From Beyond
This wanderer through space
un-constellated, trailing light,
like an umbilical cord, untethered to any place
or person—beyond time or dimension–
alone, an observer who carries each trace
of dust and ice to add to its knowledge—and beauty–
in the gloaming. Not yet effaced
by dawn or rational thought—a sight
you want to consume. Its colors, the grace.
A magic 9 poem for dVerse.
Hidden in Plain Sight
I placed it there
inside a box
cluttered with knickknacks,
silvered memories and golden rings
inscribed with unsaid words,
fallen like russet leaves,
placed with a turn of phrase, a forgotten look–
noctilucent in the box—so I could find it
extant, waiting, there.
For dVerse Quadrille, a 44-word poem. The prompt word was place.
A Prickling Sensation
She emptied the glass, then poured herself another. While she sat on the tiny Paris balcony, something worked in her brain like a burglar picking a lock, waiting for the pins in the tumbler to fall into place. Click—the lock opened—someone had been in her hotel room. Not the maid, she was in earlier today. No, this happened more recently, after she left to buy the wine.
She was Night Hawk fierce, but she was also like a migratory bird. Something told the wild geese it was time to fly. Some clue that humans did not sense or see—more that the slanted light, the dropping leaves. She sensed something, too. And it was time for her to go. Now.
I have no companions on this flight. My only V will be one for victory. I’m getting closer, she thought.
A continuation of my Prosery spy series for dVerse. The line we are to use :
“Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly.”
–Rachel Lyman Field, “Something told the Wild Geese”
If you want to read it, the previous episode is here.
Inspired by SEB18
The Dogwood Weeps
The dogwood weeps, pale pink petals fall,
tents for buzzing urban bees
beyond, a bus belches smoke–
she says there is a secret entrance to the garden,
under tents. Buzzing urban bees
gold-dusted magicians,
she says. There’s a secret entrance to the garden,
but we can’t see what she sees–
gold-dusted magicians
transform nectar to honey, chemistry
we can’t see. But what she saw
was real. She visits with the dead, a dreamworld
transformed. Like nectar to honey. Chemistry
beyond and beyond. Now a bus belches smoke.
It’s real. I visit with her in a dreamworld where
the dogwood weeps, and pale pink petals fall.
For Day 18 of Paul Brookes’ annual ekphrastic challenge, and for my dVerse prompt later today. This is a pantoum inspired by Sara Elizabeth Bell’s art. Today is the 4th anniversary of my mom’s death in the first Covid wave. You can see the other art for the day and read responses here.
Goaded by Green
“The force that through the green fuse drives the flower”
–Dylan Thomas
Oak-thick now, once reedy boughs. The
spring of youth has sprung and passed. The force
of passion–remember that?–
is both ocean and rill—water passing through
stone layers, finding flint and fossils–the
proof of possible. Come watch blue and green–
sky and fields reborn; the light of our star, the fuse
that dives below the soil and drives
the seeds, the bees, the birds, the
buds—there, see it? The opened flower.
For dVerse Open link Night. A golden shovel based on the line from the Dylan Thomas poem Björn mentioned in the prompt. We will be meeting live, as well, on Saturday at 10:00 A.M. Philadelphia time. See the dVerse page for details on how to join. The photo is from last year. I’m not sure where it is.
Do you hear me?
It’s the anniversary of Tanya’s death. I didn’t see her die, but I heard about it. I’m on the tiny balcony of my Paris hotel room with a bottle of wine. I’ve recently seen Casablanca, and I think of Rick saying to Ilsa, “it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.” Tanya would have agreed. But will it change anything? We’re specks, blips in time. What does it matter? That the stars we see are already dead is still amazing though, isn’t it? That light travels like troubadours, bringing us sparkle from unknown places? Perhaps they’re love ballads, or messages sent to from absent friends. I raise my glass. “Here’s looking at you, Kid,” I say, as I look up into the night sky and empty the glass.
