The Crock of Gold Illusive

 

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

DUSKY CLOUD

What cloud formation,
storm gathering phenomenon,
that the dark should so plunge and curl?  
Curving like first grim screen-saver,
twirling without pinwheel stick,
how the sweep, when gust holds still,
how dusky changes into night,
charcoal to the shade of grey?
Till they on pier-pile-starlings
or girders settle, flight-
murmurations fill
the wheeling sky.

 

 

 

 

WISTERIA

Why
fall in love
with hanging blooms,
racemes pale-grape brevity,
butterfly short-display flutters by,
as if impatient to die,
fresh petals gone,
mocking me,
rattle.

My eyes saw a honeyed cottage,
dappled, amethyst necklace
about its frames,
against skin,
shy,
retiring, hidden
in exhausted deafened city,
panicked termites, nothing spare
would not dare lift, for pause, then stare.

Lanterns,
whose searching
flex, trailing snake resents
control, direction, overnight whips out,
secret lashing, dawn regret, fail day-search modesty,
some frilly flouncing debutante,
beauty in stroppy staggering
bout, pollen drunk,
maudlin.

 

 

 

 

 

ALLOTTED SPACE

Black fish nets drape where canes are lashed,
discarded tights suggest worn through,
all day is worked to sunset strip,
for irrigation butt is filled,
no handcuffs, yet old bedstead, notched,
silk sheets, down pillows, dreams long gone,
the knots and ties and metal rings
near leather thongs and magazines.
Compost-making pages featured last,
with promises of bone meal soon.
To puff the pipe, though do not smoke,
while listen battered wireless hum,
not radio.  I want no drink,
here no release, though thermos cup
reminds of how it used to be.
I note the greenfly over there,
aware no borders weed seeds care;
the customs post, a long pea row,
where tax free excess rhubarb share.
Allotment place, working men's club,
some clubfoot there, but growth is good,
and unexpected bloom appears.

 

 

 

 

 

CROCK

There is no useless beauty,
or even wasted shame;
oil and water mix when whisked,
emulsified, so fixed.
We prefer separation,
yet good and evil, twixt,
are joined in every spirit,
a battle from within.
But which will gain the upper hand,
where colours merge, stand out,
and will we face the portrait,
or choose landscape instead?
It’s promised in the rainbow,
where sun needs rain to lift;
the crock of gold illusive,
as choice remains intact.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.
 
―Rabindranath Tagore, Stray Birds

______________________

Our thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth today for beautiful poetry about beauty and that illusive crock of gold! Wisteria photos remind us that Spring is, really, just around the corner.

Today at 5pm, Silver Tongue Saturdays in Auburn will feature Karla Brundage plus open mic. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Stephen Kingsnorth













 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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 “Why fall in love with hanging blooms…”