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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Now, back to poetry…
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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.
~
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’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, looks 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.
~
Follow
I am the timpani in the minute pipistrelle
I am the tempest in the timberwolf’s pursuit
I am the one oasis on obsidian waters.
Floating wanly on luna moth wings
The pillar of white-stockinged birches
The picket fence escorting the skunk
The bachelor ache of the chanticleer.
I am the moon of old
Who winged celestial heart
To dwell in upland wold.
Who flew a vow into open boughs
To spellbind the forest.
Who is that of the hollowest call.
Who is a vision of the night.
Who has the wisest face.
Who soars in silent stealth.
Who.
I am the heart of the moon.
~
Wild flower heads wave me down
As I’m driving by, they catch my eye,
I stop to open up and let them in.
Making daisy chain friendship knots
That could go for miles and miles
Or as far as the next rest stop.
The road ahead has rosy skies,
Traveling with social butterflies,
Creeping phlox and tumbleweeds,
My Bug is a busy bee.
I put the petal to the metal,
Buzzing past the stinging nettle.
Travel weary, and running low,
A fill-up stop before on I go.
A seedy, dirty wayside bar,
Where potted petunias are popular
But undependable in a downpour
And seem closer in the rear view mirror.
Wend my way around the bends,
Tired of picking friends.
Lilly of the valley, mountain laurel.
Who’ll pick me to be a flower girl,
The sweetpea, or nightshade.
Who will wilt, who will fade.
I keep turning until straight ahead
I find my perfect flower bed.
Park the car in the shed,
Put down roots, sow and sprout,
With buddies who love me, love me not,
Some forget me,
A few, forget me not.
~
Where Could Color Go?
Sunbeam swordplay.
Duels at dawn with spires,
Advancing against rooftops,
Lunging through windows,
Engaging our rooms,
Radiance assumes the stance.
Chambers are at daggers drawn,
The grande chasse’ is on.
Solar scissoring blades,
Dazzling forays,
The fabric of our life attacked,
Swank fades to blank.
Steadfast dyes defeated.
True colors retreat.
But where could color go?
.
Did the colors die?
No.
Living color airborne,
Lives on the air we breathe.
The breath of life is clear.
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Twilight trickery.
Shady lady dons evening gloves,
Hustling under dim lightbulbs,
Spinning a pearl ring,
Blowing smouldering puffs,
Darkness bluffs her way.
The masquerade is on,
Wink and a whisper until dawn,
How the night is needy,
Wishing to reign supreme,
Colors kept in the great unknown,
Until her cover is blown.
Night surrenders as she must,
Upon dawn’s rescuing blush.
But where did color go?
.
Were the colors forsaken?
No.
Prismatic polestars
Adore their heirs.
Sure as the moon wont roll away.
~
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 about Bantry Bay
Up ’round 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 spread 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?
~
Brrr-lesque
All a rainbow once was the garden.
Too soon Autumn hissed, “Prithee I beg your pardon.
Time to rustle up my harvest palette,
Splatter flames on sylvan silhouettes.
Arbor Day greens are my Halloween red,
I cast fire to ash and they fall down dead.”
Whorling potpourri tumbles ‘round in alleys.
Winds race freely through wizened valleys.
~
Deja June
~
Let Us Winter
~
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.
~
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, over and up, into the sky,
Taking wing with a ragtag flock of crows.
Or the time when, to my amazement,
My sugar-coated chocolate donut got up from the plate,
Standing on dark, strong stallion legs,
Shaking 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,
Flapping great bright wings, swanning 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 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, came down from the Alps with a lifetime of milk for free.
Peacocks of India soon appeared, and 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 wand will come out of the cat, 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. Back inside you go. Because It will kill you. Northern Winter, waiting on your sidewalk, hiding in the bushes. At your door, licking the threshold, in the keyhole. Cold assassin, lying on your roof, cutting off your power, 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.
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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.
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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.
~
ValenceGossamer 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,
Lapping at 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‘.
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.
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.
Dimwits, kings, an’ worrywarts curtsy.
Bring ‘er they strifes an’ beg ‘er mercy.
Bah! Naught e’er once you, curiously.
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 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 may need ’er one day matter o’ fact.
Only to find ‘er empty shack,
If she go 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 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
Gregarious, intelligent, social creatures
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
In autumn skies shall meet and meet again
And leave upon 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.
?
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 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.
~
( By Jove, I think she’s got a kiddie poem … )
Mouse at Christmas
I’m a mouse at Christmas, Merry Ho Ho
I’m sliding down a snowman’s nose
Landing softly in the snow
Making snow angels
And snow balls to throw.
I’m a mouse at Christmas, Joy To You
I’m decorating my igloo
Tiny lights, green and blue
Trimmed with icicles
Holly berries too.
I’m a mouse at Christmas, Happy Noel
I am singing Jingle Bells
While I sled in a walnut shell
Snow tubing in a donut
Now that would be swell.
I’m a mouse at Christmas, Glory Be
I’m climbing up a Christmas tree
My most favorite sight to see
So Merry Christmas to you
And have as much fun as me.
~
