Splice the Mainbrace

All poetry by pyrit is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at pyrits.wordpress.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://pyrits.wordpress.com/ .

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Further poems to be added Soon

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The Little Woodstove

The little woodstove, my winter witness, sits still.
Silently awaits, the ritual.
I lift the lid, whisk the cinders, bow to ashes’ grace.
Gray ghosts, silver spirits,
Billow upward in my face.

The little woodstove, with brittle windows winking.
What mischief it is thinking.
This is its folly, its whim, its chilling satire.
I know I’m no match for it,
And the riddle of silly old fire.

The little woodstove, truly gives me fits.

I am losing, this battle of wits.
Which of us will be left standing, or standing in the cold.

It’s a bitter wind my friend,

If your warmth you withhold.

The little woodstove, tries to look the other way.
Sighs a whisper of dismay.
I fill it with tinder, with wishes, with thin hope in flint.
Then blow it a kiss and listen…
For it to give me a hint.

The little woodstove, my merry minstrel.
Winter is nigh, time will tell.

Now you chirp, you flit, you glow like a rosy linnet.
Dusty, lilting firebox,
Quivering like a tingling spinet.

~

Penance

A writer’s whispered fingertips,

Scribbling, murmuring lips.

Uncoiling black wild

Ink over vellum child.

Sea swell, sinking spell

Betwixt the pen and the well.

All aboard wordsmanship,

Worthy maiden trip.

Chase flocks of birds,

Let fly bony spurs.

Sea swell, sinking spell

Betwixt the pen and the well.

A day’s reach island,

Ever bound horizon.

Turn of tide choke,

Press upon English oak.

Sea swell, sinking spell

Betwixt the pen and the well.

Ropes of prose

Hoist the odes.

Braided refrain,

A writer begins again.

Sea swell, sinking spell

Betwixt the pen and the well.

~

Deja June

Early June morn of spring near over,

Honeysuckle drops in on clover.

Rose and lilac pour a perfume drink,

Warm breezes fan an aromatic link.

Under the sun, nectar sweetly oozing,
For a thousand bees busy cruising.

Two thousand wings beat a goodly din,

The drum roll of summer about to begin.

~

Compass Rose

More than not
We are lost.
For all our
Navigating,
Undulating,
Deviating.
After
What was it anyway,
Something shiny.
Something beautiful.
Something over here,
Or, over there.
On behalf of
The chase,
It is good to know,
Dragonflies
Finish the invisible maze.
Snail trails
Paint a silver rose.
Zebra stripes
Are as close as your fingertip,
And no two are the same.

~

Irish Enough For Spring

If spring is your thing
There’s a land of weather
Softened by heather,
Where dreamy drizzle
Tickles the whimsical
Fancy feather.

Where spring’s a lucky ring
Of gold whin in Wicklow
And dear shamrocks grow,
Down to Bantry Bay
Up around Lough Neagh
And over Hillsborough.

Spring’s always in full swing
And the sun doesn’t glare
At so much green where
Mere ribbons of gilting
Upon rivers lilting
Brighten grassy glens so fair.

What were we discussing?
Sweet brambly patch jams,
Evergreen pastures full of lambs,
Dandelions, and salmon runs swift,
Fresh fields of clover adrift…
Is it spring flowing from my pen in hand?
Or, is it Ireland?

~

Poise

Our vernal pools,

Filling up desiccated depressions.

Our temporary housing.

Compensation,

Restoration.

Our vertebral pillar,

Rising up unparalyzed by evil‘s sway.

Our demons make peace.

Equilibrium,

Sanctum sanctorum.

Our vineyard pearls,

Instilling up desolated teardrops.

Our tendril-hold on the stem.

Diluent,

Abluent.

Our volta partners,

Lifting up the floor of collapsed hearts.

Our resuscitation.

One, two, three,

One, two, three…

~

I Went Fishing

I went fishing, a-fishing I did go

I went down to the deep fishing hole

I fished water the sun doesn’t know

I’m going back, is good for my soul

I’ll go fishing, and reel it in slow.

~

Spring To Life

I cannot begin to tell, how surprised I was,
When I kicked off my black boots
And away they flew, up and over, into the sky,
Taking wing, with a ragtag flock of crows.

Or the time when, to my amazement,
My chocolate sugar-coated donut got up from the plate,
Standing on dark, strong stallion legs
And shook powder-white snow from its rump.

Oh my, and that was not all,
I’ll never forget the frozen lake’s April thaw,
The last three icebergs woke up,
Flapped great bright wings, swanned around, tails waggling.

Now, perhaps, who knows, maybe
Sunlight will replace oxygen,
And I will breathe a sigh of re-leaf,
How rite of spring that would be.

