Sunday, December 7, 2014

I Spy

photo by Elene Usdin


A spy, lying on the ground
She thinks I won't see her
As her eyes are so far down.

But I know who she is
She can't fool me,
Looking up my skirt

Talking in silent words
Of my face, my eyes, and
the hurt she hopes to see


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Thursday, October 23, 2014

Magpie Tales: To Flame, Moth Mother



To Flame, Moth Mother

Like a moth to flame you approached;
Too near.  Too close, you were singed and your wings
seared.

Too much, in retreat you bent
back your wings into the dusk of dark trees
and extinguished your own dwindling flame

Another light replaces yours while you flicker
in a darkness plagued by regret,
perhaps one day to venture again
into a new bright light.

© Gerry at Strummed Words

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Sunday, August 17, 2014

Ghost Ship

Yell Sound, Shetland, 2014, by R.A.D. Stainforth

Ghost Ship

A ghost ship sails the sea
harrowing into the future
with furled clouds for its cover.

Black eyes square and round, thin line of mouth,
its nostrils flare, white foams its stern
as it moves steadily forward,

like a dragon's head with its tail
curled curiously under the sea,
it challenges me...

© Gerry at Strummed Words

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Sunday, June 22, 2014

Magpie Tales: Summer Dreaming

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Sweet Summer, 1912, John William Waterhouse



SUMMER DREAMING

A fan of creased leaves, the murmur of water, fragrance
of flowers above my head and arms.
Sweet grass my bed, the warm sun my cover.

What strange fantasies wander through my mind
on these summer days free from distraction,
from the question of other eyes.

But I long for a long book, and the soft fur of a cat
on my arm as I drink in the pure air
of what could be a perfect poised day.

© Gerry at Strummed Words


Sunday, June 8, 2014

Magpie Tales: Time on a Reel

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TIME ON A REEL

TEACh me how to use this infernal machine.
I know it's old fashioned and from my grandmother's time
But it has her voice and her songs and my childhood
imprinted on its aged plastic tape,
my young years with my grandma magnetized
and put on a reel. So that I might hear her once again
and my own plaintive voice singing along.

How precious is time, present and past.
We hold it in memory and look to it for our future,
It is the key to ourselves.

But this infernal machine has stumped my time, in this present.

© Gerry at Strummed Words