The Emperor
His every cloven footprint is a shadow memory of when he was a man. The undulatus clouds are rippling in the cross winds like beach sand under the currents of ocean water. He sighs, sniffs the wind for the woman's scent. His animal life has become space enough to live in.
Showing posts with label 30 Prose Poems in Thirty Days. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 30 Prose Poems in Thirty Days. Show all posts
30 Prose Poems in Thirty Days: Four - The Empress
The Empress
The woman is so unspeakably exhausted she has forgotten her old life as if each memory slipped easily through a seive and was absorbed by hungry foreign soil. The faint echo of a child's voice still fills her ear no matter how many times she swats the insect buzz away. A claw of cirrus clouds have strafed jagged white tears through the sky's ocean blue. She has walked through enough days and nights to observe the moon wax and wane, completely dissapear then reemerge. Early into her journey, the laced leather shoes unhinged themselves at the seams and slid carelessly from her ankles until she stopped momentarily to tear strips from her underskirt and bind the shoes to her feet like bandaged dressings. Her hair hangs loose like an oiled snake down her back. She regrets the stays she abandoned days back, thinks of the boning she could fashion to tip her arrows. Her dogs baying at the edge of a meadow announce danger or the discovery of a strange scent. The dogs are circling a stag, snarling and snapping at its muscled legs. The animal is menacing her pack with his impressive antlers. It is only a matter of time, she thinks and is suddenly overwheled with a feeling of peace and a strong desire to sleep. She lies down in a fairy circle of heather and begins to dream. Mother! Her mother emerges from the ground wearing a crown of wheat. Her arms are filled with pomegranates. She is smiling. When the woman awakes, her dogs lie nearby, their bloodstained jaws slack in slumber. She can feel him watching from a distance. She knows she must wait, still.
The woman is so unspeakably exhausted she has forgotten her old life as if each memory slipped easily through a seive and was absorbed by hungry foreign soil. The faint echo of a child's voice still fills her ear no matter how many times she swats the insect buzz away. A claw of cirrus clouds have strafed jagged white tears through the sky's ocean blue. She has walked through enough days and nights to observe the moon wax and wane, completely dissapear then reemerge. Early into her journey, the laced leather shoes unhinged themselves at the seams and slid carelessly from her ankles until she stopped momentarily to tear strips from her underskirt and bind the shoes to her feet like bandaged dressings. Her hair hangs loose like an oiled snake down her back. She regrets the stays she abandoned days back, thinks of the boning she could fashion to tip her arrows. Her dogs baying at the edge of a meadow announce danger or the discovery of a strange scent. The dogs are circling a stag, snarling and snapping at its muscled legs. The animal is menacing her pack with his impressive antlers. It is only a matter of time, she thinks and is suddenly overwheled with a feeling of peace and a strong desire to sleep. She lies down in a fairy circle of heather and begins to dream. Mother! Her mother emerges from the ground wearing a crown of wheat. Her arms are filled with pomegranates. She is smiling. When the woman awakes, her dogs lie nearby, their bloodstained jaws slack in slumber. She can feel him watching from a distance. She knows she must wait, still.
30 Prose Poems in 30 Days: Three - The High Priestess
The High Priestess
Sparks from the fire pitch like smelted gold toward the embrace of the full moon. It is a cloudless night. The woman is no longer surprised to hear footsteps approaching her camp, but still reaches behind her to rest a hand on the familar curve of her bow and quiver. He emerges from the darkness surrounded by a pack of black dogs. She nods acceptance, and her guests settle around the fire. The dogs wait patiently for her to cut glistening strips from the spit, their dark eyes reflect streaming fire. She sees her image mirrored in the wells of his black eyes. She thinks to reach out and stroke his face, smooth his beard, trace her fingers along the ridges of his horns, but it is too soon to express her gratitude with such intimacy. There will be another moonlight night for this, another time after the dogs have returned from hunting, bringing her their fresh kills.
