Opening

Apr. 1st, 2017 08:26 am
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
We will begin with
two ducks
hen and drake
dabbling on still water.
This is sufficient; it is
a good beginning.
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
this tiny forest orb-weaver
stretched her spiderling's first web between
these tender rose-tipped maple seeds---
her legs are translucent
and reflect the sky
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
I'm home,
and the small, alert sheltie is
so happy to see me
that he is underfoot.
Guess who volunteered for the first grooming.

Turning

Apr. 7th, 2016 09:40 pm
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
Turning, once again we come to center—-
the owl rising beneath a clear moon
the mallard winging upward into morning
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
Spring Puppy

Splayed in thick vetch
ankles green, tongue lolling
a wonder of sudden movement
and fundamental softness—
see, the world is new
as you are new
with the taste of cool water,
warm sunshine and
the tang of crushed plants—
This is good. This is wonderful.
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
would you take a sapphire from a coydog’s jaw—
when we drink from paw-prints, under moonlight
we will taste the morning, having sampled all that
came before—-
could we meet some times at the confluence
of rivers and of oceans
might we touch
might we run together
might we love

Bird Woman

Apr. 4th, 2016 09:33 pm
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
Bird Woman

She moved upward in a spiral
her hands extended
her fingers become feathers
bones hollow into emptiness
expanding into air
becoming something else
opening into sunlight

Salamanders

Apr. 3rd, 2016 03:02 pm
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
Salamanders

This salamander rests between stones
in clear water. She is stone-color, with darker spots
and small, dark eyes. Her gill-fronds fan lightly in the water.

She lifts her tiny, smooth brown fingers,
then puts her hand back down again.

A pebble over, just the tail—-
a dark stone in the water
the rest of the salamander is hidden.
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
Afternoon brunch

Every year on the first Saturday in April
our town holds a small parade of Fools.
The four of us walk in, my three dogs and I
in motley, tye-dye and purple fairy wings
three dubious introverts politely keeping
this loud day on the other side of
our extroverted collie, who is certain
that all the party is for him
and glows prancingly with joy.

Briefly emerging from the shade
to put our paws in the parade.

Lunch is part of this ritual. Tolerant
open-air cafes are the best.
I order waffles and sausage;
abrubtly, she who was Entirely Done
with this festival nonsense is soft and focused,
not sulking at all. I share little tidbits,
which they take politely from the fork with careful snouts.
A different fork from the one I am using, of course.
Until at some point I realize I’m not sure which fork is which

and that we’ve been sharing the same one for a while now.
But it really doesn’t matter. What a beautiful afternoon.
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
Happy April to anyone who might actually be seeing this! It's national poetry writing month, when once again I will attempt to create one poem each day for the next 30. Let's see if I can make it again. Many of these will no doubt consist of a few lines about ducks, and I am certainly not going to do them for all the tarot cards, or even the major arcana. But we'll open this ritual with the Fool.

Fool

The fool took to spring on a morning in April
when the plum blossoms flower and waterfalls play
With a collie in motley afrisk all around her
she danced at the cliffside to welcome the day.

But look where you’re going, demanded the collie
don’t you see the sharp rocks and deep river below?
Great catfish will swallow you and shaggy bears will follow you
You’ll find more, sharper things than we guess at or know.

The fool kissed the collie, her eyes bright and joyful
see my scars, little dog, and know I’ve seen pain
it’s not the desire that makes me the fool here,
but to know what love does and then seek it again.

O taste the cool river, its depth and it currents
take the air, and bespangled in blossoms, my side—-
Then they took the leap surely, with pleasure, in beauty
and beneath the sweet sunset, they danced in the tide.

moment

May. 7th, 2015 09:47 pm
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
One star rises into purple---
the trees already a green so dark as black.




****

(Words/year project may not be an every single day thing; I'm going to count it successful if I hit 5 days out of 7. But we'll see. I'm trying).

Dinner

May. 4th, 2015 09:45 pm
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
Today I accidentally learned a skill.
The chicken soup I made my dogs
turned out to be---
delicious.
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
Do not attempt to savage me with your bill
as I put you in your crate at night,
you obnoxious little bird.
If you did not pick fights with the other ducks,
you would still be staying with them.
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
Four small fish hang suspended over stone
the color of gravel and water with shining eyes;

the merganser held herself with wary poise,
then rushed into the air. A small while later
she had returned to her place on the sandbar.

Lizard

Apr. 29th, 2015 09:28 am
summer_jackel: (Zhava Running)
Noticing, she moves
lizard-swift
as a memory of herself.


*****

OK, I almost lost it this time! I forgot and then remembered and then forgot NaPo until I was almost asleep last night, composed this in my head but didn't want to get up, made myself remember it, forgot it when I got up, either remembered or re-composed it, and finally here it is, yesterday's poem. That was a lot of work for something so small and insignificant, and its story is longer than the piece, but the lizard can skitter out of my head now.

Sometimes I wonder if I should just keep doing NaPo one of these years, just not stop until the first of the following May, to see if I could do it and maybe what it would do to me. Skitter.
summer_jackel: (Default)
"You," I said calmly to the young tarantula
who clung lightly to the inside top of a plastic box
on my bedroom dresser, "are Brachypelma vagans.
You do not climb, are not even semi-arboreal,
but lay quietly in close burrows where you dwell.
You ought to dig."
Do you think, laughed the spiderling,
looking at me with its bright old eyes,
That you know better how to be a spider than I?
It is not so simple.

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