Category Archives: Photography
Sensual lines above the plain,
seductive curves of coming rain,
poised o’er sweetened fields of corn
whose tassels, golden, so adorn the jasmine jade and green.
Stretching long in verdant scent,
musk of summer’s soaking lent
whispers hope beneath its blush,
silenced, calm, poised in hush, steeping in a rain drop’s dream.
Low and steady, broken lines,
rolling, thrumming drums unwind,
summer’s man-of-war released,
yet held in time’s anticipation,
lightning strikes, no hesitation,
ionizing heaven’s crease.
Tis here I pause to count the beat,
retrieve the distance senses meet,
study past the bruised sky blue,
strain an ocher hope or two, as warm July plays on.
Hushing silk, brushing husks,
decry the rhythm in each of us,
capture breath at lightening’s twain,
count, wait, breathe the rain, before the moment’s gone.
“Distant Rain” photograph by Sharon Knight
© Sharon Knight
Golden ochre steeped in time,
aged by every season’s crime,
twined through burnished lacquer’s rust,
recalling each last sunray’s lust,
and every blue jay’s call…
Here it sits in still refrain
beneath the willow’s sweeping mane,
here imbibes in summer’s wine,
cast between these reaching vines,
that too, each year recall…
Among this life in moments stalled,
drifting cries of summer fall,
merge the glad of waiting dusk
with laughter from the day’s sweet musk,
and so record it all…
In grains of oak now tarnished brown,
in rusted bolts and furled crown,
in baked on mud upon its feet,
together aging perfumes sweet,
so sits here proudly small…
in whispers, beckons all…
Tucked among the southern pines,
seams of road in shadowed lines,
rend the compass pause, despair,
dissolves to solve the anywhere my journey longs to hold.
Sweet the ardor clings in green,
Spanish moss as ghosts between
the flickered gold of summer’s light,
or silver damp by moonlit night, defines the dewy cold.
Yet dodging through each quilted bank,
between the berms that stand in flank,
with balanced roar and roll of wings,
I slay each dragon tail there seen
to dance into the sun,
and through the southern forests run!
Written for dVerse Poetics and tonight’s prompt in the Poet’s Pub – “Come Fly With Me”… a prompt to see the perspective of feathers, in whatever fashion, form, or purpose. I chose to consider those that collect feathers and the thoughts that may just be connected to each one… Enjoy!
Whispered in a prayer’s hope,
defined, each one, in purpose there,
gathered, placed and balanced gently
through aging dreams she holds with care.
A summer’s dream of love.
A midnight’s waltz beneath the moon.
A Georgia peach in sweetest harvest.
The one who passed too soon.
Coyly nodding to the jar,
the dusts of eons briefly spark,
acknowledging their place in time,
acknowledging this ark
where subtle memories echo,
hushed in pleasures poised release,
dancing dreams in freedom’s hope,
sparkling eyes in flight, in peace.
Cast across the virgin snow,
a starkly naked silhouette,
contrast black on diamond white,
full moon with no regret.
Thinly, night airs acquiesce
within a hushed reluctant freeze,
draws her limbs above her,
till shadow’s edge is crisply teased.
No sound or whisper wants,
her silent solace, her lonely stead,
grief, a separate solitude
through dreams of summer’s weeping dead.
She stands alone as beauty.
She nurses bold courageous stirs.
She haunts this meadow, her duty
in echoed light that’s solely hers.
Painted thin beneath the dawn, a steel grey world rejoices morn,
tho nothing in this moment’s play gives rise to thought that hope is born.
Slow breezes bite and fiercely gnaw at stalks of summer’s grasses, downed.
Cattails’ chorus, stiff and brash, mourning in a whispered sound.
Tattered, torn, hollow reeds of spring’s seductive blushing,
crushed beneath the ice and snow, tossed in panic’s rushing.
Horizon holds the key. No hint of warmth is brought from thee.
Blackened poplar drives a nail of hopelessness in slivers,
renouncing dawning light’s quick glimpse. The distance holds a shiver.
Ice in flows from aged snows pins here and there to earth,
beneath a solid mastic flood where none escape its scattered girth.
Bitter. Uncontained. Eternal death and grey’s disdain.
Yet notice how the dawning light paints rivulets of frosted time.
Feel the sharp awareness build a frozen poise, sublime.
How perfectly the pain’s displayed
in grass and reed whose cattails fray.
How true the starving tree defies
the threat of death, the naked cries
of hungry ice in winter’s hand
tossed by driven wind’s demand.
How every frozen rivulet sustained in waves upon the ground,
stretches sensual, luxurious, across the patchy earth it drowns.
In supplication, mourning songs drift through the meadow’s air,
holding vigil, holding patience, while whispering a prayer.
The ghosts of summer haunt here, captured and betrayed,
to paint this lea horrifically, requited here in death, displayed.
Oh! Sorrow in this languid sight
that draws the bitter morn from night,
for winter’s step has just begun,
much more of what is here will come.
Spring, the hope and harbinger of dreams in softened virile soil,
yet only clings in beauty’s mask within this season’s toil.
Yet hope remains in hopelessness, when death and sleeping cast their play,
for time is what will take them past the frozen grace that runs this day.
Ink on ink, stacks of words, lines bent from my mind in haste,
well in wretched motion’s scent within the pile of blotter’s waste.
