“book-wrapt”
The quintessential connection to books
a private sanctuary programmed
for escapism.
delightful displayed in the home
they work wonders en masse
exuding breath of generations,
nourish senses, slay boredom
relieve distress.
read a passage and be inspired
all authors are alive
where a jumble of books ends
we hold possibility
as if desperately waiting an unused book
a library is never done
#
Next Friday, I’ll also post on my Patreon. If you’d like to read about my progress and plans for this year, you can subscribe to my Patreon and support my work for just $1 a month! Until next time, stay safe and well, and read often!
“i wandered carefree as a weed”
(a lyric in honor of my lawn--as well as Wordsworth’s I wandered lonely as a Cloud)
I wandered carefree as a weed
that floats through clouds and skies of blue,
unlike the golden daffodils
landlocked in groups of ten and two,
narcissus bent faces downcast
despite the sunny bright forecast.
the daffodils herald spring days,
the dandelions announce them too,
but one lasts weeks, then petals shed
must twelve months wait until renewed,
while hardy yellow lion’s teeth
dot greenery, rebirth, unsheathe
after a short time within
their green leaves folded over blades
the hue of sun transmutate
to angel wings of snowy grace
while daffodil’s corpse litters ground
the lowly weeds’ freedom is found
the cultivated daffodil
lives lonely, keeping company
with others of its kind plus one
red tulip flushing prettily.
vanity did isolate it,
its love is unreciprocated.
meanwhile the humble sunlit weed
keeps face upturned to heaven’s vault:
the azure skies, the cotton clouds,
even the thunderstorm’s assault
of mowing blade now sharp and cruel
that can’t defeat this disdained jewel
Often I lie upon my bed
and wonder that resilient bloom,
its color bright, its upturned head,
survives despite the farmers’ doom.
Daffodils may dance sublime,
but me? I love the dandelion.
#
This poem is posted in honor of the 30th Annual Dandelion May Fest, which takes place this weekend. If you’d like to read about my progress and plans for this year, you can subscribe to my Patreon and support my work for just $1 a month! Until next time, stay safe and well, and read often!
“watercolors”
practice trains you
to observe everyday details
the exact blue of heaven isn’t blue
it’s cobalt, azure, gold and scarlet,
rose blooms into violet,
silver marbles the horizon
before blackest night
awash in color
Rorschachs blossom
my mind’s edges cauliflower
errors discover possibility
fill each canvas with pauses
lightening then brightening
always saving the darkest for last
nothing cannot be adapted
to something new, sometimes better
forgiveness is pigment
forgiveness is water, brush, paper
always ready to soak up excess
or spread radiant hues
ad libbing elements
an individual choice
ships may soar dew-kissed sky
clouds break like china cups
black holes rip gaping edges
in the empty vault of heaven
ready to swallow all
#
Next Friday, I’ll also post on my Patreon. If you’d like to read about my progress and plans for this year, you can subscribe to my Patreon and support my work for just $1 a month! Until next time, stay safe and well, and read often!
the kettle calls, the song of steamed leaves, sugarcane, and the warm cup in my hands. over toast i view the tea warmer's flame, the hearth and heart of our happy home
Next Friday, I’ll also post on my Patreon. If you’d like to read about my progress and plans for this year, you can subscribe to my Patreon and support my work for just $1 a month! Until next time, stay safe and well, and read often!
“paper journeys”
Long lonely childhood days
I lounged beneath the mulberry tree,
just Thisbee and me,
waiting for Pyramus
to take us away, I'd play
host to Hermes and Zeus,
coast wine-dark seas
devour siren song,
draw Labyrinthian threads
through Minotaur’s home,
and soar cornflower sky
beside Daedalus before
my waxen wings would melt;
lofty flight cut short by sun
and seafoam, left alone
in my room, immersed in biblichor,
i buried myself beneath thin sheets,
knowing only myths’ allure:
my escape into fantasy
i knew no other hope
for awkward me,
so dreamed gods and heroes
fell for my charms, left heaven itself
to save me from earthly woes,
protect me from those
i could not bear to face.
those travels served me well,
provided refuge--fiction and facts
to complement the lessons of experience:
wilder girls braved the unknown;
Lois Lane endured without Superman;
Nelly Bly broke stories, wrote and made
history; the deaf and blind may see
farther without the gift of sight;
despite millennia, a woman's verse
survives in fragments of paper mache,
and princesses are heroes too.
the old saying rings true:
the journey is more important
than the destination, though
each step needed to be
to arrive at now. i needed
to grow up to learn
saviors exist outside books alone,
adventures are not what we await
but opportunities we create
stepping outside our comfort zone:
the heart of each encounter
when we brave enough
to rescue ourselves.
#
Next Friday, I’ll also post on my Patreon. If you’d like to read about my progress and plans for this year, you can subscribe to my Patreon and support my work for just $1 a month! Until next time, stay safe and well, and read often!
