OF YOU, IN MEMORY

Of you, in memory, I dream
summer days that did not end -
the coo of doves at daybreak,
blue sky over your shoulder,
your dark eyes looking down; a smile,
my heart open wide with wonder.
My summer of love
had arrived.

Of you, in memory, I sing
the song of a distant heart
that dared not open,
from whom I unwillingly
but inevitably had to part.

ploughing the garden under,
along with all my hopes

Of you, in memory, I recall
the coo of doves at daybreak,
how you opened
the door of the cage
and out she (we) flew.

No answer is an answer
to the questions of the heart

Of you, in memory, I sing
every time I hear
the dove’s soft coo.

we ploughed the garden under,
along with all my hopes

Of you, in memory, I wonder,
sifting through all
I have come to know today:
what would have happened
had I been brave enough
and whole enough
to stay?

But no answer was your answer
to the questions of my heart
and so unwillingly but inevitably,
the time came for us to part.

A fugue poem for Rommy's prompt at Toads: to write differently from our usual style. I find most forms difficult, so chose a fugue as have never written one before. A fugue, like the fugue in music, repeats a refrain or a theme throughout the poem.

Only one year, and one summer of love this lifetime. Too short. But fourteen years of love with Pup more than made up for it.

Wild Woman Fairy Tale

source

Wild Woman once was a damsel

who mistakenly thought

she was in distress,

with no prince to scale the castle walls 

or slay a dragon for her.

She thought Heathcliff was

the most romantic figure ever:

the moors, the angst, the ghosts

clawing at the window.

"Sign me up," she prayed,

heart beating pitter-pat.

She waited hopefully for a time,

till eventually a Questionable Suitor

stumbled across the doorstep,  

and rang the castle bell. 

She surveyed this drooping, surly creature, 

leaning against the doorjamb,

picking his nails,

with some dismay. 

But he was the only one who came

so, with a mental shrug, she let him in.

Maybe he was Heathcliff,

disguised as a Slightly Irritable Ingrate?

She set to work.

She had to machete a way 

through the thicket of thorns

to clear a path for him.

She had to challenge the fiery dragon,

while the Prince hid, quaking,

pretending he was busy

Attending to Business

with his six-pack.

Then he accused her of

“trying to wear the pants.”

Pretty soon she grew weary 

of hunting wild beasts for two,

tired of dragging them back to the fire 

to skin and roast,

tired of serving the meal

and cleaning up 

all the blood and gore.

Bad-tempered men no longer

seemed romantic; they were

curmudgeons who resisted

available happiness.

She could play them a love song;

but they would never hum along.

Let's leave them to their dark, angsty moors.

“I Can’t Get No

Appreciation”, she hummed,

a crooked eyebrow lifting

as she saw a portal opening

in her mind.

She banished Prince Cedric

to the Land of Men,

became a vegan,

fortified her turret

with a stack of good books,

surveying her new life with pleasure.

With her two black guard-wolves,

she roasted some marshmallows 

in the fire to celebrate,

then retreated to the tower

to survey her own

Perfectly Peaceable Kingdom.

313 words for my prompt at Real Toads: moors, castle ruins, the faint tinkle of a piano...........tell me a tale in poetry or prose, in 313 words or less!

Scars To Your Beautiful

You were born perfect;
hair, eyes, round cheeks, smiles:
Beautiful, just the way you are.

Looking back, down all the years,
I see the many you's:
Girl on a tree stump.
Girl at the shore.
Girl loving her brothers.
Girl keeper of dreams.
Girl with a Mohawk.
Girl with tattoos.
Girl with hair colour
changing every week.

Each one
perfectly you.

You were saying:
I am a never to be repeated event
in the history of the universe.
You will never see one like me again.

(Sweet girl,
we already knew.)

And now you are a mother
raising rainbow children
with happy  eyes.
You have built your  house
strong, with cozy walls.
You filled it with dreams
and the echo of your grandma's cackle.
Its windows gleam golden
in the setting sun.

You left the roof open,
because nothing can contain
that bright spirit
that needs the whole sky
to fly in.


For Aria, who at age two named me Grandma-by-the-Whales

for my prompt on Thursday at Real Toads: Scars To Your Beautiful