Denied the spark of light to find a useful purpose where they lay,
lepers of my orphans, renounced to shelves of dim decay.
The dust of ages crack their binds, fermented time lends ochre’s brand
infusing dim their history upon neglected pages, tanned.
Why do they still remain there?
What purpose can they ever fill?
Whose eyes will ever read them?
What holds them in my ebbing will?
My orphans calmly line the shelf, at peace in holding nodding thoughts
that stem form frozen moments summed when grand solutions aptly caught
the hope to bend an errant mind, the rush to solve the world’s woes,
the drive to change, create such love that ecstasy would roll in throes…
Science, math, and cultures gripped. Politics of hatred delved.
Invention, story, fiction, truth all gathered through the ink, there shelved.
In some I rarely venture a visit through their ashen sparks.
Others, I’ve not the courage yet to reach or touch their pages, dark.
But yet they are my orphans, my hopeful babes, my lepers scarred.
For by my hand became here, and by my hand stay safely barred.
I pity those who find them beyond the last of breath in me.
I pray they’ll not destroy them, yet maybe let just some fly free.
Between the hills of time I rise to meet the last of autumn still,
paused at moment’s pondering, with cup in hand near lea and rill.
The morning air does call me to kiss my love, my fall, goodbye,
to trek the path to timber’s edge, to meadow’s cirque where first snows fly.
So gather what I need and must, I set my path to cairns I trust.
Between the hills of time I walk along the rill that whispers still,
I leave the lea behind me with grateful steps to bless my will.
The grasses dry, and seedless,enwrap the feet of aspen groves
whose spotted bark stands white and bare, midst ruddy leaves heaped up in loaves.
The summer’s scrub that once was green stands burnt in tarnished autumn red,
portrays a pillow sweetly laid in meadow grass for winter’s bed.
The silent breath of morning prays undisturbed by wind’s caress,
yet joined by quiet prattling of falling leaves released to rest.
As the hills in confluence meet, the dell’s denied its fold,
leads me cresting rise and roll to stand at valley’s longest hold.
In the distance stand the Massives, the granite Kings and Queens of Earth,
that draw my journey westward in hope to witness winter’s birth.
As stream’s companion through the valley, I step in quiet contemplation,
drawing every whisper in that speaks anticipation.
At Massive’s knees the valley ends with guarding alpine fir,
whose dense and stretching boughs deny the slightest wind to stir.
So to climbing stream I must, to lead me to the cairns I trust.
Above the stream’s sharp climb I find a path that deer and elk must know.
In steps of theirs I follow, ‘til only echoes far below.
There I find the higher road that very few have seen.
There I rest within the sight of Massive King and Queen.
Through alpine thick, luxurious, I trod with gypsy song in heart
and sing until the green wood rings through echoes harmonized in part.
As through last twist of trail I climb, I rise upon the final crest,
where blowing snow does kindly greet and hide the Massives grey in dress.
I turn my face from stinging snow as wind whips cold toward autumn’s eye,
now caught between the Court of Kings and crystal azure sky.
Before the stolid cirque I kneel, courage facing King and Queen,
I beseech a moment’s council and beg the sun to grace the scene.
At their feet the marsh stands still, reverent yet commanding,
as I in drying grasses claim the truth of where I’m standing.
In whispered tones and crystal light, winter’s voice asked why I’m here.
With gracious bow and nod I said, “To find if winter’s edge is near.
I’ve come to seek the point of flux where sun and storm cast crystals blue.
I’ve come to vow my love of life and give my thanks to all of you.”
In sudden hush the clouds withdrew! The sun in glowing rays did stream
upon the cirque and meadow’s keep! Upon the face of King and Queen!
Awestruck from my lowly stance I raised my face to God above,
whispered kindly, “thank you! This moment blessed! This life is love!”
Gently in the warming air October’s court drew softly blue
and stood this life in sharp relief against the growing azure hue.
As winter’s force is master in October’s court of King and Queen,
with bows and some relenting, I turned to face the alpine green.
As I walked my path to home, I thought of Autumn’s fade,
knowing well her work was done and winter’s bed was surely made.
Today I gathered what I must along the cairns I’ve come to trust.
On edge of autumn’s ebbing call
I pause to hear a solemn hush
that breathes in whispered stance between
sweet fading fall and winter’s rush.
Beyond this colored glory,
the burnished hues of tarnished gold
rouse the empty field in story
when verdant dell and rill still rolled,
when cottonwood and willow cooled the heat of summer’s grace,
when fawn and doe stood still in wonder among the shadows green with lace,
when calling birds stilled the current of summer’s flux beneath their wings,
when comfort came at river’s edge, when brooks would play and gently sing.
At edge of autumn’s field I stand,
witness to the season’s steep,
where browning grasses gather dreams and tuck the meadow in for sleep,
where giants drop their memories in gold about their feet,
where streams decline to whisper words of songs they can’t repeat,
where raining ochre golden reds dry the azure barren blue,
where every breath is held in hush pulling near each moment true.
I stand in quiet submission,
drawn in part by passing time,
coerced to close this phase of life
and calmly lay it down in rhyme.
This present held in honor,
my nod, respect, from one who knows
that spring will once more hold them
beyond the coming winter snows.