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…

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

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.

~

Follow

I am the timpani of 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 that 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 only 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 only 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 the 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.

.

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, up and over, 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

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

~

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.

~

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,

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.

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.

~

( 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.

~

Thank You, Jaymie Thorne !

You are very kind to honor me with the Kreative Blogger Award!

It is a great compliment, coming from a poet whose words I have enjoyed so very, very much!

I understand the rules are I am to now list 7 things about me.

1. Horizons 2. Nature 3. Wordplay 4. Stars 5. Humanity 6. Tea 7. Boots

And then I am to nominate 7 bloggers. That I can easily do! But I’m new so I don’t know if they have won before:

• DarcKnyt
• Flandrum Hill
• Jaymie Thorne\’s Personal Musings
• Lake Superior Spirit
• Reaching for my pen …..
• The Dark Lord\’s Blog
• The Pearl Tree

Thank you again, Jaymie.