~

Buttermilk

Tulips cupping the sun,
Resourceful as buttermilk.

Lightsome laundry drip drying,
Salubrious as full udders.

Under diaphanous presumption;
Sure the world will turn, turn, turn,
And not fritter away.
A faith, based on probability.

Bees buzzing the hive,
Busy as a church on Sunday.

Robed keeper’s smoke purifying,
Virtuous as a patchwork quilt.

Under immaculate persuasion;
Sure the world will burn, burn, burn,
And the colony collapse.
A view, based on belief.

Druids humming the renewal,
Buoyant as a gesture.

Haunted cygnets hue and crying,
Subtle as poets in the pub.

Under eloquent perceptions;
Sure the world will learn, learn, learn,
And blush with youth.
A trust, based on how the sun and moon sew the days together and the light of spring reveals a hole opened up in the Universe.

~

Shazam

Lulling rain
Flow and wane
Drizzling window
Lazy wind blow
Distant rumble
Gray and humble
Storm of no note
Well known by rote
Go on about
Matters without
Not a notice
Small storm as this
Carry onward
Toiling forward
Just keep going
Never knowing
What each minute
May have in it
Tarry among
Each tick’s short run
Until the time
Stops on a dime
A tick so long
Your life’s by gone
A trice, a wink
A flash, a blink
A flash so bright
A flash of might
Out of the gray
Some rainy day.

~

The Witch’s New Cat

The witch’s new cat got into the wands, while the witch was gone away.
Atop a shelf in the witch’s kitchen, the wands for years had laid.
Returning to find the wands in bits the witch was quite dismayed.
But the crumbs on the floor were small compared,
to the marvel the cat had made.

Magically, to the feline’s fortune, now the wand was in the cat.
Happy to be a vessel for spells, what tricks were dabbled at.
The earth moved, the skies shook, mountain tops fell flat.

The dust settled on a better world and the cat was pleased at that.

With one flick of its tail a fleet of shrimp trawlers washed up from the sea.
A herd of heifers, landed down from the Alps with a lifetime of milk for free.
Peacocks of India soon appeared, then trampolines under every tree.
By the time the witch got home, the cat had the most enchanting jubilee.

Now the witch thought, this all was alright, nothing has truly gone awry.
There was no keeping the wands any safer, for a cat no shelf is too high.
As soon as enough shrimp is devoured and the milk is lapped, oh my,
The cat will have the wand out of its system,
after a little more time goes by.

~

Courtyards

Each epiphany a kiss on the head from an angel;
Ephemeral divinity.

Each roof valley snow a peace dove’s wingfeather,
Silently landed.

Each stag’s forehead a throne for his constellation;
Celestial temple.

All worries are mice loose about the pantry,
Endlessly trying.

All thoughts are folded notes stuffed in pockets;
Laundering debris.

All joys are dogs bowriding a car window,
Speedily wondrous.

Every day, a sequoia seedling.

Every archway, a courtyard kneeling.

Poetry is catching a whale in a thimble.

And I, as much as the next wanderer, am happy to see another’s footsteps in the stardust.

~

Icing

Silky slick shishes
Silvery slicing sliders
Slippery swishes

~

Great White

You know what you do?

You go outside.

Into the icebox.

For a moment.

You listen to Suspense.

You sip a gasp of air but only.

Because It will kill you.

Waiting on your sidewalk, hiding in the bushes, cutting off your power.

Northern Winter, cold assassin, right at your door, in the keyhole,

Licking the threshold, lying on your roof,

Staring in your window.

~

Once Upon a Willow

When a willow is not a willow,
When you set your head on grassy pillow.
Looking up from down under,
Filling up full of wonder.
Circle time.

Sagely robed shaman.
Tassle shawled conjure woman.
Broody braids summon the pond.
Lady of the Lake’s wand,
Weeping.

Green seine sunbeam angler.
Fishtailing lure dangler.
Trolling tentacles drift and reel.
Dripping eels,
Hanging out to dry.

Kelly plunging parachute.
Rapelling ropes to trunk’s loot.
Shoots guard tall castle’s keep,
While roots swallow the army jeep.
Battle grounds.

Viridian boughs let Ophelia drown.
Girdle and sashes for Sir Gawan.
Laundry line for Tinkerbells’ tights.
Anne’s Green Gables bright.
Castles in the sky.

Olive-eyed Hydra dragon.
Hanging Gardens of Babylon.
Siren lyres in babbling eddies.
Pantheon of divine deities.
Ancient wonder.

Chartreuse pouring elixir streams,
Absinthe vapors eliciting dreams.
Catkins catnapping in raffia baskets,
Twiglet flutes whistling tunes fantastic.
Will o’ the wisp.