The Magician
The wind is speaking in a low voice through the small spaces between plaster and leaded glass. It's breath forces the thin cotton curtains to expand and bunch with each exhalation. She listens while stirring the contents of her large copper pot, one hip cocked in defiance. The wind is speaking. She taps the wooden spoon against the pot's lip and rests it, unwashed, on the nearby sideboard, tears her apron from her waist and leaves it where it falls. The door is battling against the wind's hard fist. The woman opens the door and the wind grasps her by the hair and flings her into the sky. She grows wings and flies along the rolling railway tracks of a radiatus cloud converging on the horizon.
The Fool
The sky is littered with the spent shells of small humilis clouds. It is a humble day, despite the boast of the afternoon sun. She is cooling herself under the wide expanse of shade the Russian Olive provides. Her feet are swollen and she has unfastened the leather laces and the top five buttons of her blouse. She is free of those she has left behind: the man and the sleeping child. She has been granted permission to step out of the life given her to stealth through alfalfa and wheat fields and alongside creeks swollen with mountain water. The mountains to the east still hold snow in their creases. She has not slept or eaten in three days. Bird chatter seems to her like a chorus chanted from a Greek tragedy. She remembers the stew and its potatoes and hank of pork she left simmering on the cook stove. The clouds remind her of the smoke symbols she read about in a book on the New World. She tries to decipher their meaning and finds in the bumpy cauliflower shapes a warning from the ghost of her mother.
Sparks from the fire pitch like smelted gold toward the embrace of the full moon. It is a cloudless night. The woman is no longer surprised to hear footsteps approaching her camp, but still reaches behind her to rest a hand on the familar curve of her bow and quiver. He emerges from the darkness surrounded by a pack of black dogs. She nods acceptance, and her guests settle around the fire. The dogs wait patiently for her to cut glistening strips from the spit, their dark eyes reflect streaming fire. She sees her image mirrored in the wells of his black eyes. She thinks to reach out and stroke his face, smooth his beard, trace her fingers along the ridges of his horns, but it is too soon to express her gratitude with such intimacy. There will be another moonlight night for this, another time after the dogs have returned from hunting, bringing her their fresh kills.
The Magician
The wind is speaking in a low voice through the small spaces between plaster and leaded glass. It's breath forces the thin cotton curtains to expand and bunch with each exhalation. She listens while stirring the contents of her large copper pot, one hip cocked in defiance. The wind is speaking. She taps the wooden spoon against the pot's lip and rests it, unwashed, on the nearby sideboard, tears her apron from her waist and leaves it where it falls. The door is battling against the wind's hard fist. The woman opens the door and the wind grasps her by the hair and flings her into the sky. She grows wings and flies along the rolling railway tracks of a radiatus cloud converging on the horizon.
The Fool
The sky is littered with the spent shells of small humilis clouds. It is a humble day, despite the boast of the afternoon sun. She is cooling herself under the wide expanse of shade the Russian Olive provides. Her feet are swollen and she has unfastened the leather laces and the top five buttons of her blouse. She is free of those she has left behind: the man and the sleeping child. She has been granted permission to step out of the life given her to stealth through alfalfa and wheat fields and alongside creeks swollen with mountain water. The mountains to the east still hold snow in their creases. She has not slept or eaten in three days. Bird chatter seems to her like a chorus chanted from a Greek tragedy. She remembers the stew and its potatoes and hank of pork she left simmering on the cook stove. The clouds remind her of the smoke symbols she read about in a book on the New World. She tries to decipher their meaning and finds in the bumpy cauliflower shapes a warning from the ghost of her mother.
30 Prose Poems in 30 Days: Two - The Magician
The Magician
The wind is speaking in a low voice through the small spaces between plaster and leaded glass. It's breath forces the thin cotton curtains to expand and bunch with each exhalation. She listens while stirring the contents of her large copper pot, one hip cocked in defiance. The wind is speaking. She taps the wooden spoon against the pot's lip and rests it, unwashed, on the nearby cupboard, tears her apron from her waist and leaves it where it falls. The door is battling against the wind's hard fist. The woman opens the door and the wind grasps her by the hair and flings her into the sky. She grows wings and flies along the rolling railway tracks of a radiatus cloud converging on the horizon.
