Dancing with Orion

Clouds wisped away by firefly breeze
commune via galaxies afar
dancing with Orion
he never drops his guard
Taurus watches nightly
swishing his Pleiades tail
Ignore Libra's glare, wind away
quickly on an early spring trill
summoning all Jupiter's moons
it's time for the Gallow Hill Reel
carrying sheaves like a warrior
shielded by a furrowed brow
there will be no tomorrow, no stories
so tonight we must listen well




http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/613077/a_cherokee_myth_of_the_pleiades_and.html

I entered a poetry challenge for NYE...this was my entry...

The Indictment

Joe conveniently blamed his undoing on Frances.
Their hearts had hardened over a few long years,
Like the hoary overgrowth of thorn-laden shrubs
That lined the drive winding from Harrod Lane
Up to their walnut double doors, heavy, sturdy,
And proudly exhibiting their stained glass panes.
They only appeared inviting to casual observers.

Anyone who knew the two needn't be a prophet to see
The chance was high that either Frances or Joe might
Surface dead long before their time should've been due.
That cold topaz resting on her third finger, left hand,
Gave way to a gem of grander repose, highly carated,
Shining like the iridescent glint in Joe's hard eyes,
As he encircled Frances with favors, lies, and demands.

The wedding was de rigueur, the reception posh.
The decade that followed was a whirlwind of gain.
Then came Brittany, followed by Marsh...blessings -
Or the demise of all that remained plausibly sane?
Joe inhaled and injected his profits; business crashed,
As did Frances, into a crevasse below and past the last
Turn west of Morgan's Point, on a night much too dark.

Authorities suspected, unproven, more than casual mishap.
Joe blamed his late wife's lover for breaking her heart.
He claimed Frances got a call she never expected,
That sent her out the door then over that retaining wall.
He told detectives he hadn't slept with her in years.
Perhaps they split the sheets, but Joe never split hairs,
Nor profits. Frances knew too much to remain untouched.

Cold cases gather dust slowly on dim back shelves.
Her lifestyle was top-drawer, but Frances' demise
Held less glamor, less drama - more apathy and ennui.
She never stood for being ignored; she didn't lie
Still for it long either. Somehow Joe never rested
Peacefully again, even though he remained unindicted.
Between midnight and 3:00 AM, without fail, she came

To him - bloody finger outstretched, beautiful face
Abraded, marred...floating, not walking...closer...
Calling Joe, Joe, you know I'll never leave you.

Where...The Trees

A lone stand of pines keeps watch
beyond those citrus groves where
we played, where orange trees
produced their edible art, where
sweetness danced on questing lips,
and anticipation dribbled down our chins.

I remember you, pine-cone grenade in hand,
unbridled mirth spilling from your mouth,
past delicious orange-flavored lips...
When - *THWACK* - a hard green missile
found its mark on my cheek, where only
moments earlier your hand gently brushed
wayward hair from my face, and I felt
your breath, warm and wanton, on my skin.

All was fair in love and war:
Might in battle gave way to
impassioned testaments of forever.
Beneath glitters of falling stars,
loyal friendship melted into dawn,
then into scars that burn so sweetly.
Like ravaged driftwood setting sail
from twilight's quickly cooling sands,
those moments floated off beyond our grasp.

Now following the sun's daily reign,
a vague semblance of peace settles in.
Like some grayed carousel, shadows descend.
The lone stand of pines keeps watch,
sentinels untouched by time.
The trees know...
yet silent they'll remain.

WARMTH FOR WINTER

What can I say that hasn’t been said?...

The darkness in me yearns for more fire.
I am not fool enough to singe my wings.
It is not because they are tattered
I do not fly.
I choose not to use them,

Except for quick hops
Along territory with which I am familiar.
I fondly visualize palms of some distant if,
While gazing in the sun at pines I know.
Spring is not near, only semblances and hints,

If one can live through winter.
I used to relish cold,
Warmed by the heat within.
God gave me sparrows as charges,
Something to protect and nourish.

So I am not a hawk.
They gather to feed, assured
I am no threat.
Days lengthen, creeping slowly,
As my words get shorter.

There is no heaven past the convent wall.
The monastery lies freely cloistered.
Ivy climbs to choke the stones.
Moss and fungus cling yet add character.

There will be no fire today.
Was there ever need of flight?
Close your arms and pray for warmth.

~Ann R Cantu, 2005