And the word is...

[PrinceMyshkin]

Sorry about that, ampoule. A misunderstanding on my part.

Pastoral

It is twelve in the afternoon:
The clouds are docile and
Lazy in drifting where the wind may blow
To set themselves afloat in the sea of
Magnolia

It is twelve in the afternoon:
The trees stir and
Murmur in anticipation
Of the sun that will cast their shadows
Empty

It is twelve in the afternoon:
The sheep whisper and
Talk amongst them
Placidly waiting for the kill
Still

It is twelve in the afternoon:
The day is hazy and
The sun is high
Nothing moves and all things hang
Uncertain

Welcome, indeed. Wonderful work!

[firefangled]

When the swing holds me
with its slats of air,
the blossoms in the orchard,
and the uphill breeze
give me motion not unlike
the clouds sinking
over my front porch roof
into their blue sea,
and I into the ocean of perception.

[TheFifthElement]

Aeons ago, or so it seems (I think it was April), firefangled posted a theme of Candle and I thought of this line, a poem, and for some reason I just couldn't seem to get it down. And today I did. Isn't poetry strange? So, this belongs here, really, not quite really finished, but kind of.

By Candlelight

His hands are as steady as the rain
falling through the cracks in the porch roof.
Slow light from the candle.
He cups the flame; the trembling stops
though the after-effects linger.
I shiver.
Wax drips onto the table
and hardens there, a swollen pool.

His breath is the sound of the wind
rattling the door as the storm breaks.
We are alone here,
together,
surrounded by night, the storm,
and somewhere out of view, the stars.
The flame flickers. Our shadows
on the wall melt, amalgamate.

His mouth is as soft as the clouds
pressed into the hills and the dark sky.
We find each other,
fluid, formless as light.
I think: this is how we enter the next life.
Sliding into warm openings,
breathless, hungry and searching;
soft light, a steady light calling us there.

His body is the flame of the light
burning where his skin is touching mine.
We are one,
together
moving like the storm;
destroying, creating the world over.
The candle shudders and dies.
In the damp sky, dawn light pools on the horizon.

[firefangled]

You may keep these up now that you are back, but under no pressure from me.

I'm just happy you are back and with such a sensuous and brilliant poem. I for one could have waited longer in the dark, knowing you would be here eventually. What comes comes when it comes.

Good to see you Fifth.

[TheFifthElement]

Thanks firefangled good to see you too.

[TheFifthElement]

Impressions of the square from the monument

“To the memory of the following officers non-commissioned officers
and men who fell in the war in South Africa 1899-1902”

They died for this: stone at their feet,
and beyond a bustling summer market.

Bennett, Bolton, Buckett…

Hot scent of grilled fat,
spilled beer and sauerkraut,
potatoes and bacon in two foot wide pans.
At the other end: wheatgrass,
strawberry smoothies,
hot vegan wraps, and organic hummus.

…Cooke, Cooper, Crinion…

Stone, earth and rocks,
bespoke silver jewellery,
handcrafted bags: overpriced, under-made.
Tulips from Holland, sharp local cheeses,
replica watches, almost the real thing.

…Lally, Lewis, Lindsay…

Jazz brass in the background
(Parker, Gillespie?),
bickering voices rise over the notes.
People rush by, my soldiers they see them
busily talking on their mobile phones.

…Stott, Sellers, Sutcliffe, Smith…

For sovereign and country: they died for this.

[firefangled]

Impressions of the square from the monument

“To the memory of the following officers non-commissioned officers
and men who fell in the war in South Africa 1899-1902”

They died for this: stone at their feet,
and beyond a bustling summer market.

Bennett, Bolton, Buckett…

Hot scent of grilled fat,
spilled beer and sauerkraut,
potatoes and bacon in two foot wide pans.
At the other end: wheatgrass,
strawberry smoothies,
hot vegan wraps, and organic hummus.

…Cooke, Cooper, Crinion…

Stone, earth and rocks,
bespoke silver jewellery,
handcrafted bags: overpriced, under-made.
Tulips from Holland, sharp local cheeses,
replica watches, almost the real thing.

…Lally, Lewis, Lindsay…

Jazz brass in the background
(Parker, Gillespie?),
bickering voices rise over the notes.
People rush by, my soldiers they see them
busily talking on their mobile phones.

…Stott, Sellers, Sutcliffe, Smith…

For sovereign and country: they died for this.

You structured this so well, the walk. I think the art of this is that you passed no judgement in the way it was worded. The reader is left with the whole question of what you have made them see walking beside you.

At first I was thinking disrespect, but then I read it again and is seemed all about freedom of enterprise and expression.

Well done, Fifth.

[TheFifthElement]

You structured this so well, the walk. I think the art of this is that you passed no judgement in the way it was worded. The reader is left with the whole question of what you have made them see walking beside you.

At first I was thinking disrespect, but then I read it again and is seemed all about freedom of enterprise and expression.

Well done, Fifth.

Thanks firefangled - you're right, of course, it was not intended as being in anyway disrespectful, more a reflection of the fact that their sacrifice allowed those who remained the freedom to live how they choose, good or bad. And also a thought, or a hope perhaps, that if they had lived they would have been right there, chomping on the hot food, listening to the jazz and, perhaps, dancing. Dancing would be nice.

[AdoreroDio]

What's the word?

[ampoule]

What's the word?

I believe we're still on pastoral but if you would like to choose a new word that would be great!

[Pendragon]

Hotel Insomnia

I can’t sleep, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have company.
I’m sitting here staring into an unblinking screen,
Surrounded by the ghosts of disappointed hopes and dreams.
Tried a sleeping pill, but I’ve had my fill of medical remedies.
Think I’ll go make myself a nice cup of Chamomile Tea.
My eyes turn into scarlet pits of human misery…
Why when you need it so, does sleep decide to flee?

Pendragon
© Saturday, August 23, 2008

[TheFifthElement]

*removed*

[ntropyincarnate]

I wrote this rather a long time ago. But whatev.

Insomnia
Lie awake,
Screaming headache,
White-hot tears
Follow fears.
I want a sleep
For dreams too deep,
But too many thoughts,
Too many knots,
To be able to steer
Away from my fear
For all the feelings
That I can't feel.

[firefangled]

Tell me shadows,
who
has hung the crescent
moon
so slant and golden?
Who
woke me and made this dream
ensue?

The cat watches by the lake, and
soon
stalks his prey among the branches.
Who
made this sleepless night?
Who
gave it to the owl and
loon?

[ampoule]

Tell me shadows,
who
has hung the crescent
moon
so slant and golden?
Who
woke me and made this dream
ensue?

The cat watches by the lake, and
soon
stalks his prey among the branches.
Who
made this sleepless night?
Who
gave it to the owl and
loon?

I want to sleep so I can dream about this. Lovely.