Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine/The River Rogue/Full Moon Rubicon

http://www.millerspondpoetry.com/index.php/issues/web_editions1/vol-15-19/vol18web2#Barbara A. Meier

River Rogue

The smoke plume on the horizon
speaks loudly in the silence of blue skies.
What started as an ember,
in the heartwood of the forest,
whimpers in the cackle, snap,
and crevices of fleshly joints,
igniting resin bubbles
and riddled insect bores.

The dance of fairy sparks
in rings around the trees,
leap high, crowning kings
and queens in joyous roars.
The plume, to cloud, to pyrocumulus.

The bed of needles
we’ve made ourselves,
lies in blankets
beneath the throne of night.
The touch, this micro torch,
is deadened silence,
against the burble
and hiss of river voice.

Heat emanates in the space
between hand and heart.
Energy leaping up
between the bark
of skin where worming sparks
linger in woody shafts.
Tongues of flames against the rough
jabber and prattle
of decomposing leaves.

The forest scales itself
to our bed of earth.
This adagio, at eventide,
Ends in a cricket’s crescendo,
where the flume of our passion

billows,
curls,
and roils
in pyro winds.

Full Moon Rubicon

(to do something that commits you to a particular course of action)

The twists,
In the habits of mind:
Disequilibrium.

You’ve disturbed my sense.
I can’t breath for the desire.
And you are so far away.
I look at that moon.
I would be that shard of light.

“Can you see the full moon?”

My words are careless
in its light.
I can’t get them to refract, bend or shape
thought.
I am oblique in moonlight,
sloping and slanting in beams
in the night sky.
Diffraction:
Avoid objects
that bend the waves of light
at the edge of mountains
(catching beams in their gnarly teeth)

redistributing my energy,
scattering it on the high plains.

And would you gather up that dust of me?
Or leave me in drifts of prairie grass?

I am invisible.
The light sears
inward,
Wraps a stroke,
finger cold in moonlight.
Your touch leaves a phosphorus trace,
moonlight green,
Patterns of a Luna moth flying silent
under the radar in the night.

My heart on the beams of refracted light,
Irregular, off beat,
Death strokes my brow,
Caresses my body,
I decay at a touch…

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Published by: Basicallybarb

Barbara A Meier is a poet, teacher, and mother, trying to write her way out of Kansas, anxiety and depression. Instead of indulging in feeling like garbage, trash, or rubbish, she chooses to examine the debris of her life by writing poems about it. After all as a forgiven, child of God, simultaneously saint and sinner, she is loved and cherished by her God.

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