"Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky,
We fell them down and turn them into paper,
That we may record our emptiness."
Khalil Gibran

Sunday, April 30, 2017


Caught between sky and earth,
Poor stupid animal,
Stripped naked to the wall,
He saw the blundered birth
Of daemons beyond sound.
Sick of the dark, he rose
For love, and now he goes
Back to the broken ground.
James Wright

All Rights Reserved
Photograph colourized by
Frederic Duriez


It is the day, we bid farewell to
at its death, and its corpse
we carry from this battleground
with simple benediction.
Once we welcomed the light
but not when it rolled
and broke upon this strand
of the maimed and shone
too brightly on the flotsam
of the wrack without care.
This day must be interred
with all the other nameless
fallen days, and we who live
salute, recall each particular
grain we ever breathed of sun.


Björn is out host for the final day of NaPoWriMo, with his prompt Particle-Wave Dualism.
It seems a fitting day for an epitaph, thus I have returned to the theme of war, and the photographic genius of Frederic Duriez.

Since the images have automatic links at the Source to be shared on multiple social platforms, I have selected one for this post. If the owner of the image objects to the manner and purpose for which it is displayed, please contact the Blog author.

Saturday, April 29, 2017


if I was dead,
and my eyes,
blind at the roots of flowers,
wept into nothing,

I swear your love
would raise me
out of my grave,
in my flesh and blood
Carol Ann Duffy

Night Fires
Agnes Lawrence Pelton
Fair Use


If I had known,
the day before you left,
that the cold fires of dawn
would never be as warm,

nor that birdsong
would not be written
for me alone, but that I
would hear it as a stranger;

if I had known
you were never to return
with the turning tide
to the harbour of my bed,

nor to reply when
the winds followed you,
calling in my lonely voice
with its plea to come home;

if I had known
the hour of my loss,
I might have died
slowly upon the last kiss,

or saved my tears
and stoked the night fires
with your name, until love
was burnt to ashes.


Sailing away with Brendan's Penultimatums in the Imaginary Garden.

I am bringing together a few of the April prompts in this piece, with a quote from Carol Ann Duffy's poem If I Was Dead and the artwork of Agnes Lawrence Pelton.
And I echo Brendan's words on the penultimate day of NaPoWriMo:
It whispers in one ear, You're done now, while at the same time exclaiming in the other: But what a journey it was ... I have learnt so much and may still have a few tales to tell.

Friday, April 28, 2017

Conversation with Death

A man feared that he might find an assassin;
Another that he might find a victim.
One was more wise than the other.
Stephen Crane

Source Unknown


And Death came down from his tower
when the Devil knocked
at the western gate, for he
had come bearing a gift:
a child, shackled at the waist
and in chains. The spectre said:
“Children die in my sleep.
History grinds their bones to grit.
What is this one to me?”
The demon warrior inclined
his horned head to the boy,
“This youth is a torment to me.
Long had I stalked him, thought him
unsuspecting a prey but once I
captured and bound him,
I found he had ensnared me.
Only you can set me free.”
Then Death stepped closer
to the gifted child, perceiving
an effluvium of corruption
and demanded his name be spoken.
“I am the World,” the boy smiled.
“Bow to your Master, for without me,
there is no Devil nor Death.”


Rommy invites us to pay a visit to the Boogeyman in the Imaginary Garden today.

Thursday, April 27, 2017

Conversation with Gaia

She was physically forgotten
Then she slipped into my pocket
With my car keys
She said you've taken me for granted
Because I please you
Wearing these diamonds
Paul Simon

Source UNknown


She was waiting for me, in the fork
of the road; her strange, dark eyes
contained the constellations; her womb,
the universe awaiting birth.
She held her right palm up and fixed
her starry gaze upon my face.
“Tell me who you are,” I spoke.
“Why do you stand in my way?”
Then I saw the rains released
in her tears. “I was the Empress.
Diamonds sprang from my heels
and cobbled these paths.”
But I looked at her bare feet,
saw only dust and splinters
of the broken wheel.


