blue

she flirts with turquoise

the sea and sky
watch passive

waves splashing
to the tune of the blood-lit moon

stars still shine at the allotted time

tinges of green fade

a painted lady combs her hair
til she's loving blue again

Haiku

pink twinkling lights
entwined with silver lace vine
British fall back time

Amber

I

Seven sisters pine for a brother, lost                                                  

as he tried to prove Apollo was his father.                                                    

Resinous tears have hardened to form                                               

relentless scars the colours of amber                                                  

on their aspen stems. Is selfless love                          

and sacrifice of life their only choice?                                                           

II

And for the Sun God is this really choice?

His son in flames and all his daughters lost

in molten grief.  Even divine love

seems futile for this father -

his offspring lactating amber

from their fruitless forms.

III

A fisherman scans the waves for the form

of his daughter, vortex-sucked  without choice,

to a luxury palace of amber.

The Lithuanian maiden is lost.

Though crowned by a prince of the sea, she calls for her father,

tossing glossy gemstones to assure him of her love.

IV

And Freya, stripped of her usual wisdom and love,

 moonstruck by Brisingamen’s glistening form,

forgetting her daughters and Odur, their father,

got fucked by four dwarves and paid for her choice.

She wanders in vain, seeks the husband she lost.

Sea-kissed, her tears wash ashore as pure amber.

V

A Sea-Queen possessed a palace of amber

and yet was powerless to love

or save her man whose life was lost  

when Daddy’s lightning struck his mortal form.

‘A mere mortal man can not be our mermaid’s choice,’

roared the god, reduced to the tones of an incensed father.

VI

Fiery mothers from my grandmothers’ father-

land wafted incense – burning scent of amber’s

orange flame. Yellow pendants, the Baltic choice

to heal and protect the families they love.

Their DNA’s included in my form,

so connection to that strength cannot be lost.

VII

Respect was lost. All fears were not, father.

But, as sun-spangles sometimes form in amber,

so I am charmed and love by my free choice.

Today would be Hermann Rorschach's 129th birthday so posting an old poem...

Table

 Three-quarters of the time I really feel

OK, quite well, quite sane, then once a month -

like when you go out for a special meal

the folded wedge of cardboard shoved beneath

the shortest leg of the most tremulous table

gets kicked away and causes an awkward tilt -

so, sometimes I  can become unstable

unable to handle an overspill of rage and guilt.

And once the table cloth is stained

with claret wine, a Rorschach blot,

and stainless knives have hit the ground,

and scalding words are no longer hot,

then blameless you replace the wedge

and lift me effortless from the edge.

Haiku of the day

My knitting's knotted
Untangling the yarn
Old neural pathways

Haiku of the day

September’s last rays

Rekindling old desires -

A crow struts his stuff

Haiku of the day

A sky full of stars

Wandering with my soulmate

Infinite wishes