FEBRUARY SELECTIONS:
Past Presents by Larry D. Jennings
The warmth of morning cocoa dissipated to mere taste, so too, the sweet aroma of a slowly roasting goose; both swept away by Autumn’s breath, exhaled into the past. As Winter’s respite ended, breaking season's yearly truce,
we walked together through the naked woodlands. Where the trees lift barren arms imploring Spring to hurry on her way. Out past the furrowed fields behind the tired barn began our path, worn smooth, from long ago’s forgotten yesterday.
Dad’s old sleigh, broken down, now holds our logs for winter fires upon its rusted runners… crooked smile of wooden teeth. Piled high on tattered leather seats, where children used to ride, are spicy scented pine boughs, harvested to make our wreath.
We traced old steps until the chill nipped noses, crimson red, then hurried back before the first snow flakes came drifting down to blanket our small world in white serenity and peace where memories are neighbors and the forest is our town.
Hagarmor, the Raven by Eric Linden
Out on a cold December night, one raven interrupts his flight where, down below, a wildwood stand with man and horses is in sight.
A senior member of his band, old Nevermore once crossed this land to visit Edgar Poe’s abode and drop his name in Edgar’s hand.
A hundred years have quickly flowed since Nevermore paused by this road to rest and watch as snow descends; now Hagar packs his precious load.
With twists and turns, the roadway wends as man and team pass through its bends; their coats, like everything, are white but soon they’ll visit with old friends.
eagle-king by Jan Iwaszkiewicz
The Beginning
I a petty princeling and lord of the dark brook and the dry-stone wall keeper of the jackdaw and black chickens son of the eagle my father king wait for one gleam from his hazel eye
The Charms
the dog and I jump the stone but the jackdaw squawks and plumps to stay here is a fiefdom of field and wood mine for the taking with dark dog we dare and cross to the old trees I spray gold to the wood spirit and lower the dog follows suit our territories set and sprites assuaged we head out through the rye
I lie with my head on the black dog under a glow of silver clouds my neck buttercupped with bright gold my eyes dissolved in the distant dome I sort the clouds into seats of power and count blessings, gather and press each into charms to be hidden against need like bulbs of bluebell in the wild wood
I send the dog home and wander past the wheel of mill house over the stone bridge and over the brook out to where the orchard lands wend and other lords hold sway I stoop beneath the broken stile a quick scrump of plump apples held safer than a wild fox next to the lean of my spartan belly victorious gatherer I bring the fruit and whilever I plead the luck of windfall clabbered cream will sit fat on the glorious beauty of pied apple
The Foray
the queen-father and I set forth on foray past mill castle and west over the bridged brook bound by its thin forest of browning leaves
hand on my shoulder the queen-father points to murdered crows and the slide of pike and how hedgehogs hog the edge of hedgerows and where the cress grows crisp and sharp and how the stinging nettles should be garnered and how soft an apple puckered and soft for cider should feel our legs unminding lay the miles down
we reach the edge of the drystone walls and our sweat cools I am chilled the colour is taken from glorious day his hand is gone and the pig-men wait
they stand in the yard next to a sty hands polishing the trough wood eyes fluttering like caged birds and they mutter words that I cannot catch
dried blood blackens their nails they look like the old ones who hide hammers beneath their beds smiling they seem to be small humans they nod bobbing to the queen father
we're given mugs of fresh blood that holds a taste of salt smoke I feint, but caught, drink firmly they laugh and thumb the dregs onto my cheeks I flame with an unknown feel of shame
we are taken to a squat stone building stuck ugly behind the sties into a room where knives and cleavers live blood puddings drip from the rafters sausages gleam in the soft gloom and heads look down from the hooks
the stone floor is wet and cold scalding tubs are tipped to the wall carved runnels sluiced clean end in rough iron grates the echo of squeals is faint but catches squalling against the shell of my ear
we go to where the apple boughs smoulder and with a lazy grey intent curl through cracks in the smoke house walls hams and flitches turn slowly
the queen-father quickly cuts his mark in a huge ham he picks from the choke the old ones grow in anger but their grim growls are beneath him
he strides smiling to the squat building we buy fat black puddings and thick slabs of pink bacon a plump leg with extra skin six pairs of fresh trotters and half a pig’s head for brawn a deal is struck between the palms
but the old ones no longer nod nor smile nor mutter a single sound their eyes no longer flutter but stare
I utter spelled words to ward us from evil and we slowly leave our backs burdened with more than meat I scrub my cheeks bare of blood that I dare gives me heart
I chant charms and place blessings upon our path home
······· ·······
"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." ~ J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the RingsCollaboration feeds innovation. In the spirit of workshopping, please revisit those threads you've critiqued to see if the author has incorporated your ideas, or requests further feedback from you. In addition, reciprocate with those who've responded to you in kind. "I believe it is the act of remembrance, long after our bones have turned to dust, to be the true essence of an afterlife." ~ Lorraine M. KanterNominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here! "Worry looks around, Sorry looks back, Faith looks up." ~ Early detection can save your life.MM Award Winner
|