Marian is hosting today's prompt #27, Writing Shoes, in the Imaginary Garden.
I could not pass up the Paul Simon song Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes, especially because it features South African choral group, Ladysmith Black Mambazo which originates in my home town.
Last year was Dr Joseph Shabalala's 75th birthday celebration and the choir of Ladysmith High School (where I teach) performed his song Homeless at the event. I include a LINK to a very short video clip, which unfortunately does not show the entire performance.. but I love it because many of the children you see singing are my students.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

All is Still

All that’s needed is yearning, fate & you.
BrendanOran's Well

Karin Gustafson
All Rights Reserved


When leaves fall in the Autumn nights,
they are silently cushioned by dew,
untrampled, laid down as gently
as your hand upon my cheek
or my head upon your familiar chest
in the dark bedroom quiet,
the solace of windy days, busy
under damp, hard-bitten skies.

Ah, Love, I hear the whispered song
your heart sings to me; the rise
and fall of your breathing
is the rhythm by which I live.
Like the river’s flow, the bending
reeds, I know my true course.

All is Still
Grandma Moses
Fair Use


Karin Gustafson shares her artworks and insight into Outsider Art in the Imaginary Garden today.
My title is taken from the painting of outsider artist, Grandma Moses who began to paint at the age of 78.

One of the first poems I read in this month of poetry writing was Invitation to Voyage by Brendan of Oran's Well. The line I have quoted for this poem, struck me with its sense of purpose, as the heart of poetic expression, and I commented: "This is the line to set me up for all of April’s poems. It shall be my theme and guiding star when waters are rough and plain sailing uncertain." Now at almost the end of April, I return to it with my thanks to all who have made this incredible journey alongside me.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Dead Star

Your heart is a drum,
but no one marches
to its staccato

hitch   hitch   hitching itself
to a long dead star.

Kelli Simpson

Agnes Lawrence Pelton (1940)


We think of ourselves
as sentient
beings made in godly form
given a garden
a choice

to build up
or take down

to dance
or battle it out

We praise our nobility
of intellect
as something elevated
received rather
than earned

so we can sing
or call to arms

we can eulogise
or design Armageddon

We are not animals
but men
of the Earth we don’t deserve
already circling
a dying star.


My poem today takes a note from the prompt set by Gillena on Sunday, which asks that we respond to another poet's poem, even one written by one of our fellow poets in The Imaginary Garden.
Earlier this month, I read the poem Invisible by Kelli Simspon a.k.a. Mama Zen. Even as I read it, I knew it had taken me to a completely different place than was perhaps intended, so I have returned to that thought as my inspiration for this poem, which is coupled with the painting by Agnes Lawrence Pelton for The Tuesday Platform

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Sonnet 35 ~ The Rain May Weep

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide
Edna St Vincent Millay

Young Woman on the Shore
Edvard Munch (1896)


Their lies have filled a world of books with words
Replete with platitudes – the poets praise
The broken heart, as if it weren’t absurd
To think it noble: love and lose the day.
I build no monument to loss, nor will
I cast aside the pain, but keep each trace
Of him inside, beloved, untouched until
The turning of the tide reveals my fate.
I say, the rain may weep; I have no tears
For knowledge that a love once given me
Has fallen silent – inconsolable fears
Have power over passion – mine I keep.
Time is also mine, to use as I please
I’ll let sorrow fade by the least degree.


This day, 23 April, being the official birthday of William Shakespeare, I thought a sonnet might be in order.
Here I respond to the heart-wrenching Sonnet II by Edna St Vincent Millay for Gillena's Fashion Me Your Words prompt in The Imaginary Garden.

