Tag Archives: Ekphrastic Poetry

A November Morning

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John Atkinson Grimshaw, A November Morning

A November Morning

The sky is first lemon, then orange,
the air whispers with dry citrus humor
as we crunch through the russet leaves
of last year’s promise,
heels shuffle-tapping on cobblestones
that cover the detritus of centuries.

A single leaf falls, silently like the “e”
on hope. Or love. The sunrise is a question
echoed by birds in short chirps and longer trills.

You take my hand. I let you. We walk on.

A poem for my ekphrastic prompt on dVerse today. This painting makes me think of paths in Old City Philadelphia.

Folktober Challenge, Day 30

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Inspired by F1.30 The Morrigan

The Morrigan

They carry wisdom on their wings,
caw and shout, but few will listen,
they whisper to the wounded and dead,
here we’re connected, here’s the thread

between Earth and time
what comes after has been before,
still men insist they’re crows of war–

but their ferocity is not for sword, spear,
gold, or sky above,
their fierce power comes from motherlove—

sister goddesses, a triad encircled,
black feathered they stand,
guardians of their children
protectors of the land.

For the penultimate day of Paul Brookes’ month-long Folktober Challenge. You can see the images and read the responses here.

Traveler’s Moon

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Owl Moon, Kerfe Roig

Traveler’s Moon

The moon, tosses her red cape,
rises for attention, silver-gowned goddess

can be kindly or fierce. She is hunter and protector.
Some dream under her spell,

but geese journey south with honking chatter,
their giant V sparkles in her light,

and owl with silent wing-whoosh soars,
a silhouetted form, a traveler in the night.

For dVerse, where Sarah has given us a list of moon names as a prompt. How can I resist a moon prompt? I’m using Kerfe Roig’s beautiful image again, which popped into my head as soon as I read the prompt.

Folktober, Day 19

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Image, 3.19, Edward Kelly, A Magician in the Act of Invoking the Spirit of a Deceased Person

Edward Kelly, Magician

He speaks with angels,
raises the dead,
shares the thoughts of a spirit guide,
gold comes with sharing brides.

And what of his wife? And Mistress Dee?
How willingly did they comply? What did they see?

Magic brings him fame and fortune—
wealth accrued through deception,
arcane words and symbols, hands waved
in half-light—
did he believe in angel-language and alchemy,
crystal balls and second sight?

He rises, but he plummets and bleeds,
a man, not immortal,
felled from jealousy, lust, and greed.

For Paul Brookes’ month-long folklore ekphrastic challenge. You can see the images and read the other responses here.

Folktober Challenge, Day 3

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Day 3, F1.3 Pwca, and F2.3, Will o the Wisp

Will-o’-Wisp

Black bog, clouded night
comes the flash of fairy-fire—
a ghost-glow, trickster’s beacon—
the pwca lures—and you follow

through shadow-swallowed shadows
where tree arms shake and root-feet trip,
you go, seeking the glimmer

not as ship rescued by a flare
but moth to flame, unaware,
attracted, caught

left in the dark
when the pwca leaves,
abandoned, alone—no reprieve

without ghost-light,
only spirits and sprites,
when the ghost-laugh comes,
you quiver and run

but there’s no escape—
not till after their fun.

Paul Brookes is hosting a month-long ekphrastic challenge using folklore images to celebrate the launch of his new poetry collection, “As Folktaleteller.” You can see the images here, and also read the other responses.

Folktober Challenge, Day 2: Beware

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For Paul Brooks Folktober Ekphrastic Challenge. I responded to all three images: F2.1. F2. 2., F2.3

Beware

On Halloween, the fairy folk ride
glide on steeds, that shine and glitter
and they as well, but beware their shimmer
and their beguiling queen with gold-spun hair

whose honeyed-scent drifts in the air,
stare not, and never take her hand
as she will take you to her land
where minutes drift ever-sweet and light

as decades here pass out of sight.
But on Halloween, take extra care
of all spirits, vengeful and fair—
who wander as the sun grows dimmer

gnomes mostly benign, though some are grimmer–
there’s La Llorona who wails and weeps
and seeks to keep
your children for hers, dead and gone.

Await the dawn
especially on Halloween,
do not go into graveyards, and don’t be keen
to display courage in haunted places, or the woods.

