A Poem a Day (679): Clouds

 
Clouds
 
You take the clouds sometimes,
revisit ambition in a fog-blown glass,
drift among the old ones tugging your soles,
their roots deep, too far away.
 
There is echo in the moon, the spill of its rays,
motion in the wide ocean that empties out.
 
The book lies closed where you set it down.
Idle. Your stories ask to be read,
yet you leave them in a darkened room.
 
Spirits of ages hunt the huntress, glisten the
hours of light cascades, the wretched waiting,
for you are drawn, imagined, talked upon,
but you are not how you are sketched.
 
Time ticks. Not so eager, not so slow.
This background shifts. Awaken movement.
He is at liberty, and yet he is not.
He lives, and yet he cannot sink inside it.

On the surface, a simmer,
the circular line invisible.
 
The elephant follows the herd, wise, sturdy.
He will follow til the end of his days,
rest with the sick, mourn upon the dead.
 
Here, we test our own mortality,
stripped of youth’s belief that we are stone.
 
Vickie Johnstone, August 11, 2024

A Poem a Day (678): Phantoms

Phantoms

Timeless. Where the horizon shrinks,
where the sky sprinkles silver lace,
once-eager waves reaching into peace.
We are lifted. We are something other.

He gathers his footprints across the sand,
a solitary walk. A wander into brilliance,
the hand of the sun’s rays shining down.

And strangers are met without speech.
Wet costumes cling to vibrant bodies,
perspiration glitters, laughter unites.

The old and wise sit back against the rock,
feel its coldness seep into their skin,
hats askew, towels drawn, toes dug deep.

We think upon the sun. Upon time.
Linger awhile in the reflection of ourselves.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 8, 2024 

A Poem a Day (677): Ricochet

 
Ricochet

Life ricochets,
outside of warmth,
footsteps upon an enamel floor,
wrinkles cast in this idle stone
we sit upon and desire upon
a crimson distant moon. Flecks dart
and reflect, this embrace of night,
Nocturne aghast at Light’s disperse.
 
I wander in. I wonder to disappear.
An arc of wave rises, subsides, just is,
and I am, as I always have been,
an echo of a belief, breaths of time,
seeking the limits of what we know.
We can step out or we can step in.
I stand between the here and the other,
taste the salt of the sea, vanish a little.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 8, 2024

A Poem a Day (676): Step on out & other hay(na)ku

Written for JD Mader’s writing blog – check in at 2minutesgo and start writing.
 
A hay(na)ku consists of a three-line stanza, where the first line has one word, the second line has two words, and the third line has three words. 
 

 
Step
on out,
slide inside in.

 
Buzz
lightly aloft,
bumble soft dance.

 
Ecstatic
light, revoke
night’s pin-point.

 
Click.
On. Off.
Light’s suggestive spark.

 
One.
A paw.
A toe. Impromptu.

 
Scarlet
rose, pearl
ears of snow.

 
Pelts,
blue scales,
shaken jagged pieces.

 
Split
selves, empty
cusks, dishevelled shells.

 
It
snakes, eels,
eats hexagon hearts.

 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, July 14, 2024

A Poem a Day (675): Endurance

 
Endurance
 
 
Endurance, an eternal battle, stuck fast
within this perimeter, a line drawn.
An axe could strike right through it.
Shackles off, here lies exploration’s tomb,
speckles from a purpled moon,
nimble stars set the black seas alight.
 
We turn, sight the markers, send into flight
a scarlet flare to light this endless verve.
Fireworks in the midst of miles of nothing,
only blue ice in kindest verisimilitude.
Where all the seekers have come to see,
there is now only silence struck.
 
Strewn across the ocean floor in boxes
linger the memories of the escaped crew,
cases etched with their unique histories,
rusted hinges keeping their secrets kept.
We learn nothing from their outside shields,
sanded down in the wide Weddell Sea.
 
Above, jaded creaks whisper of the ages lost,
a symbol of the Heroic Age crushed, and we
final-check our gear, deep dive into the wall,
a Narnia beneath the waves. Emptiness engulfs.
We swim as fish through the ribs of the body,
their pristine timbers yawning under pressure.
 
For a moment, we step back into 1915,
imagine the intrepid men who manned the ship
drifting past as shadowed dreams, where now
suckered anemones, sea lilies and starfish cling
to their stately home, a-shimmer in technicolour,
hearing the beating heart of a better world.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, July 13, 2024

A Poem a Day (674): Ride the line & other poems

Prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: a hay(na)ku consists of a three-line stanza, where the first line has one word, the second line has two words and the third line has three words. 

12 hay(na)ku

Ride
the line,
read in between.
 
