The hum
We talk
about the hum,
the murmur
of the earth, so numb,
this
breathing time,
a waking,
walking line.
small echoes
just out of sight,
reflections
of dew eyes on grass,
vast azure
oceans clear as glass,
dust mountains
yearn to touch the clouds,
our imaginations
out of bounds.
breathe it
in, this heady drum-
beat
through the striding trees,
velvet whispers
on the breeze.
I wrote this one for JD Mader's writing group on Unemployed Imagination. Head over there this weekend to read people's scribblings or write your own.
Starlings
His last words
floated,
soared into a sky
of curious birds,
murmurations of
past lives twisting,
floating in the
ether of yesterday,
the truancy of
angels.
unsure of raising
a glass in respect,
unsure if it’s the
right thing to do,
stalling ‘til the
son takes the lead.
nodding knowingly,
in that polite way,
too English to say
how they feel,
keeping it in,
stiff upper lip and all.
It spreads
outwards in violet hush,
memories filling with
postcards
of happy days and well-worn
anecdotes,
offering a bright
light in the cold.
creating pictures
in the quiet air,
filling their
audience with hope,
honouring he who
has passed.
I wrote this for 2minutesgo on the Unemployed Imagination website. Head over there this weekend to read, write and hear the rap in Mader's words.
Grief
we tread
spaces,
in circles
winding,
forever
spiralling,
this never
ending,
this expanse
of heart.
The
emptying,
so severed
links,
grey gusts
twisting
from broken
hands,
as we sink
lower
into still
blue water,
numbers
marking how
out of
depth we seem,
sliding in
this endless
fade into
the deep,
into the ever,
this dark
arc rising
in silent
speech
to greet us.
Messengers
when everything
else is lost fall silent by day,
a low sun
circling the murmurations of birds,
sky-high
and moon-bound. We count mother runes
written in
stone, dew-flecked fields worn down by man,
the indentations
of fingers remembered by stern trunks,
wiry leaves
sending messages throughout the air.
penetrate
mud and dirt, deepest down, endless
thoughts passing
from tree to tree, green messengers
spreading the
secrets of the forest, the things the fae
have known
for centuries. Above, we walk tall,
unheard of,
unheeded, and we are powerless to know
the maze
of communications right beneath our feet.
Morning Star
far too skinny
for the wealth of us,
pearl
drops sparkling in the curve of
the Horned
Moon, heavens darkening.
It averts
its eyes. The Queen of Hearts
sleeps, her
cards no longer keeping guard,
and the Cheshire
Cat has found his head,
is grinning
away by this swanless stream.
Born from
lava, obsidian waters swirl,
this lunar
world silent on a silent breeze.
and we
ignore the languid inauspicious moon,
banking on
the Morning Star to be our guide,
the anchor
of the northern sky, daydreamer
of the
Celestial Sphere. While every other star
turns, it
stands still, steadfast, staring down,
an unwavering
sky marker for those who follow,
a tiny
beacon in the perilous dark.
A poem about a pretty awesome day last year.
but we choose
to ignore it,
shaking our
ass in a London field
booming with
the mellow sounds
of Pearl
Jam jamming in the breeze.
layers, our
voices humming like bees,
faces grinning,
bodies swaying,
heads dipping.
Like birds of paradise,
our little
feet stomp out a tune.
in time,
step into it, feel it wash
over us, a
warm shower of notes,
and we
live it full-out for an hour or two,
all the
stories inside these songs,
at one
with the people we know,
the people
who know us,
and we’re
connected in this dance,
in the
pure joy of it. A shared
emotion.
And we forget the hourglass
and the
sand shaking inside.
Trance
We seek
what we can,
in turning
find ourselves in essence,
scraped clean
from steamed windows,
the wide-set
eyes of the soul.
Squat
houses dot the backbone
of this skinny
strip, pearl sand sinking out;
chill waters
echo the mountain colours
rising like
dripping paint on canvas.
A blue arc
of tears. Purple sounds.
You can
count a hundred breaths here
in the stillness
of a pale pink dawn,
this transparent
streak of morning
echoing light.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, January 15, 2023
The tree of knowledge
cascading rain creating a flume
to carry you fast through the forest
floor to the greatest of the wilding trees,
its foreboding largesse spread out,
trunk opening to reveal a way inside.
a tomb for all those who came before,
and tread the scrawled roots down
beyond the region we call ground,
into softest earth, this endless dearth,
all sinking, all knowing, down
the source of being, past burrows
and the scurrying lives of others,
into the sacred pumping heart
of the world’s being, this opening
up of knowledge, devouring you
into a fairyland of endless green,
of arching branches seldom seen,
where dizzying pathways curve
and shadowy figures flick and pass,
glistening leaves whispering the way.
understanding their many mysteries
as you step beneath the shining boughs,
translucent butterflies on the wing
adding a shimmer as bluebirds sing,
into the halls of the faery king.
Frost
mist and
rain and restless doubt.
Snow courses
through the kitchen,
smothering
idle clove and cinnamon,
emptying
its hands in the corners.
An icy gail
blows down quiet corridors
to batter
upon the chill windowpanes
where the frost
posts its fingerprints.
creeping
closer from the forest heart,
uprooting,
dragging so many histories
on spiky
branches through the hall,
broken
twigs walking the twisted staircase
like abandoned
breadcrumbs.
of night, chimney
sending up smoke signals
to the new
year, emptying itself out,
memories
speckling the walls like powder.
Ghosts
wander the rooms looking for insight
and someone
to whisper their stories to,
but only
the trees can hear. Outside, the forest
vibrates
with the echo of nature’s hum.
White light
light the way,
light the way in and out,
count the roots leaving
Earth’s cruel soil
to breathe in oxygen
and the salt of the stars.
nightshade and glade,
night finds its way in and out,
competes with the fireflies
and their neon trails
lighting a faery route
through the sense-blessed green.
day’s breaking might,
night’s awe-inspiring foe,
for in the midst of darkness
we will turn to the light,
the purest white, deepest sight,
to wash negativity away.
