MAGPIE/ Prompt #57

                                            photo/ tess kincaid/ magpie tales

A bouquet of color for inspiration, and thanks to Tess for the challenge!


PURPLE

Deep purple stains the night,
seeps into my fingers
as I bathe in the surf of midnight.

Hang the shroud,
let color drain,
smooth the folds
when the time comes.

Clad in lavender,
dressed to disappear.

Then a blade
of grass,
a shoot,
morning's radiance
clutches a faint green sprout
that could be rooted in hope.


copyright/all rights reserved/ 2011


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Who speaks...?

from: Leaves of Grass (1900) by Walt Whitman
x
x
How lucky can you get? When I haven't
got a clue what to write about next,
someone quite acclaimed rescues me.
So, thank you today, Walt Whitman.
Alas,tomorrow's another day!
x
x
SONG OF MYSELF/ section 52
x
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me-
he complains of my gab and my loitering.
x
I too am not a bit tamed- I too am
untranslatable;
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs
of the world.
x
The last scud of day holds back for me;
it flings my likeness after the rest, and true
as any, on the shadow'd wilds;
it coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
x
I depart as air- I shake my white locks
at the runaway sun;
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in
lacy jags.
x
I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow
from the grass I love;
if you want me again, look for me under
your boot-soles.
x
You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean:
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
x
Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged;
Missing the one place, search another;
I stop somewhere, waiting for you.
x
x
x
Who speaks for you today?
x

Springtime!

WELCOME TO SPRING!
WELCOME TO ARIES!
X
Here's one Aries baby, March 22,
jumping to the conclusion that
Jack Frost is history once more!!
x
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
XXXXXXXXXXX ARIES
X
Falling in winter's demise,
three inches of snow can't halt
the impertinence of daffodils
pushing to stand on earth
made virgin again.
x
Renaissance in the garden
is a holiday for Aries.
A promise carried on the air,
a trace of green to sniff as hope,
to live anew no matter what the year collected.
x
Aries discards history with a snap so sharp
that the past is not only over and done,
but resting in winter's crypt.
x
At the vernal turn,
trust without end,
a blade of grass,
a childlike laugh,
once more to cross
the threshold into spring.
x
x
from TWO GHOSTS/ poems