That valiant hour

Now are the tacit seconds laid between,
    the song and sing – when ghosts once locked away,
        stumble into forms of animals and blooms,
to revel in their coruscating sheen,
    and marvel at the crimson creep of rays,
        that finger forth between the gloam and blue.

Now is the valiant hour when thoughts oblique,
    in hushed danger drown within the eye,
or gasping at the brink of misted vision,
    scatter into the cracks of furtive winks.

The vibrant moment now is tolled and rung,
    and rings aloud in hollow chamber’s sigh,
as petals, wings, or leaves – unlaced, undone –
    are slipped aloft on exhalation’s glide. 


#poem #poetry#song#sonnet#now#writerscreedchallenge#spilled poetry#spilled ink

A gravid moon bedevils Janus drowsy…

A gravid moon bedevils Janus drowsy,
    dreaming of the sun-spilt Western Lands,
where feral children by the sea side rushes,
    crawl and caper on the bonfired sands.

Milk-faced the monk prophetic murmurs,
    banging keys and chords to spells melodic,
spit from candied lips, barbed and poison tipped,
    missiles smite the impish heart, chaotic.

Dart-struck, too, and driverless, lost and broken down,
    Arjuna paces circles on the highway side.
Wheels within mandalas, he draws on cloudless sky,
    and thumbs a passing star to hitch a ride.

Outside of the Dakota, fully-circled time,
    breaks the heart and breaks the mind and breaks apart
        the rhyme.