 
Dope,
chaotic reload,
unkempt arctic smile.
 
 
Jump,
connecting in,
pure beat sublime.
 
 
Eight,
so figured,
redrawing twisted circles.
 
 
Plucked
clover emeralds,
unbonded, lucked out.
 
 
Life
fulfilling birth,
wavering eternal wanderings.
 
 
Distance.
A call.
Empathic mnemic overload.
 
 
Aces.
High stakes.
Play your hope.
 
 
Wires.
Crossed. Exchanged.
Gathered in recall.
 
 
Shapes.
Shifters. Shadows
creep in switchback.

 
Running,
wind catching,
spirals circling free.
 
 
Lips.
Touch. Part.
Wonder the moment.
 
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, July 7, 2024

A Poem a Day (673): Wander lust

 

Wander lust

 

She cannot find in looking,

dusts down these scarlet echoes unlived,

so out of steam, bereft and sold,

in a cage of ages etched in gold.

 

Plucked from a single straw,

the broomstick flinches close,

beats against the witching post.

 

Open the windows wide,

let the present wander in,

flood the walls in faery fire,

seek the things that will never tire.

 

We ring the leaves & bells tonight,

dare to dance barefoot wild,

this enigmatic moon beguiled.

 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, July 7, 2024

A Poem a Day (672): Gusts - a handful of hay(na)ku

My dad passed away earlier this month, so I haven't felt like writing. Today it's raining. Sleek. You can hear the soft speed of cars passing through. 
 
These poems are inspired by a prompt from NaPoWriMo.net. They are not related and are meant to be read separately. Prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: a hay(na)ku consists of a three-line stanza, where the first line has one word, the second line has two words and the third line has three words. 
 
 

Gusts,

playful air,

feather-light touch.

---

 

Waiting

for moments

to land. Patience.

---

 

Hands

creep sly,

numbers eating time.

---

 

Lyrics

dancing over

tramlines of notes.

Emotions

strung, remembered,

sung, empathy won.

 

---

Doors

so invisible

you cannot seek,

 

cobwebbed handles hidden,

tomorrow expectant,

unopened.

---

 

Fancy.

Not free.

Laboured. Caged inside.

---

 

Long

is the

walk to freedom.

---

 

Heady,

the lily,

bathed in pollen.

---

 

Spaniel,

red bucket,

new best pal.

---

 

Amazon.

Delivered. Opened.

Artful cat waits.

---

 

Rose.

Lemon’s breath.

Head now snapped.

---

 

Funk.

Get out.

Mojo must rise.

---

 

Scarlet.

99 balloons

racing the wilds.

---

 

Solitary.

Smoke wisps,

curling gnarled hands.

---

 

Lashes,

no tears,

dashed with rain.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 23, 2024

A Poem a Day (671): My guide through the hedgerows

 
I wrote this one for JD Mader's 2minutesgo writing page. If you fancy writing something or reading other people's work, head over there. Cheers :) 

I went for a walk late this afternoon and the light was wild, and this little brown butterfly kept landing on stones in front of me and as I got near it flew on. This happened about seven or eight times. It was awesome. 

My guide through the hedgerows 

It leads me, in flutter,
til spread still on a moss-fed stone
it sits, contemplates, flits upward
to flicker in this slip of spilt sun,
movements sluggish and kind.

It is my spirit guide through giants,
trunks sunk in this ditch deep-dug 
between hedgerows with their spill of purple 
velvet, lemon cups, horns of melting nectar, 
spun pearl-white daisies linking hands. 

Once more it perches, sienna-gold gilded, 
and in its unique timing it lifts again in game, 
shows me its childish side in secret,
waiting for the human to play catch-up
and understand nature’s way of speaking. 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 1, 2024

A Poem a Day (670): One to ten

 
 
One:

all the sacred lists of never done,
the wished upon, bled, un-won.
 
Two:

a struck filament, who knew?
Seeping fire, sweeping through.
 
Three:

in an instant he’s down on one knee,
emoting for all the world to see.
 
Four:

a pool of friends bleat at the door,
full knowledge of the homeless poor.
 
Five:

you get a full calendar to grieve,
suppress your own joy to still live.
 
Six:

he’s standing in line for another fix,
missing, extinct, exiled from the mix.
 
Seven:

they’re all trying to make it leven,
seeing signs full-sail from heaven.
 
Eight:

it’s a time to step inside your fate;
only make sure it’s not too late.
 
Nine:

he said “I want it all to be mine”
and yet he didn’t want to spend a dime.
 
Ten:

she lingered awhile beneath Big Ben,
doused by rain, oblivious to all men.

 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 1, 2024