Tag Archives: Winslow Homer

A Summer Day, on Repeat (with audio)

Posted on by

A Summer Day, on Repeat

1.
When we were young, yet women,
we danced—almost cool—
the universe smiled and breathed
with champagne breath, effervescent,
a symphony of light-sound.

2.
We go about our days
oblivious to the coming storm.
though the wind moans, and
the sky becomes a blackened chimney—
then a chandelier.

3.
Fish leaps, a sparkle and a splash,
green frog with banjo-string-pluck, jumps–
the mayfly darts away.
The pond tastes of anything
can happen, if only, make a wish.

4.
Tech plays with sinister access,
the world wants you to be hard—
perhaps everything must crash.
You open the program,
hit re-set, complete.

5.
Dream diamonds float amidst the rocks—
tiny ships without a compass or chart,
in the after and before,
as time spins, always
she lives in you.

The Oracle gave me an almost Cadralor. Then we went out for a walk in a nature preserve, and when we got back home, I decided to try to make it a true Cadralor. I think. I’m sharing this with dVerse Open Link Night.

All the Haunted Mays: Prosery

Posted on by

Winslow Homer, On the Hill

All the Haunted Mays

I’m coming.

Despite my brave words, I don’t feel like a hawk. I’m a hummingbird flying backwards into the past. Remember that one perfect May Day when we forgot the war, the occupation, and our unending nightmare world? We shared a baguette that was almost edible and a semi-drinkable bottle of wine, as we pretended the safe house was ours. I wasn’t Nighthawk then either. We were simply Julia and Paul in love–or so I wanted to believe.

I can’t change the past, but I must discover the truth to live in the present. I will find you. I must find you and talk to you face-to-face. For how can I be sure? I shall see again the world on the first of May, or I’ll perish in the attempt. I refuse to be haunted by ghosts any longer. I choose the living.

This is another installment of my non-linear spy tale. Here is a link to the previous one. I’m hosting Prosery on dVerse today. The prompt line to be included within a prose piece is

“For how can I be sure
I shall see again
The world on the first of May”
From “May Day” by Sara Teasdale

A Breath

Posted on by

Winslow Homer, Moonlight, Wood Island

A Breath

Listen—
moon-wreathed
the sky balanced between
night-hymn and dawn chorus, a breath
exhaled

a breath
and then one more
as wine-dark sea froths pale
and gull-laughter sounds from the shore
again

now watch
and see the world
around you breathe and stop
when baby chick is eagle-plucked
and gone

choices
are made–eagle,
chick, child, a soldier’s gun
loaded, aimed, then stopped with a cry,
a sigh

a breath,
a pause in time,
the world re-balances–
land, sea, sun, moon, stars join in song—
listen.

A cinq cinquain–five verses of five for the fifth day of the fifth month-for Laura’s prompt at dVerse. But I’ve also repeated the first line as the last, as in a crown cinquain.

Black Holes and Brown Paper Moons: Prosery

Posted on by
Winslow Homer, Moonlight, Wood Island

History, I think, is light trapped in a black hole. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper. Perhaps our love was also like that; something I did not see clearly then. Though how could I, or anyone, see beyond the occupation? Peace was a mirage, as was feeling comfortable. Still, we chased it. We were hiking an unmarked trail with hidden turns, pursued by beasts more horrible than any found in a fairy tale because they were human. And were you one of them? You were a shapeshifter with many names. Oh, I was a shapeshifter, too–perhaps we all were. I tell myself at night that I was working for good.

What do you tell yourself, Paul?

They said you’re dead, but I sense you out there. In my haunted dreams, I feel your presence—somewhere. Watch for me. I’m coming.

A continuation of my non-linear spy series for dVerse, Prosery using the line: “It is a moon wrapped in brown paper” from Carol Ann Duffy’s poem, Valentine.

The Rocky Shore

Posted on by
Winslow Homer, On a Lee Shore

A stone’s toss
from sea to beach,
where stoic women wait,

beseeching gods of stone-face
for their men’s grace.

