The BlueIris Semi-Nightly Poem Thread, 9/2/07 Bonus

—for a certain potential President, who is always blessed in my thoughts

"At the Ascension"

He takes His throne,
radiant, His shadow
stretched like a Cobra
charmed, his arrowed form
the gnomon of the world.

Watch over Him, Gods,
prays the scribe from his far corner,
recalling fathers' tales
of the last of This order, taken
as Reed by River in flood time—
the gash that split His crown
copied into the hearts of ten thousand men,
cleaved them clean as Papayas
halved on the market block
so they can be sold.

Watch over Him, Ra,
Isis, Ptah, Anubis.
He is that most rare of gifts—
a promise kept
the best it can be,
a Tree that can take root
if the Soil encircling it holds.

Let it hold.

Osiris,
should He owe obeisance,
use mine,
these offerings of pen and scroll,
whatever clemency Reeds earn
turning ink into Message.

Should You require sacrifice,
take me.

—Jennifer Rollings

:hi:

;-)

i hate i missed the poetry threads... they are a daily treat for me. try to read them every day. :hug:

I can send you the poem threads from the last few days if you want. People keep telling me to start a journal, but I don't want to do that, for various reasons. Which dates did you miss?

it is how i kept track of retro's thread. if you want though you can send me fri,sat,sun. thanks!

(I'd send the threads, but I'm too lazy; also, I don't recall that there was much meaningful discussion of those pieces so you're not missing much)

8/31/07

"Last Day At Long Pond"

Barely daring to breathe
we watch the blue heron
that stalks the reeds,
his rapt concentration,
the dart of the grey-green minnow,
the lift and fall of his
spidery feet.

All morning
we thread the canoe
along the irregular shore,
cutting a slender weedy path.
Glossy turtles of every size
strain striped necks toward the sun
baking themselves on the kneed-up roots.

Our scarred wooden paddles
stir from this sandbottom pond
that bayleaf smell
from the twisted scrub,
the swampy musk
of rainbow-scaled bream
bedding in the rich rot of waterweed.

At night I fry cornbread
in the heavy black pan,
listening to that
rhythmic plop, that singing whine
as you stand in the shallows
casting out your slender line,
reeling in the shadows
and, finally,
drawing the moon up the inky sky.

—Nancy A. Henry

9/1/07

"September"

I walk the dike, the moon a sliver,
tipped up, as Mother would say,

to hold water. The river steams,
a kettle about to boil, all summer

in its water. Trees are thick
as the grass that wets

my tennis shoes. I walk,
swinging my hands, stop,

then force myself to turn
and face the river again,

a cauldron now, its vapor
rising in white mounds

above the green. I take
a deep breath, then release, see

my own life about to happen.

—Madelyn Camrud

9/2/07

"Passion"

He wants to be excited again
like Japanese beetles
coupling among the ferns
and hollyhocks,
dropping beside themselves
in sex-scented traps,
their irridescence deepening
to a smothering stink.
He wants to be among the few
that whir up out of the bag
and back again, willfully undone.

—Roger Pfingston

immigration wars in gd. thanks for the poems.

perhaps it is safe to enable it again. :shrug: