when townies go to ground…

J. Wyeth black spruce

 

when weather moods go strange
the townies look a certain distant look

watch storm clouds scudding from a silvered north,
scry wind sweep litter’s moveable graffiti
across their streets and walks

they orient to steeples
and listen for the Angelus,
sweep cushions from the porch,
plan indoor birthday parties
and consult the almanac

the townies think in omens
when black swans glide to shelter
under weeping willow boughs

and when a wedge of geese
disintegrates to strands of
frantic clamor…townies
gaze unfocused at the chaos
for already they have gone to ground

Bonnie Marshall

Artwork by Jamie Wyeth

Dear Reader: If already you have purchased your copy of The Taste of Bees in Honey, then I wish to thank you,  and I hope you have the time to write a brief review of it on its Amazon site.

The revised poem you read here will appear in the next volume of my work and it will appear for sale sometime near this coming December.  Smile … I’ve been a busy poet.

 

Hamlet and the Piraha

dali flight

“There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all: since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is’t to leave betimes?” William Shakespeare   (Hamlet, 5.2.214)

To live as Brazilian Pirahã
is to be wholly in the present
where mists of past and future
are intangibles of time.

To live with Pirahã worldview
is to have no word for worry.
Dreamtime is the same as waketime…
seamless experience.

To live on the Meici River
is to flow one with the moment
where death is observation
eyes close…breath stops…
and readiness is all.

Bonnie Marshall

Art by Salvador Dali

surreal by the sea

 

 

shell robert smithson

milky news pods
pendulous
drip from data clouds
to clamshell i-Things
discarded
pre-metamorphic
memory erased
on a waveless beach
where tongues twitter whisper
and facemask photo shards
disperse to glitter litter
across infinite sand

Bonnie Marshall

Photo: Robert Smithson

gatherings for the ceremony

feast andrea kowch

come to the feast…
and drink clear water
seeped through stone
from cliffside springs
onto your tongue…
taste eras there…sip
country pheasant broth
strained enough to hint
of flight within its essence…
bite through the flesh
of warm-ed figs
to taste the green first
sprung through earthy loam
upon a rocky hill…
gnaw wild deer ribs
fire pit turned, spine cracked
to portions of hot muscle…
we throw the bones to darkness
in the corners of the room

and know…

it’s a mead hall time of year for me
with cravings for smoked shadows
salt crystalled cod and clove mulled wine
crisp partridge and roast deer
the heart strong wild of bear…
for I must taste strong flavors
touch sweat from sharp stone walls
smooth splinters roughed in pine
drip tallow on my palm
watch dust motes drift in shafts of light
hear sighs of sea-born rain
gnaw shreds of happiness
from bones of memory.

and…

I shall feed you flowers…
not as Oberon…tactician
strategist of magical intent;
I’ll find no tinctured potion
of Love-in-idleness to wake
you to a baseless passion

I need no Puck to gather
marigolds… petals I would
scatter on a dark green bed
of watercress to be garnish
peppery…for your wakening
of desire

I shall gather orange nasturtium
in the morning when chill night
has dew filled its tiny cups with
drops of sweet clear nectar I
shall offer to the wakening
of your sleep parched lips

and I shall place carnation petals
on your tongue for cinnamon and
nutmeg…and one violet for cleansing
to prepare you for my kisses

 

Bonnie Marshall

Art by Andrea Kowch

The Arsenic Hour

woman-reading-grey

Go draw the window curtains,
for it’s the arsenic hour
when sad memories make visits,
and wait for us to answer
their knocks upon the door.

They mustn’t know we’re home,
so click off all the music…
turn pictures to the wall…
sit motionless with cushions.

For they will test the door locks,
peer through the window shades,
and listen for the sounds
of footsteps on the stairs.

Bonnie Marshall

 

Artwork by Louis le Brocquy