spiral - Day 6 of the 2016 PAD Challenge

Two days behind but undaunted. I've spent this week preparing query letters for my Young Adult Fantasy novel, Elsekind. I intend to send it out to three places on Tuesday, so that's fairly exciting and slightly terrifying. 

And today, I have a poem to share. Perhaps my favorite topic to explore in poetry is the connectedness between objects in the micro- and macroverse, particularly the Fibonnaci repetition of patterns. I love how patterns in nature replicate on the small and large scale. It's stunning and humbling, how a snail and a galaxy can contain the same atoms, the same shapes, once again proving that we all are more alike than we are different.

Fibonnaci knows...

spiral

one shell

one tiny shell

one spinning spiral

like a floating iris

like the golden eye

of a great grey heron

poised on a riverbank

in a glimmering city

in a far away country

on a great continent

riddled with rivers and

crisscrossed with streams

on this blue, blue earth

swaddled in clouds

strung with twinkle lights

turning and turning

within an orbit,

within the wide-flung arms

of a galaxy

one among

billions.

one shell.

one tiny

shell.

Beware of Fairy Tales - Day 5 of the 2016 PAD Challenge

Here is a twist on the twisted fairy tales. This is five linked haikus about a forest and a hapless adventurer.

Beware of Fairy Tales

 

Along the Forest Path by Selina Fenech

The sign outside reads:

Beware of the Fairy Tales

They always return

In the tavern light

Her wings like snowflakes, shiver

prismatic daggers

"Please, can you help me?"

Her voice is the falling leaves

You reach for her, and--

The path stands empty,

Stabbed by moonlight and silence

Moths brush at your face

Feet encased in stone,

Weapon useless at your side,

Words caught on your lips

Too late to scream now:

You are trapped within her snare.

She always returns.

One Doesn't Stop to Talk with Nightmares - Day 4 of the 2016 PAD Challenge

Off-prompt, but from a line in a Guy Gavriel Kay story, provided by one of our writing group partners, Lori Krell. I think this one is about becoming our worst nightmares. 

Mirror of the Soul by ispheria.

One Doesn't Stop to Talk to Nightmares

Yes, I heard her warning

as I left the bar that night.

I heard her

but I refused to heed

the raving rantings

of a whore

Yes, she warned me of the dangers

of straying from the path

of staying too long

of listening

to the whispers.

I heard her

but I thought her

mad

I thought

her

mad.

She said, One doesn't stop

to talk to nightmares.

I said, What do you know

of dreams?

Her cracked face

sagged:

fractures panes

in ruined casement.

Yes, I wondered what she lost

from lingering too long

from sipping too deeply

from keeping cozy company

with the demons

of her dreams

I wondered, but dismissed her

A mad woman

A transient

A fool

No, I did not see her

for what she is

for what she was:

Not a broken window

but a mirror.

A reflection

of me.

Three - Day 3 of the 2016 Poem A Day Challenge

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Three (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: “Three Blind Hippos,” “Three Muskrats,” “Three’s Company,” “Three Movies Is Too Many for The Hobbit, Peter Jackson (just saying),” and so on.

Here is a strange little poem in round. It's a bit rough, but I'll take it for now.

Three

On the road,

on the road

an old crone sang

with a stick

in her hand,

with a crow

on her back

On her back,

on her back

the old crow cawed

with a jewel

in her eye,

with a ring

on her wing

On her wing,

on her wing

there slept a dream

with a wish

in her heart,

with a song

on her lips.

On her lips,

on her lips

there rested a kiss

with a prince

in her bed,

with a crown

on his brow.

On his brow,

on his brow

there weighed a truth

with a price

in its words,

with a curse

on his grave

On his grave,

on his grave

the old crone wept

of a love

and a girl

and a boy

and a bird

And the three

who fled

with the jewel

and a ring,

They sing

no more

No more

they sing.

Fiction Friday: Limberjack

Limberjacks from Prairie Wind Toy Co.

For Fiction Flashback Friday, I'm sharing a poem that I've been kicking around a while. I grew up around some clever bluegrass musicians, including my lovely Aunt Lerlie, who would sing and provide percussion to their songs with a Limberjack doll.

I've been thinking a lot about those days with our Papa's family, mostly about how I thought they would never end.

So this little poem is about lost childhood and a generation that is slowly slipping away. Even so, we won't forget what they've given us.

This poem is for Aunt Lerlie.

Limberjack

Never again

Will the little wooden man

Dance as he did

Like he danced with you

And never again

Will his jitterbug limbs

Spin as they did

When he spun with you

In our childhood dreams

of watermelon teeth

and sweet gum trees,

He jigs and he jumps

To your knuckle-bump thumps

On the pine wood plank

where he danced

But never again

Will he swing and sway

As he did back then

In those huckleberry days

None of us learned

How to play the spoons

And the cuckoo clock springs

Have sprung too soon

And never again

Will they rewind

While the limberjack man

Lies on his side