Landscape ~ A Villanelle

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
Sylvia Plath


The artist, his brush and a landscape
With bridge; yonder a town, a church steeple.
We observe, as strange vision takes shape

Landscape with Bridge

In the foreground, a black cow seems misplaced
Or lost, left to wander the sheep hill
By the artistic brush, and a new landscape

Landscape with Cow

With farmer, alone, shouldering a spade
For his own grave, ashen soil left untilled;
We observe his brutal vision take shape

Landscape with Farmer

Under gun-metal clouds, an iron lake,
A dam wall, and dark smudges for people
Daubed by the artist’s brush in his landscape.

The Dam

A factory appears to be a mistake,
Hidden by trees, and one lonely disciple
Is observed as surreal vision takes shape,

Landscape with factory

Until we come at last to the tollhouse glade
Left to contemplate these scenes of upheaval:
A fashion of artist, brush and landscape
He observed, and disturbed visions took shape.

The Toll House


I began this villanelle, rather ambitiously, last week in an attempt to combine the poetic form with the artwork of Henri Rousseau, whose painting style was unlike that of any other primitive painter. He was ridiculed during his lifetime, but believed wholly in his skill: in his opinion, Picasso and he were the only two great living artists. He is now considered a self-trained genius by art historians.

I had quite a bit of trouble trying to translate my interpretation of his landscapes into some semblance of poetry, but felt I had gone too far with it to give up, and this being poetry writing month, I have decided to simply put the end result out there, with a little of Rousseau's aplomb.

Linking to Poetry Pantry #350

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Tanka (Each Window)

"We are shaped by our thoughts; we become what we think.”

Mi Young Lee


Each window opens
on a different daytime
a singular view –

Tragedy to one
who locks the door from inside.


A tiny tanka for Susie's Bits of Inspiration featuring the piece by artist, Mi Young Lee.

Friday, April 21, 2017

The Choke

This time, I have left my body behind me, crying
In its dark thorns.
James Wright

Man Ray (1926)


Oh, I have words alright
clogging my throat
my tongue burning;
I live with the choke
of them wanting to be
coughed up and spat out.

But my lips,
I have sewn shut
by hand,
nasty stitches
threatening to tear
and bleed.

Just don’t ask me
what I am thinking
or how I feel today.


A bitter little 55-worder for Magaly's prompt I have no mouth and I must scream.

Thursday, April 20, 2017

The Crows

"Truth," said a traveller,
"Is a rock, a mighty fortress;
Often have I been to it,
Even to its highest tower,
From whence the world looks black."
Stephen Crane

Ivan Bilibin (1910)*


A pair of crows owns the parkade,
the one downtown, with the right front
corner collapsed down three floors.
The perfect place for the veritable nest
in which their hatchlings wait, ugly,
hungry heads wobbling, beaks wide to the sky.
The crows throw shadows
like chunky crucifixes
which slide along the edge of city walls
and deserted sidewalks.
There is something of the battlefield, here.
but all bones have been picked clean.


Fireblossom Friday has us cooking with crow.

*Illustration for poem "Two Crow" by Alexander Pushkin

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

No Cut-Throat Rose

Not a cute card or a kissogram.
I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips
Carol Ann Duffy

Abstraction White Rose
Georgia O'Keefe (1927)
Fair Use


This love is no rose
throat cut
bleeding sap from severed stem
and every thorn peeled away.

This love brooks no sentiment
but dark humour
a symbiosis of intelligent lust
to aid in decomposition.

This love is not written
on the moon
reeking of rhymed verse
and objectification.

This love stifles every word
that tries to speak itself
into being
no need to justify the intimate
pulse, the hungry lips.

This love is neither
truth nor
falsity, no illusory song
for fools to dance to.

I give you this love
as a stranger might hand
a dying man
a drink of water at his place
of execution. A matter of instinct.


Poems Through the Eyes of Carol Ann Duffy is our Wednesday prompt hosted by Sanaa Rizvi in the Imaginary Garden.