Emerald City of Oz,
Wind in the Willows,
Robin Hood’s Sherwood Forest and
Peter Pan’s Never-Never Land.
Tall tales.

~

Let Us Winter

Our Winter, which art in kelvin,

Snowplows be thy game.

Thy blizzards come

Thy chill be done

On Earth, as it is in Helsinki.

Give us this day our daily sled

And freeze our assets

As we deep-freeze those who throw snowballs against us.

And lead us not into glaciation

But deliver us from snow shovels.

For ours is the Kringledom, and the power generator,

And the gloves,

For shiver, and shiver.

Snowmen.

~

Valence

Gossamer has a way of slipping into the elevator as the doors are closing, making them jump back open.
Gossamer has a way of brushing against my hair, making me jump.
Gossamer has a way of riding in my coattails.
Smoke without ash.
Water without wet.
Energy without pulse.
The essence of absence of substance.
The mirror of vapor of phosphor.
The magnetism of wisdom of phantasm.
Valence.
Gossamer has a way of entertaining the cat.

~

Autumn’s Whiskers

Autumn wind is a daft cat,

Batting leaves across the ground,
Chasing its tail around and around,
Hunting beasties that are still awake,
Thirstily lapping the waters of the lake,
Climbing up high to the tops of trees,
Rubbing against sails o’er New England seas,
Napping in bright harvest sun,
Prowling streets when pumpkin moon is hung,
Purring ’round windows on a grey rainy day,

Nine lives blowing away.

~

Castine

Mine drear mortal, wat’re ye at?
Imp, she turn thee a carrot.
Tay Oth Othra Tay Rat.
At once, yea, a carrot.

Bite yer tongue, nor lurk ‘er bothy.
She brew dodgy cauldron brothy.
Dun Mull Mully Dun Frothy.
At once, yea, a mothy.

Spindly talons twiddle,
Shredded mutters, jiggered drivel,
Swindly eye giblets yer middle.
Beware, awfy twinge afore ye shrivel.

Wat slips fast as ‘er fleas,
A sklithery smell o’ wet weasels.
A bugaboo, hissing heebeejeebles.
A snit, lo, it spit wyrde diseases.

Hark yon huddle, chinwagging the witch.
Sulfur trails ‘er flying switch!
Spells spangle fro ‘er nervy twitch!
‘Ow they run dare she scratch an itch.

Sure that’s how she capers a livin’.
Witch’s wages fer others’ biddin’.
When trouble be on their head sittin’,
She ‘as ways o’ trouble riddin‘.

If’n a laddy does be kissin’ a shrew,
Shouldst a lassie thirst blackest pool,
Should e’er hap summerly snew,
‘Ol witch ‘as earned quare bob or two.

Double crossed hearts, bedeviled faces,
Be sneakin’ shadow like to ‘er place.
Silver chink or poison toads they pays,
‘Til victim’s spell soon betrays.

Dimwits, kings, an’ worrywarts curtsy.
Bring ‘er they strifes an’ beg ‘er mercy.
Sure, but naught ever once you, curiously.
Bah! That’s a fine how do you do fer sorcery.

Summat strange afoot now, alack…..
Mind, the cheek off you‘s due a payback.
Ye best apologise fer yer wisecracks.
Or she’ll go away,
An’ ne’er come back.

Why, ye look ghostly gobsmacked.
‘Ave I spoilt yer bletherin’ craic?
Yea, ye can’t git blacker than black.
Thee just may need ’er one day matter o’ fact.
Only to find ‘er empty shack,
If she goes away,
An’ ne’er come back.

~

Beetle Tea

Roll low, soft stones, trundle brushed colors

Cloak a hummock throne round a gargling crower

Mull over heavy fruit in foggy groves

As dewey pools sweeten buried troves.

Roll by, soft stones, send sprays to windowsills

Send tree faces; Picassos, Raphaels, over the hills

Leave bare veins, and sweet sap within, to stand still

Wildly flatter Mother Nature’s will.

Roll on, soft stones, spread bewildered view

This bleary mist, this autumn we fall into

Sullied, to dwell, by fire’s trial true

Shake out the old, shake out the new.

~

Frog Prince Big Mouth Spring Serenade

Presently frogs galore,
Ribbiting the woods o’er.
Alien harmonious din
Of the wooing amphibian.
With gregarious air
Leaps of love declared.
Midnight peeper duets,
Bufo Romeo & Juliets.
Broadly banjoing toads
Proposing as spring bodes.
Portly courtiers sprawl,
Beady eyes, warts and all.
Each chirp, grand croak,
‘Jug o’ rum’ under nights’ cloak.