Storm-tossed waves, deep-sea graves–

a stone’s toss
to stone-cut hearth, the fire dead.

Uncut threads
tie spirit-treads to stony-shore–
stone-cold hearts still yearn for more.

A quadrille for dVerse, where De asks us to use the word stone. I decided to go with the season.

If I Ask

Posted on by
Winslow Homer, “Watching the Breakers” 1891

Moonlight’s sea-spray songs
lather, pound, and lick the rocks,
in dream whispers they shape-shift
through purple mist, bear away time-aches,
turning black to blue

~as I watch~

the sky blushes pink–
and is it enough
to wing away the dark-shadowed night?
And if I ask what love is,
will the white-feathered wind answer hope?

Today’s message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.

Watching the Breakers

Posted on by

Bitter at after, done with
his red rose lies revealed–
ripping her raw,
till she became wind, water–
a purple storm surging,
crashing on the rocks

~in shadowed mist~

dreams are created,
embracing all the ifs
born of hope—or despair—lingering
like the caress of the sea
in the touch of a salt breeze, recalling
what once was and the words that would never be said.

  • Winslow Homer, “Watching the Breakers” 1891

My message from the Oracle took some work today, but it finally came through, and then a bit of added inspiration from Winslow Homer. Thanks to Jane Dougherty for sharing a fix for the formatting.

Wishes

Posted on by

512px-Winslow_Homer_-_Moonlight,_Wood_Island_Light

 

From the sea, she walks ashore, seal-skin slips

from her body–she stands now unadorned–

shimmering hair unbound and flowing,

dulse-laced and glowing, she whips

it ‘round like armor. Girded thus, the sea foresworn

yet she lingers, soul unsure, not quite captured

by the sunlight, body gleaming, hair sheened by salt-sea blowing,

directed then by lover’s shouts, she turns, enraptured.

 

But rapture does not last, not when the sea sighs and calls

in waves that beckon with infinite ebbs and flows

with subaqueous whispers from afar–

till finally, she must flee the confining walls,

let loose her hair and shed her clothes

to rush upon the sea-kissed sand,

fur-pelt in hand, she makes one wish upon a star,

and embraces the sea, abandons land.

 

For De’s prompt at dVerse on mermaids and selkies. I rewrote a poem I did a while ago for one of Jane’s prompts and added a second stanza. I kept the rhyme scheme, but didn’t quite follow the rest for a san san poem. So, here goes—no minimalism here, this one’s unabashedly romantic.

 

 

 

 

 

The Almost Was

Posted on by

Winslow_Homer_-_Eastern_Point_Light_-_Google_Art_Project

Winslow Homer, Eastern Point Light

 

She almost remembers sailing over open seas,

a symphony of waves and skies, singing

of a universe of tomorrows,

with the wind whispering when—

she almost remembers

though it wasn’t her life

 

~and if her heart wonders~

 

and wanders through the never was,

she imagines by his bed a picture

of past celebrations, and lingering kisses,

embraces, poetry in the night–

and time, an open window

of what might have been

 

A collaborative poem with the Oracle.

Odysseus Under the Moon: To Wanderers, A Ghazal

Posted on by

Winslow_Homer_-_Eastern_Point_Light_-_Google_Art_Project

Winslow Homer, “Eastern Point Light”

 

Over star-glimmered waves, we journeyed and sailed under the moon.

There we bemoaned our fate, still sailing—railed under the moon.

 

We see the fork-tongued serpent, slither-scaled–

no siren, silver-voiced with hair unveiled under the moon.

 

From the towering giant, one-eyed, we quailed,

but when blinded he was curtailed under the moon.

 

On blood-wine seas, the winds caught and prevailed–

yet what of the gods, we flattered, yet failed, under the moon?

 

What lands should we conquer? If heroes, we’re hailed.

What tales of those places to you we’d regale under the moon?

 

Do we return to love, or to marriages failed?

My own wife, what of her travails under the moon?

 

Too far, too soon, the poet sleeps unassailed

to the gentle rhythm of the waves, inhales, exhales, under the moon

 

A re-worked ghazal for dVerse.