Everything Under the Moon

She looks into the scenery
as though it were a looking glass
—one that reflects internally—
to catch the drift in blades of grass;

where flora meets the bank's morass
that separates the buried tree
(the root) from its ascended mass,
she looks into the scenery;

where water and the sky agree
the surface of the lake could pass
—so masterful its mimicry—
as though it were a looking glass;

where stone has etched a clear impasse
into endeavors not to be
eroded as the over-cast
one that reflects internally;

where doing her photography
becomes an art form unsurpassed
—a labor weathered lovingly—
to catch the drift in blades of grass;

where domes composed of plexiglass
can capture for posterity
the sort of meaning meant to last,
bespoken by the scenery
she looks into.


—Wricker (7/21/2017)


Note: This rondeau redoublé was written in tribute to photographer and artist Linda Parker.

Awesome

Many thanks, Corvidus.

Very vivid imagery. I could picture what you were writing about.

Snow

Thanks for looking into it, Mrs. SnowCat.

My heartfelt thanks to Firebird for compiling most of the poetry I've posted on this site into the three threads titled Plaid, Plaid #2, and Plaid #3 respectively. Much appreciated, Bro!

Going forward, I'll be using this thread for all new submissions.

OMG.... did you see my mustache or something?

Hahaha, your very welcome Mr. Wricker

A Cosmic Love Triangle (Triolet)


He is the Sun; I'm just a moon;
You are the World on which we gaze.
His warming power makes you swoon;
He is the Sun. I'm just a moon.
At times I try to block his rays,
Capitulating all too soon.
He is the Sun; I'm just a moon;
You are the World on which we gaze.


—Wricker (7/29/2017)

_____________
Note: A "Triolet" is a French poetic form that utilizes repentends in addition to strict meter and rhyme.

Promise on the Horizon


A beacon on the near horizon warms the anxious heart,
though for the brumal night, sheds light on reason to depart.
The time is close for Winter to release his cold embrace,
for Spring to clothe her limbs and give new life a budding start;

for those endowed with intellect to know her warmth and grace,
to feel the flourishing expressions on her lovely face
—the grins and knowing glances of two lovers set to mate—
the joy of thawing out our ice-encapsulated race;

the covenant of planting season, food upon the plate,
the wills of those who farm the land and till away the hate;
for all mankind to waken to the prescience of our need
to come together and fulfill the promise of our seed.


—Wricker (8/2/2017)

_____________
Note:The timing of this piece may seem strange to those unaware of its inspiration—a recent photograph of the sunrise taken from the backdoor of an Aussie's house. Apparently, for them, Spring is on the horizon.

Through an Opaque Window...

An everlasting aspect holds our temporary forms,
as the ocean holds its evanescent waves;
we rise and fall as microcosms of celestial storms,
whose divisive winds define our small enclaves.

That "aspect" of the Self is one our senses all deny
to assuage the need to think we're not alone;
though from the day we're born until the very day we die,
such denials are the lies of flesh and bone.

Reality is seen as such inside a window pane,
whose "reality" is but a stained-glass dream;
illusions must be apperceived, for the enlightened brain,
penetrating the opacity, to gleam.

—Wricker (8/8/2017)

____________
Note: this piece was inspired by the following Corsican proverb:

"Life is just as long
as the time it takes
to pass by the window"
-----------
With grateful acknowledgement to AP's HJspider

Fundamentalism at Its Finest

There was a sect of Christianity,
whose female members couldn't cut their hair,
nor were they free to choose what clothes to wear;
but that was back in 1923.

No pants, no makeup (most of all, no fun!),
yet they were far too frightened to complain,
for it was "GOD" who "multiplied their pain",
in retribution for what Eve had done!

What if that sect were practicing TODAY
in very much the ways described above,
with pantless, long-haired girls who'd seek the "Love
of God" in such a subjugated way?

What if I told you that, in fact, it DOES?
Would you demand to know which one it was?

—Wricker (8/10/2017)

_____________
Note: Written in reference to The Pentecostal Assemblies of the World (PAW), The United Pentecostal Church (UPC), and their affiliated churches.

An image of the modern day legacy of the black and white photo above can be seen here: http://truediscipleship.com/wp-content/ ... hair-4.jpg

Flying in Their Faces

The story of the turquoise owl, whose name was Hooty Blue,
is one that anyone who stands apart can relate to.

The color of her feathers made her the minority,
the ONLY one that hatched among the brown majority!

At first she found life difficult; the other owls would stare
and some would even call her names that were not very fair.

And since it seemed society condemned her look wholesale,
she often tried to groom away her blues, to no avail.

Then one day it occurred to her that self-acceptance was
by far a more important thing than conformation, 'cuz...

those color pref'rences were based on bigoted appeal,
and flying in the face of them might help her spirit heal!

—Wricker (8/1/2017)

___________
Note: This poem was written to accompany the image. Credit for the image goes to AP's Danielle Burns.

That owl reminds me a lot of my granddaughter, Shannon. She loves owls, secondary to sheep, and likes teal, secondary to purple. We must keep things in order of course. But the expression on the owl's face...that owl has Shannon's eyes. I needed something good today. Thank you.

Snow

Your granddaughter sounds like a cutie.

Can't take credit for the image, but I'm happy to know my posting it here brought something good to mind for you.

Drought Stricken

Cracked mud, her lips, forewarned me of the dried-up riverbed
that was a kiss to whet her raging thirst;
her tongue, a sandy sidewinder, had ventured out ahead
in time for me to brush aside the worst.

Her eyes, those empty wading pools in August's scorching heat,
were fading in the ultraviolet rays;
deprived of all the moisture needed to be called complete,
they darted in a parched, drought-stricken haze.

I shared enough life-saving water that she wouldn't die,
preserving what I'd need to save my own;
for if I had allowed her, she'd have surely drained me dry
and left a withered husk of flesh and bone.

—Wricker (8/13/2017)

___________
Note: With a nod and a wink to AP's Celticmoon.