30 in 30, day sixteen

sept 2017 30-30

Night and day

shrouded in birches, the house on the corner is
dark and foreboding
by day, overgrown and shadowed
with an air of neglect

but at night the windows glow
warm through the branches
casting welcome light
on the undersides of the leaves

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30 in 30, day fifteen

sept 2017 30-30With this post, I’m halfway through this thirty day challenge. Today’s poem was inspired by a Whack-A-Mole comment at the end of an episode of Madame Secretary we watched this evening.

Hammer in hand

You don’t get to slay the dragon
every day. Sometimes you do well
to land a solid blow so evil
ducks and goes looking for somewhere
else to stick its head out.

Not a poem: fog

It’s fascinating how fog obscures some things and makes others visible.

web1

A cold Neoscona huddling in the center of her beautiful web.

web2

Same spider and web, different angle.

web3

A different smaller orb weaver in the back yard. (I didn’t get close enough to identify her because I didn’t want to disturb her, but she wasn’t large enough to be a Neoscona.)

web4

Another small (non-Neoscona) orb weaver’s web. This one swayed gently in the morning breeze like a lace curtain.

web5

I regret I didn’t get a shot of the neighbor’s lawn in deep shadow, with dozen’s of tangle webs like piles of diamond necklaces. I saw all manner of webs in trees and shrubs and lawns that I would never have seen on a clear morning.

30 in 30, day fourteen

sept 2017 30-30This is a derangement (an exercise from Wingbeats II) of a fragment from Edna St. Vincent Millay.

In memory

No more the broken bird beats
golden; the once-ivory box is
spoken: all your words are lovely.

Restore the secret of earth:
chemistry shall never talk
but of your music.

– from Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Memorial to D.C.: Elegy”

http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/millay/april/sa-memorial.html

30 in 30, day thirteen

sept 2017 30-30Reading Mary Oliver again; even her prose is poetry.

Time means little in the world of poems

To be contemporary
is to rise through
the stack
of the past,
like the fire through
the mountain.

Only a heat
so deeply and intelligently
born can carry
a new idea into
the air.

– Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook, p. 12

30 in 30, day twelve

sept 2017 30-30I find book titles such wonderful inspiration. This poem is made of words and phrases from the titles of a single author. (Bonus points if anyone correctly identifies who it is.)

In the lion valley

leave the crocodile of forgetfulness
on the sandbank of desire, the case
for love in the summer of a dragon moon

curse the borrower of night
in the street of four hundred pharaohs
silhouetted in scarlet and green velvet

the devil may care that the seventh sinner
is naked once more, but the Dead Sea is a cipher
and the last camel died at noon

30 in 30, day eleven

sept 2017 30-30My favorite report on this phenomenon was the Miami Herald article that compared it to Moses’ parting of the Sea of Reeds.

Double-stranded

a widdershins eye
the size of a continent
glares into space

drops boats and sea
creatures to exposed
ocean bottom

before flushing them
clean onto land