A short piece of fiction for dVerse, where we are to use the line:
“What does it matter
That the stars we see are already dead”
From “Laura Palmer Graduates” by Amy Woolard
in a prose piece of no more than 144 words. This might be a continuation of my spy story.
Time Traveler
The contour of time–
not flat, but shaped
with possibility, polished
as a queen’s pearls that fall
through cracks. So, we meet, fall
in love with those long gone—a child’s perspective
that hope can alter with a wish. Time’s unbroken
circle pauses, shifts.
A quadrille for dVerse where the word was contour, and NaPoWriMo, Day 1, where the prompt was to write about a book we’ve read in the past. There was a book I read as a child that I loved. I didn’t know the title or author, but I described it to a friend once years ago—and she found it for me! It’s called A Traveller in Time by Alison Uttley. I just found it in my bedroom, and now I’m going to have to reread it. Apparently, I have always liked books about time travel and history.
The Shadows Come
“O river of stars and shadows, lead me through the night.”
–Siegfried Sassoon, “Before the Battle” (June 25, 1916)
I walk briskly in October’s chill, but the tune I hear is adagio,
a darkly pensive melody, wind-cello and a bird-horn. The river
flows on unconcerned, history in its currents, rippling reflections of
pastel tones and morning greys turned indigo under stars
that sparkle brighter in fallen frosted air, and
the light! The splendid slant of it, skewed through boughs, shadows
stretched bounding like deer to lead
travelers– animals, geese, and me–
across the seasons and through
time. Again, once again. The
walk of us all, from first dawn to final night.
For dVerse, I revised a golden shovel poem about shadows, though it’s from October.
Biding by the River
It faces the Delaware where silver shad
spawned as apple trees white-blossomed,
here the Lenape fished and camped,
servants helped to hoe and spin—one ran away
from the stone and brick, the ten people or more
within,
and the woman who stayed as cannonballs flew
and later nursed the injured there,
and died, yellowed
from a Aedes aegypti mosquito bite,
stowaway insects on merchant ships
bred in the swampy ground, but
the house lived on,
surrounded by mass graves,
towering trees, flowers, and butterflies–
the green-shuttered windows still glow,
and eagles fly overhead,
ghosts look out from the glass
or walk upon the grass and beach–
there a golden guinea glitters,
and across time’s divide,
a startled yearling flits.
For dVerse. The prompt was to write about a building. I chose the Whitall House, which is in the park where I often walk. It was the house of James and Ann Whitall, built in 1748 (the fieldstone section perhaps earlier). They were Quakers with family connections in the area. They had nine children, eight who lived, as well as servants, including indentured servants. One ran away, and I believe James posted a notice to get her back, but I’m not certain what happened. During the American Revolution (the war for independence from Great Britain), Ft. Mercer was built there, and Ft. Mifflin across the river to defend Philadelphia. On October 22, 1777, American forces defeated the Hessian mercenary soldiers. Though, if you don’t know, the British forces under General Howe occupied Philadelphia. The Whitall house became a field hospital. Supposedly, Ann stayed through the battle and nursed soldiers from both sides. The remains of soldiers have been found recently on the grounds. The house and grounds, however, are more than a battle site. A family lived here once, and they had a plantation (meaning a commercial farm), where they had a fishery, mill, and orchards, among other things. And of course, before Europeans came, it was the land of the Lenape.
Here is a sketch of the Whitall House from 1922—much closer to the river. That would have been the front of the house, and ferries took people across the river. Now the back door by the garden is used as the main entrance.
Here it is today in a photo I took from approximately the same angle.
Together, Apart
Caught, trapped, waiting
for something—the air is a sulfurous fog,
faint outlines of buildings etched on its surface,
perhaps they are not real, perhaps
they belong to somewhere else. Here
is the bridge only; here is where I stand,
fallen angel. And here is where the lion,
also far from home, bides
unconcerned by my presence, as I am with his.
And so, we remain.
For the Magritte prompt on dVerse. I apologize that I am so behind on reading others’ work.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 