The Fool
The sky is littered with the spent shells of small humilis clouds. It is a humble day, despite the boast of the afternoon sun. She is cooling herself under the wide expanse of shade the Russian Olive provides. Her feet are swollen and she has unfastened the leather laces and the top five buttons of her blouse. She is free of those she has left behind: the man and the sleeping child. She has been granted permission to step out of the life given her to stealth through alfalfa and wheat fields and alongside creeks swollen with mountain water. The mountains to the east still hold snow in their creases. She has not slept or eaten in three days. Bird chatter seems to her like a chorus chanted from a Greek tragedy. She remembers the stew and its potatoes and hank of pork she left simmering on the cook stove. The clouds remind her of the smoke symbols she read about in a book on the New World. She tries to decipher their meaning and finds in the bumpy cauliflower shapes a warning from the ghost of her mother.
The wind is speaking in a low voice through the small spaces between plaster and leaded glass. It's breath forces the thin cotton curtains to expand and bunch with each exhalation. She listens while stirring the contents of her large copper pot, one hip cocked in defiance. The wind is speaking. She taps the wooden spoon against the pot's lip and rests it, unwashed, on the nearby cupboard, tears her apron from her waist and leaves it where it falls. The door is battling against the wind's hard fist. The woman opens the door and the wind grasps her by the hair and flings her into the sky. She grows wings and flies along the rolling railway tracks of a radiatus cloud converging on the horizon.
The Fool
The sky is littered with the spent shells of small humilis clouds. It is a humble day, despite the boast of the afternoon sun. She is cooling herself under the wide expanse of shade the Russian Olive provides. Her feet are swollen and she has unfastened the leather laces and the top five buttons of her blouse. She is free of those she has left behind: the man and the sleeping child. She has been granted permission to step out of the life given her to stealth through alfalfa and wheat fields and alongside creeks swollen with mountain water. The mountains to the east still hold snow in their creases. She has not slept or eaten in three days. Bird chatter seems to her like a chorus chanted from a Greek tragedy. She remembers the stew and its potatoes and hank of pork she left simmering on the cook stove. The clouds remind her of the smoke symbols she read about in a book on the New World. She tries to decipher their meaning and finds in the bumpy cauliflower shapes a warning from the ghost of her mother.
30 Prose Poems in Thirty Days: One - The Fool
The Fool
The sky is littered with the spent shells of small humilis clouds. It is a humble day, despite the boast of the afternoon sun. She is cooling herself under the wide expanse of shade the Russian Olive provides. Her feet are swollen and she has unfastened the leather laces and the top five buttons of her blouse. She is free of those she has left behind: the man and the sleeping child. She has been granted permission to step out of the life given her to stealth through alfalfa and wheat fields and alongside creeks swollen with mountain water. The mountains to the east still hold snow in their creases. She has not slept or eaten in three days. Bird chatter seems to her like a chorus chanted from a Greek tragedy. She remembers the stew and its potatoes and hank of pork she left simmering on the cook stove. The clouds remind her of the smoke symbols she read about in a book on the New World. She tries to decipher their meaning and finds in the bumpy cauliflower shapes a warning from the ghost of her mother.
The sky is littered with the spent shells of small humilis clouds. It is a humble day, despite the boast of the afternoon sun. She is cooling herself under the wide expanse of shade the Russian Olive provides. Her feet are swollen and she has unfastened the leather laces and the top five buttons of her blouse. She is free of those she has left behind: the man and the sleeping child. She has been granted permission to step out of the life given her to stealth through alfalfa and wheat fields and alongside creeks swollen with mountain water. The mountains to the east still hold snow in their creases. She has not slept or eaten in three days. Bird chatter seems to her like a chorus chanted from a Greek tragedy. She remembers the stew and its potatoes and hank of pork she left simmering on the cook stove. The clouds remind her of the smoke symbols she read about in a book on the New World. She tries to decipher their meaning and finds in the bumpy cauliflower shapes a warning from the ghost of her mother.
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