Don’t stray into the garden—understood?
when midnight strikes
run from shimmer, shadows, and all the ghost-like—
beware–

sometimes, things are not what they seem—
sometimes they are—no matter how bizarre,
truth may come in dreams. The unseen, seen.

Paul Brookes is hosting a month-long ekphrastic challenge using folklore images to celebrate the launch of his new poetry collection, “As Folktaleteller.” You can see the images here, and also read the other responses.

Folktober Challenge, Day 1

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Images: F3.1, Bloody Mary, Pantoum Form

Be Afraid

You scoff. Say it’s merely folklore,
no fears from a mythical tale,
but away from the mirror, gaze at the floor,
beware the world’s thinned veil!

No fears from a mythical tale.
you say. But don’t light the candle,
don’t say her name, don’t watch for her image pale–
don’t yearn for what you cannot handle.

You say, “but don’t.” Light the candle
I will. There’s a dare in the air, and to it, I thrill—
don’t yearn for what you cannot handle.
I can. Yet suddenly I feel a chill.

Still, I will. There’s a dare in the air, and to it, I thrill–
until I don’t. Bloody Mary in the glass, I can’t—
I can. Yet suddenly I feel a chill.
I see her pass, I hear her laugh, rant, chant–

until . . . I don’t. Bloody Mary in the glass! I can’t.
But away from the mirror, gaze at the floor—
though I see her pass, I hear her laugh, rant, chant.
You scoff. Say it’s merely folklore.

Paul Brookes is hosting a month-long ekphrastic challenge using folklore images to celebrate the launch of his new poetry collection, “As Folktaleteller.” I just had a bit of fun with this one, but there are some other excellent responses. You can see the images here, and also read the other responses.

My favorite podcast, Ghosts in the Burbs, had a Bloody Mary episode.

Fragments

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Fragments by Lee Madgwick

Sarah’s ekphrastic prompt at dVerse featured the art of Lee Madgwick. The prompt closed before I got a chance to respond, but here is my poem inspired by this painting. I may write more inspired by the others.

Fragments

Grey-furred clouds sit cat-like
ready to pounce

a breeze strokes the marsh grass—
sighs at the water-whispers,

secret murmurs heard by fish and birds
who swim and fly, here and gone because

time here is as fluid
as the endless river before me

going nowhere or everywhere,
ebbing and flowing concurrently

like conversations at a holiday dinner
where words from the past linger

and mingle with what is spoken
and what is left unsaid,

a barred door
or one open to possibility,

this world of dreams is one universe
of many where stars hum far in the distance.

Now an empty boat waits for me,
I will enter and exit many times

without remembering . . .
until I do.

The Tiny House

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The Tiny House

The tiny house is unoccupied,
the dreams of the former occupants
grew too large–
they burst through windows
and drifted out the chimney.

But the walls hold their memories–
look carefully and you’ll see them,
colored tendrils, and small green vines
that twine in the shadows.

They left it all for the new owners—
dreams in the dust motes and memories
scattered like rugs,
they may bubble up like the champagne
they also left. So very thoughtful.

Tiny House by Claudia McGill, a gift from when we met in person recently

Butterflies and Crows (Revised, with audio)

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Butterflies and Crows (Revised)

Early Morning Crow at Red Bank Battlefield

In the time of before
when color emerged from grey,
and butterflies swayed, seeing
blue, green, red, and yellow,
when storms erupted, and branches grew
and everything had a counterpart
in nature’s art of fractals. The stars,
the sun and moon, the black of night and day’s light
kept earth balanced, though
a small-winged tipped could cause a shift,
but mostly that was righted.

Now ice drips, and winds drift
in wayward tempest gales,
the trees are split, their roots cry out
and mycelium networks ache as they transmit
arboreal dying sounds.

You dream of the past, you dream of now
and in your dreams, you understand

that crows carry wisdom’s key—they warn
with caws–

a telling, not a reprimand,
like Casandra, what they must do

even if their truths fly by,
even if nobody listens.

My photo fits, but this is a slightly revised version of a poem I wrote in response to artworks by Gaynor Kane, Anjum Wasim Dar, and John Phandal Law for Paul Brookes’ Ekphrastic Challenge in April. You can see the art there and read the other responses. The poem seems very timely right now. I’m sharing this with dVerse Open Link Night.