Sun and Moon 8
draped across night’s blackboard
stars and constellations all erased
my black angel bruised by the dark
the world’s feathered wonder reduced to shadow and ash
what dreams are these?
feathers against night’s window
an angel of darkness descending a steep stairway
tumbling through the night
who’s dreams are these?
Sun and Moon 7
Old Woman weaves a crinoline from stars
she plucks roses from the void and turns them into haloes
nochebuena blossoms on the perfume of her breath
the cardinal’s song is a crimson voice hidden among leaves
mercurial in the moonlight
Old Woman coils her relentless cage
one by one the cardinal’s tunes are imprisoned
a butterfly impaled on a moonbeam
the last note of his song
Sun and Moon 6
“Wake up!” says Serpent. “Knock!”
I knock and the door swings open
Old Woman sits spinning at a ghostly wheel
she draws me to her with a string of starlight
I squirm on the fishhook of her eyes
when I blink I fall gutted to the ground
herringbones knit me a tangled destiny
lost people wandering in a tapestry of dreams
as I read my story in the sky around me
Moon scythes my heart into tiny slices
a fishbone slides stitches into my side
dice click
two snake eyes stare into my eyes
Sun and Moon 5
dusky shawl of a knitted dream
wrapped round my shoulders
I pick at knots of tangled memory
a word as sharp as a stone
cast at a friend
sea shells cutting
naked feet
at the water’s edge
sunlight
weeping blood
over mother-of-pearl
Old Woman winds
a ball of wool
she handcuffs my wrists
with softness
spun from lambs
my hair turns silver in her mirror
snakelike I slide into my dream
slipping sideways
deep dark well of night
Sun and Moon 4
night without moon without stars
dark sand dropping
filling my mouth
I walk the lonely bed of a dried up river
when I stumble in my dream
my feet leave no footprints
colourless is my path
through shadow and sand
figures of darkness
conjured before me
hollow their eyes
their mouths black caverns
no flesh decks their bones
footless they sigh
a sibilant song
mindless they draw in
a net full of sorrows
silver fish darkling
losing their sparkle
Sun and Moon 3
at midnight Serpent slithers through
a gap in the fence of my dream
he slides close to my shivering body
and lies there chill against my skin
his length – a sword without a scabbard
unscaleable wall of unblemished steel
severing all warmth
“Tomorrow,” he says, “I will take you to the sky.
But first, you must watch me dance.”
he twists in circles winding and unwinding
infinite loops and figures of eight
endless cat’s cradle of bottomless shape
sleep draws my feet deeper into quicksand
the night wind whispers me a head full of dreams
Sun and Moon 2
Eagle paints my eyes with daylight.
He offers to fly me to the sky.
His feathers trap sunshine in his pinions.
Morning is a rebozo draped over his plumage.
“My mother is blind,” says Eagle.
“Her sight: cold ashes in the fireplace.
Stripped of her dreams,
she wanders in darkness.
You must give her
the fire from your eyes!”
Tiger offers to carry me to the sky.
Flame speckles his pelt.
His eyes are two scorched blocks of charcoal.
“I will break the bread of your bones,” says Tiger,
“and warm myself on the fire of your blood!”
Serpent offers to bear me to the sky.
His scales are shards of emerald and ruby.
His serpent’s blood runs cold through his veins.
He weighs me in the twin dice of his eyes.
“Where I lead you must follow,” Serpent says.
“There is no other price.”
Comment: Here as promised are the words to yesterday’s song as composed and sung by my good friend Cat Leblanc. This is the second stanza from the ten poem title sequence of Sun and Moon. Here is the link.
Sun and Moon
My poetry put to music: a new venture for me. This is Cat Leblanc’s version of Sun and Moon. I’ll add the words later. In the meantime: thank you so much for this Cat. Beautiful voice, beautiful music: a Fredericton, New Brunswick singer who is well worth following.
Old Eight Hoots
Winter has touched us
with this change of clocks
and darkness clutches now,
an hour or so too soon.
Old eight hoots watches:‑
he calls; I cough;
but he will not swoop.
He sits tight‑perched, out of sight;
chills me with his ghostly chorus,
hoo‑hooing me home.
Bright stars crackle the sky.
Frost crisps fallen leaves.
A mist weaves webs scarce‑seen.
And all around,
as cold ground creaks
its wordless tongue‑leafed language,
night‑shapes abound.
Pony
for Jude
(and the WYPOD)
“A pony, a pony, my kingdom for…” Of course,
he didn’t want a pony. He was losing the battle
and the kingdom’s sceptre is not a baby’s rattle
to be tossed aside, even for the fastest horse.
Ponies and palfreys are not for kings. A princess
may ride a pony, and a side saddle, fit for a queen,
may grace a horse’s back, but a horse between
a princess’ legs is crass. How cramped the dress,
how wrinkled the nobleman’s brow seeing
his daughter, his wife, the female of the breed
straddling, legs apart, a broad-backed steed.
No: ponies are for Christmas, not for kings fleeing.
A horse, then, hung with bells, covered in red:
not with ribbons, but the old king, flayed and dead.
