. 

_____

The Goblin Girl (A Child's Fairy Story)

 

image by Gustaf Teggren

The Goblin Girl is cursed and wanders

over stubbled fields and passes under

the riven bridge that ice has split

and counts herself the cause of it.

Should the Goblin Girl admire the arc

of a lofty bird it misses its mark--

falters and falls like an iron omen

to fall at her feet in evening gloaming.

On thorny brambles she lays her head

with moon for pillow and stone for bed

to dream of peacocks and peahens crying

for the bride whose lily is cut and dying.

Who laid the wicked curse upon her?

Perhaps some coward behind a mask?

Or was it the smug and well-dressed hunter

who cradles his gun and ready flask?

Who burned her image and let the milk curdle

as done to them by an earlier other?

Why, the very one who rocked the cradle--

the Goblin Girl's Janus-faced mother.

________

for Word Garden Word List--Christina Rossetti. The poem is, in style, an homage.

For more about the two-faced god Janus, look HERE. 

Music: Sarah McLachlan "In The Arms Of An Angel"

In Bohemia

 

In Bohemia, where the Moldau

flows and hollyhocks rise beside the cottages,

I went, as a child, into the dark woods to escape 

the terrors of the monster behind the door of mine.

At night in Bohemia, where the wolves

go and the moon rises over the trees beyond the cottages,

I rose with it in the night to escape nightmares

as the wolves sang to me like imaginary mothers.

In Bohemia there are hands, and cookies shaped like hands

full of sugar and poison. In the mornings the monster

fed me hate because I was a mirror, but the wolves

told me I was a lake and a home for the wandering moon.

In Bohemia, there are little girls carrying wicker baskets

beside the shores of the Moldau, where the rooks rise.

The rooks are born from ice in the blood of monsters

and they say, "we are the rooks, we love you," as they peck.

In Bohemia, by the shores of the Moldau, many children

disappear, into forests, or ovens, where monsters sent them.

The wolves heard of this and began to follow ceaselessly,

so closely that I became them, and they became me.

In Bohemia, where the Moldau 

flows and hollyhocks rise beside the cottages,

a Gypsy girl and her wolves shrank a monster

who starved on its own poison cookies.

So I ask you now, Sir or Madame come down the lane,

to my fairy cottage by a lake beneath a golden moon,

looking for love and loaves and a soft situation,

do you really want to fuck with me and my wolves?

Better you should go, and take your monsters with you.

_________

for The Sunday Muse #189, where I am hosting. 

Ash

Ash is blind and boneless, but flies.

Colored flames flare the leaf that dies.

For a moment, the madman lucid.

Sweet milk in the sun turns putrid.

The bonfire kills the thing it lights.

Ash is blind and boneless, but flies.

You may find that devils may care

To catch and keep you with them there.

The young may sigh, slow, and sicken

to find their tongues gray and thickened.

Ash is blind and boneless, but flies.

A snare denies its bird the skies.

Don't be so proud, sure and boasting.

See the rooster, plucked and roasting.

The grave may loose the one who dies.

Ash is blind and boneless, but flies. 

_______

for Sunday Muse #182. This is a quatern. Thanks to LiJade.

On The Subject of Enduring Love

I have sent my driver, with the map in his head.

He'd be better off blindfold.

Better off dead.

Banter with him as events unfold.

Pretend you've not gone mephitic and old.

Forever is the thing, forever is the word.

Forever the mounted, desiccated bird.

I have sent my car with the soft leather seats.

All the ash trays nailed,

sick with sweets.

I wait for you breathless, gloved and veiled

tubercular, powdered, primped and paled.

Here love's cricket who last night chirred

lies dead in the mouth of that god-damned bird.

____________

for The Sunday Muse #165, where I am hosting. 

T-Rex, ed.

The merciless T-Rex takes a cold delight in tearing its victim apart, biting to the bone and seeking out the tasty morsel of the heart, which it cannot chew but devours by tossing its head back and swallowing whole, followed by a satisfied bellow.

Though they write little of note themselves, the T-Rex often finds a position as editor of a poetry journal or publishing house. Seeming to grin, the T-Rex copy-pastes "Thank you for letting us see your manuscript. However...." The T-Rex will never see you as anything more than a plodding plant-eater. Might I suggest a more sensible career, for example dental assistant or elevator repair technician. 

Next week: the pros and cons of asking a three-toed sloth to be your beta reader. 
_______

for Just One Word "apart"

Pheasant Therapist Is Cray Cray

Here I am, the answer to all your dreams.
But please, 
stay out in the waiting room;
when the light is on, I am in session.

Preen
preen preen
preen.
Okay, I'm not in session, I'm preening.
The last client left vermin in my feathers,
diminished their shine,
and brought that scary gun.

Pheasants are known for healing, and luck in love.
I'm a pheasant shore nuff. 
Okay, come in.
I'm right here
hiding behind the waste basket. 
Look into my goofy birdy eyes--
yep, you're pretty screwed up.

Let's see what we can do.
Yap yap yap
yap. 
I think what you really want is to eat me;
that could be fatal or fine.
You're a mess but cute. 
I think we made a lot of progress today, even with me creeping around the desk and along the walls. 

Ready?
FOOM flap flap flap FOOM!
Noisy right?
A girl's got to make an entrance. 
You gonna make a move now, or what?
Here I stand, trying again, feathered and fantastic
if not terrifically bright. 
_______ 

for Unfairy Tales at Real Toads. 

According to folklore, pheasants are harbingers of love and good luck, as well as being healers. The only time I ever encountered a pheasant, it absolutely exploded out of a bush, making a tremendous racket that scared me half to death. Perhaps it went on to establish a thriving practice offering talk therapy, tarot astrology, and interpretive dance. It could've.