And now into the viscous dark –
that blacker than imaginable heart of things – I go to undergo new throes
of recollection – transformation. My
mother loved carnations – their peculiar sweet timidity – I remember their
strange scent and hold on her and
on the hollow casket (she was nowhere to be found in it) where they bestowed
their blushing and their bloom: riding
off the sides, they filled the room with dissonance and odd perfume.
Three years ago, approximately
today, she started sliding on the way to die the first week in July.
And now against the viscous dark –
that blacker than imaginable heart of my unknowing – I imagine pink arising –
growing: redolently weird – its power
blasts the past and future into now – enigmatic blossom of eternity: her flower.
by Guy Kettelhack
Autumn Sky Poetry, Number 2, September 2006
Sonnenizio on a Line from Neruda
The night turns on its invisible wheels.
The stars are gone; first sunlight splinters in the branches of black trees, drips onto
tired earth. And so a shadow falls on us,
on our love. I want to rub, to brush it off. I want to strike a match, turn on another
light, grow my own sun, a wonderland
where waving wands is all it takes to forge and reforge bonds, where nothing breaks
forever. Place your hand on my hot cheek
again, breathe life into my eyes, connect the freckles on my back to spell out: Yes.
Write on my skin:
We want. We can. We will. Let me respond with sighs. Then let’s be still.
(First line from Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet LXXXI)
by Michaela A. Gabriel
Autumn Sky Poetry, Number 5, June 2007
Somehow I knew this would be how it began.
So easy to say, the coral fire of sunset; the bright hand of a god at the end of the world. You
just have to be there. Try not to picture it.
A lens can’t capture a moment the way the eye sees. Cliché
And that this stanza would consider
how you pass a finger through a candle’s flame without burning, or, at most, with a little pain. Trial
and error. Some know better
than to linger long, others come to love then need, the sting.
Now I can only tell you
how it is I love the way she often laughs so hard her body heaves
loose the strings. Convulsions in the waves
that reach her feet and beat a jig no mermaid could dance.
It’s like trying to stand
on the horizon, the corner of a canvas but this is soon, I can’t see
more than shade at the periphery, how
gears change in the dark, turn down the sun.
by Neil Flatman
Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, July 27, 2015
As I entered my eighth month
of pregnancy, my grandmother, timeworn and ripened, exited our line.
Far from home, I received the news
in a whoosh of air, as a warbler trilled a melody I suddenly understood.
And though there was much to fear,
the awareness settled in me like a deep stream. She companioned me for the lying-in.
A feral cat crept into the room and stayed
during the long hours of my labor. She howled as my son crowned, cries louder
than my own, then disappeared. And, just
before he emerged, I reached inside and felt black curls protecting his fragile skull.
At that moment, I received her blessing and saw
his face, still curled in his confinement, and knew, as a mare knows, it was time to bear down.
Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, July 7, 2017
She paid five bucks a month to have a star
named after her. She would point to the sky’s crush of stars and say there it is.
This is the same Viola whose creditors
took away her furniture every quarter as if her house were a stage set.
Viola, who used to pay me
to pull Spanish moss from her oaks as she lay in a lounge chair, the bachelors in the apartment complex eyeing her through binoculars.
Viola, whose husband came home one night
and threw her lover naked into the street. Viola, who reprimanded her husband for not trusting her, demanding an apology.
Viola, who I learned today
died several years ago. Viola, who I suddenly miss. I squint up at the night sky. I wonder how many times, Viola,
your star has been renamed? It’s missing,
as if you didn’t keep up the payments.
Like you, reclaimed by your creditors.
by Bob Bradshaw
Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, June 24, 2016
My mother’s cigarette flares and fades,
the steady pulse of a firefly, on the patio under the chestnut.
The next door neighbors are over.
My father, still slender, is telling a joke: laughter jiggles in everyone’s drinks.
On his hour’s reprieve from sleep,
my little brother dances in the sprinkler’s circle of water.
At fourteen, I’m too old
to run naked with my brother, too young to laugh with my father.
I stand there with my hands in my pockets.
The sun refuses to set, bright as a penny in a loafer.
Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, June 22, 2016
The sound of morning
steps down a mountain, not really a noise, more the eyes explain the sun walks on water to the other senses. If it is Saturday I sit in a chair that rocks and overlooks the role of the river, how it holds a heron in place by the ankles until its long neck forms the bones at the end of hush to let loose such a wingspan no amount of highway is necessary to know which direction the day is going
by Charles Carr
Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, June 26, 2018
But Skin Is Different
There are indentations in the blue
porcelain like impressions on soft wax where it was held softly, when
the tea was warm, for a while, and it
would not stop raining. We leave marks on things that least expect it, on a passing
wing, on yellow afternoons, on the serrated
silhouette of leaves against a midnight moon, on time standing on one leg, back
against the far wall, waiting. Truth is a
collage of careless fingerprints, the rain can draw your picture from the way your hand
caressed the clouds, but skin is different,
naked skin can be cleansed, memory carries the deliberate guilt of sieved pain. This tea is
cold, a level certainty in an imperfect cup, it
is only mid-June, the sun flattens like an unleavened candle, and it will not stop raining.
Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, June 20, 2018
A year ago I wrote to you
of temple bells, about the silk-tassels, how they grow like weeds, shimmer in the wind beneath my window.
After a mild dry winter,
scant spring rain, you sing to me of homemade tortillas, the sweet heady taste of vine-ripe tomatoes.
Out of step with your seasons,
these cool windy mornings my catkins dance early, grey faster, fall even softer this year than the last.
And to think—
before you came with this uncommon friendship, the remarkable beauty in distant correspondence, I would have missed this day, used it for a calendar, a decoration for my wall if I noted it at all.
by Patricia Wallace Jones
Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, May 30, 2017
Where are you heading to, Lascaux horse,
rust and bonfire coloured, running
across the eggshell coloured postcard?
Never mind if your legs appear too thin
to bear your weight, they were never meant to.
You were born like this, caught between the earth
and sky, under someone’s moving
fingers clutching clay and charcoal, lit
by uncertain fire light, so you seem
to move in and out of shadows, one
of Plato’s ideal creatures, not needing
anything more than this to be alive
and permanent. On the other side
of the postcard, words of love and greeting
from years ago, in some unknown hand.
by Ciaran Parkes
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, April 21, 2017
photo is in the