“Siren Song”
you've been warned
know where they live across open sea
know which sharp craggy rocks they perch upon
snaring sailors on their deadly shore
cracking the bones of sea-faring men
cleaning their flesh from teeth stained
by a thousand extinctions, they sing
music of the spheres to lure and leech
the lives of enamored audiophiles
choose another route
sail from those soul-sucking succubi
their heavenly voices and sanguine incisors
stuff your ears with wax
or blast Bach through headphones
to cancel out their carrion call
better to cast eardrums into the Western sea
than drown yourself in black oblivion
who would not be tempted
by them, to hear the complementary notes
of creation and destruction?
the voice of god vibrates in the music
of spheres spinning through the void
as well as the whisper of autumn breezes
each shimmering fish in the sea.
no need to risk all when
beauty’s before you.
resist the temptation
danger loses its allure
when you’re a corpse: dead is dead.
sex and danger cancel each other
when sunk within
deep ocean
graves
and yet
some things are worth dying for,
but
for some
a simple mutilation will suffice,
or
maybe something less
like--a pounding head,
--an eardrum busted
by noise-canceling BOSE,
and an enormous credit card bill
#
*inspired by the following tweet by @sentantiq at 6:59am May 13, 2021
“Someone might escape the beautiful bewitchment of Homer’s Sirens by not starting at all, by stuffing wax in his ears, or by turning in some other direction.” #Eustathius
*common sense disclaimer: I am not disparaging BOSE earpieces, just commenting in the poem that blasting music too loud (to cancel out outside noise) through any earpiece could damage your ears.
*note: I am no longer using twitter for ethical reasons (link), but this prompt was written earlier, before I left the platform.
“shield”
during months or years of peace
his wife has been polishing--the shield
blackened as it hung in the chimney corner
respond to the call to fight
plain duty admits no hesitation.
a hard interruption of their happy lives,
the risk of passing
from the warm company of men
to the chill shades of death. they knew bravery
is not an everyday possession.
highly as they prized it
to warm their hearts for the clash
most Greek armies
as they charged,
shouted,
that each might borrow from the general stock
courage.
what best suits the citizen-soldier
battle
in which one short effort carries him forward,
in which a man’s duty to his immediate comrade
best spurs his intent.
during months or years of peace
the shield blackened as it hung in the chimney corner
his wife has been polishing
*
--found poem taken from The Greek and Macedonian Art of War by F.E. Adcock. If you are unfamiliar with this type of poetry, it’s a way of collaging the work of another author into a unique poem by clipping, altering, and rearranging pieces into something new.
*image courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net via Creative Commons Licensing.
“The Unsigned Letter”
“No need to sign since I give it her myself”
the lie you told, hiding your true feelings
in the pocket nearest your beating heart
she described you perfectly yet you saw no hope,
seeing beauty everywhere but in yourself,
you lie concealed behind another’s handsome face,
a poet’s exercise excuses your tear-stained words
divinity of form for a form poet: why can’t you see
the truth of yourself? more than a poem composed,
you are the sonnet that creates itself.
#
Thanks for stopping by my blog. Check out my Patreon for more of my writing!
I’m thrilled to announce I’ll be reading selections from my book, An Optimist’s Journal of the End of Days and Other Stories, at Barberton Library on Saturday, September 11th at 2pm! I will also be selling and signing copies of the book for those who are interested.
In the meantime, stay safe, stay well, and read often!*inspired by Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac.
“sunflowers”
charcoal heads droop, their glowing halos
weighted with the heft of so much cheer
petals flame this dinner table hearth
lightening the heart of this happy home
sunshine yellow arms outstretch to embrace
or supplicate, cut from their grassy beds,
their tendrilled roots removed, replaced,
stabilized instead by a shallow red glass
its life-giving water dries up all too soon
*Thank you for visiting my blog! I hope you enjoyed the poem. If you are interested in reading more of my work, please check out my craft posts on my Patreon! In the meantime, stay safe, stay well, and read often!
the world opens up as a new monster looms on the horizon, belching fire, slaughtering victims without thought to gender, creed, or age: the smallest of the small, resistant to her older brother’s charms, no longer spared infectious breath.
not content to massacre millions by breath alone, she melts crematoriums whose iron frames soften, run from the heat of so many bodies burned in so few hours, days, weeks of death; chimneys crack from overuse, appalling mockery that mimics hospital beds buckling from the influx of live bodies they strain to save and might despite their failures. Parks no longer host festivals but burning pyres that brighten twilight like bonfires left behind by the wyrms’ warm feasting
or colossal candles lit in earth’s cathedral for each of those extinguished lives, bright enough to catch the eyes of the gods in their heavens or the demons down below.
the beast that plagued last year seems tame beside his younger sibling, the serpent virulent exhaling flame who does not deign to spare the lives of children.
Will she leap across the waters, span the ocean, leave that far off land to spread her curse upon our slowly awakened shores?
Does she await our recovery only to make her scourge more felt?
# Thanks for stopping by my blog. If you’d like to read about the crafting of “Plague of Dragons,” check out my Patreon next week for a free technical breakdown of the poem.
Cat Russell 