But then again, maybe it won’t take that long. There’s a new blogging opportunity at work, and that’s something I’m required to do. Unless I want to stop eating.

When this new opportunity launches, I’ll be sure to let you know. In the meantime, please enjoy Turning, the latest submission for Poetry Monday.

You’ll notice that it’s a screenshot. That’s because I didn’t want to hassle with translating the intricate indentation of the line into HTML. I thought that this might be a simpler solution.

This muffled comfort,
even the air is stiff with its melancholy,
the sick smell of old flowers and poison.

The skeletal jailer beside you
counts down, drop by drop,
shot by shot;
the sweetest irony,
the toxin fed you
for your own good,

through the Middle Passage¹,
this new repose,
your Henrietta Marie²,
your Adelaide,
your Wanderer.

It’s all a fettered heart can do
to press back into a sour-colored, vinyl-covered chair,
to count the marks upon withered yellow walls,
and keep from flying out and away
through the window for a third chance at resurrection.

What course now, old hate?
The old clock in the corner
counts down in starts and breaks,
breath catching with every turn,
and slanted light, jagged across the floor,
shadows more than it shows.

No,
my death’s head on a bed,
I will not flee today.
I will hold tight this silent witness
and wait.

And wait.
And wait.

For some day soon
the shackles will slip,
birds will sing
outside an open window,
and I will watch you
die.

I had asked three friends for a grouping of three words each, and then used those words as seeds for three different poems. Third Chance at Resurrection was the strongest of the pieces that came out of the game, and earlier this year, I revised it into its current shape.

I’m pleased with how it turned out. And if you’re curious about the seed words for this poem, they were melancholy, Africa, and comfort.

——
P.S. There are a couple of notes for the poem, and you’ll find them in the comments.

What would Rumi say if he saw me?
Panting like a dog, barking at heaven,
aching to nuzzle my lover’s face.

It’s simple!
Get drunk and climb the nearest mountain.
Howl at the moon.
Pour out your heart like wine into that absolute longing.

Turn in place and skip sleep.
Fly straight into dreaming of your lover’s hand,
warm upon your neck.

Fortitude,
you know—the real stuff,
like the he-man stories,
the heroes girding their loins
and going in guns blazing,

like Butch and Sundance,
Maverick in Top Gun,
and Henry at Agincourt.
Like Samson at the temple,
or better yet, Moses,
whose awful miracles struck an empire helpless.

                      * * *

What else can a mother say to her first born, but
“Sleep—don’t mind the frogs,
they’ve come from the river to sing your rest.
Let go—the darkness is meant for dreaming,
and as for the other tests,
you’ve passed them all, my darling boy.”

                      * * *

What is fortitude if not this?
The willingness to trust our children
to the maw of blind, uncertain faith;
the belief in something ridiculous,
like shrubbery ablaze.

The moon glimpsed through a tumult
of clouds and night—that is the light
in darkness; our hope set on a river
to be found by the enemy,
a daughter of the pharaoh,
who will pick a babe out of the water
and nourish him.

Remember Jesus in the desert?
He found the secret of his longing
in the realization of his incompleteness.
While his brothers sat in their caves,
hearts mildewing in the dampness,
he learned that fire saves
as well as burns.

Or better yet, Eve,
without whom we would be
as beautiful and empty as butterflies.
She who girded her loins
and took up the burden offered her,
trusting her children to the fruit,
opening the secret heart,
and in so doing,
created everything.

As a result, the writing has been all over the place, with lots of first drafts. I think there are some good ideas buried in a couple of them, but I haven’t had the internal resources to go digging for them. That’s why I’m posting another poem that was completed earlier this year — a poem that was hard to write, but one that I’m very proud of.

I hope you enjoy this Poetry Monday’s submission: Girding Her Loins.

Artemis,
wolves pad softly at your heels
leaving behind warm, dark dens.
Owls, mystery in their talons,
follow in the sky.
Even the heavens look on this night,
their thousand eyes unblinking.

Hunter,
the luminous moon, twin to your soul,
marks spoor and trail,
lighting the way into a forest
beckoning like a lover
ready with a serene and chill embrace.

The hart in darkness rests
wrapped in the soft folds of evening.
His sides quiver, sensing the quiet
spear’s red-tipped approach.

Goddess mantled in silver and shadow,
the slaughter of musk and iron carries on the wind,
the scent of earth made fertile,
and as your children gather, their eyes silent with bliss,
the stag’s head rises,

exultant.

I suppose I could hoard the pieces and continue looking for suitable venues, but that doesn’t sound very appealing. I’d rather post them here and have them live a little.

And on that note, I’m posting one of my favorite poems for this Poetry Monday.

___________
P.S. Note that I’m not giving up on being published. Instead I’d rather share the poems here and focus on learning and improving the craft of fiction.