~

Corvid Corsairs

Give me that beady black eye,
Humour me with a reply
Cawing at Crows is what I do
Luckily I live on an acre or two
Our chats are ours and ours alone
No one’s calling cops on the phone
Recently I heard a rumour of a sort
That Rooks have been observed holding court
Taking a member of their flock to task
What impossibly is an offense to a Rook I ask?
The Corvid family are a rowdy bunch sure
A gregarious, intelligent, social creature
Bossy, saucy Blue Jays
Charcoal Crows in Oxford grays
Thieving, theatrical Magpies
Regal Raven splendidly wise
Solving problems, making tools
High in the sky in flight duels
They are self aware, they know they are black
They use the shadows to avoid attack
Their children play games, King of the Mountain,
Follow the Leader and Pebbles in the Fountain
They remember everything like a recorder
They live a complicated social order
Mating for life, truly honorable birds
Compared to them, these are empty words.

As a kid I cawed at Crows. Cawing at Crows is what I do. Luckily, I live on 4 1/2 acres.
Our conversations are private.
When Crows attack a predator it is called mobbing. A flock of Crows used to be called a murder. A flock of Ravens used to be called an unkindness. Ravens are the largest Corvid, growing to 27″ and weighing up to 3 1/2 pounds. The Raven is the smartest bird of all birds with intelligence equal to a dog’s. The Crow and Raven do not mix at all. Crows will mob Ravens. There are 120 Corvids worldwide.

From Aesop’s Fables to mythology,
Literature, pop culture to the Bible
Corvid’s claim on fame is justifiable.

~

Fall Femme Fatale

Geese, geese and more geese
On autumn wind shall meet and meet again
And leave into the wind
Lemmings of leaves, milkweed faeries
Mourning cloak over aster
Lowland coveys roost
No modern day can quell
That witch they know so well

Stars, stars, and more stars
Orion hunting, hunting beside the moon
Seven Sisters nightly teasing
Black cherries ripe and falling
Acorns for thieving
Filling raven’s throats, tree hollow caches
No modern day can quell
That witch they know so well

Long shadows and longer nights
To hibernate or to hunger long
Now is the time to choose
Bales, harvests, firewood
Woolly worms amble out
Spiders wait for dead, hanging by a thread
No modern day can quell
That witch they know so well

White chittering whispers
Icicle fingers
Cold, cold, age-old spinning skirts
No modern day can quell
This witch we think we know so well.

~

Alluvionnet

Pitch black cliff edge, the airy break tempts weight
Where crags torn to pebbles are slip and loose,
Whose downfall be a rocky broken truce
Beware the blade, so dear, cuts clay to slates
Failing yet legends to fall to their fate.
But this isn’t how a life wants to lose
Uprooted, windblown, nowhere left to choose.
Behind, only shale, below, grievance great
Facing odd options, scrabble or abyss
Standing low, as the oak before the scree
For the peaceful hero it comes to this
Resting on sands of time, left to debris.
Only water enjoys a dark cascade
So pour pure water which we all are made.

~

Get Lost

Lost gets a bad rap. Justifiably.
Being lost in a hedge maze is the antidote. It is nirvana. Like innocence.

In your memory, go back to the Time of Wonder.

Maybe you never left. Even better.

Proceed with great confidence! THIS is the way!
Run, don’t walk, down the path less taken.
Laugh heartily at the nay-sayers!
And there are nay sayers a plenty! (Ha!)
Onward ho!
Bam. Dead end.
Waaaaiiitaminit. Stop. Hold on. Wait I said.
Ehn?
What you thought was true is false.
Look up at your predecessors, who are wiser, watching, laughing, with great gaiety, at your demise.
You laugh too.
They know the way you need to go.
But they can’t tell you. You must find the way yourself.
You meet others who are lost, with stupid grins. Ha! It is divine to be lost together. Good humanhood.
They go their way. You make your own way.
Now, just hang on would you, I’ve been ’round that corner at least 5 times!
Laughing. Oh this is joy.
Hope springs eternal.
“You’re gonna make it after all.”
Oops. You thought for sure!
How could you be wrong? Again?
Others try to cheat; peek over the top, squeeze through the hedge. Not me man.
It’s no fun when you cheat.
Your head is spinning but the grand finale beckons.
Turn, turn, turn.
Aw I do not believe it! (Choruses of golden angels)
No! Way! That was it?!
Welcoming arms, celebratory hugs, ring the bell.
I DID IT!
It was great, like tewtally.
Ha! Pats on the back all around.
Soon, cracking up at the ones down in the maze.
Cheer them on, or, toy with them! What fun.
But it really is about the journey.
And, in a hedge maze, you get to start all over.

~

I used to be http://pyrit.vox.com/