Monday, April 17, 2017

The Good Life

I am ready to carry you
away from the execution line, yes,
this is real, no joke.
Dennis Etzel Jnr

World War 1 photograph colourised by
Frédéric Duriez (Daily Mail)


You are waiting for the parade, for a singular view of the barrel-chested General with his double row of brass buttons and luxuriant moustache. You notice your fingernails – or rather the way each is rimmed with clotted blood or rust or red earth. Not easy to be certain. But you pick at them, one nail under the other. Best to practise a clean salute. The wait is longer than you expected. The triumphal procession through empty villages must not lose a modicum of pomp, even when the top dogs must pick their way over the bridges you blasted last month. So you rest a knee against the sandbags and enjoy the weak sunshine, oblivious to the scant rainbow over your shoulder. No need to contemplate defeat when slaughter has become synonymous with ‘the good life’.
Best you stifle that yawn.


Izy Gruye is hosting the prompt Over // Under // Through in the Imaginary Garden.

Lines quoted from This Removed Utopia We Called Kansas by Dennis Etzel Jnr, featured on Nice Cage Issue 03

Picture Credit:
French lines on the right bank of the Seille being held by the 150th Infantry Regiment, 5th Battalion in Port-sur-Seille, Meurthe-et-Moselle, in March 1918, in one of many First World War images colourised by graphic artist Frédéric Duriez. Used here under Fair Use Principles. If the owner or publisher of the image objects to its appearing on this blog, please contact the owner.  

Sunday, April 16, 2017

Untitled (Streetlights & Rain)

and those who would gladly die for love lang deid-
a skull for a bonnie head-
and love itself a metaphor, rose, red.
Carol Ann Duffy

Shadows Twilight
Gosta Adrian Nilsson (1929)


All the streetlights are out,
the city drowns under a dank pall
of inky rain clouds;

squalls pelt the deserted
car parks and off-ramps, no voice
but the tinkle on broken glass…

Though I cannot see your face,
my fingers are threaded through yours,
barely alive in a suburb of ghosts

and I would gladly die for love.


Micro Poetry ~ Streetlight Rain

and linking up with Poetry Pantry #349.

Easter Sunday, 4 am

But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
Edna St Vincent Millay

Rainy Night at Maekawa
Hasui Kawase (1932)
Fair Use


Easter Sunday, 4 am.

The last rain of Summer whittles away pain's remembrance, fitfully.


An American Sentence, as invented by Allen Ginsberg, for Micro Poetry ~ Streetlight Rain in the Imaginary Garden.

Friday, April 14, 2017


I won’t be diminished, eclipsed or hidden.
You’re going to see my light.
Christina Grimmie



Restless after dark
In the green city, alone
Where no torch burns the shadows~
Cupping the moon in my palm,
I am the eclipse.


A tanka suggested by the song Invisible by Christina Grimmie, which is featured on Music with Marian in the Imaginary Garden.

This is my 15th poem of the month, which means I have met my personal challenge... Anything else I write will be bonus.

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Conversations with Water

Water swallows up the earth, extinguishes the flame, ascends on high, and by stretching forth as clouds challenges the heavens for their own, and the same falling down, becomes the cause of all things that grow in the earth.

Artist Unknown


Three old men sat on a bridge
contemplating the water’s direction of flow.
The magician spoke: “It is from this
elemental purification,
that our emotional reality is revealed.
Let us fill our cups.”
The second man stroked his gnarled beard
and remarked, “Let us follow
the course of least resistance,” and returned
to his hermitage.
But the disgraced president
drew out a blue fish on a handline,
for he had baited a hidden hook
with the other men’s worms.


Michael is hosting Get Listed ~ April Ain't Fooling in the Imaginary Garden.

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Conversation with a Hanging Man

Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
And near it, a stern spirit.
Stephen Crane

The Hanged Man (Tarot)
Artist Unknown


I sat at the feet of a hanged man once,
and asked of him, “Did you die
for equality?” but his eyes were glazed
with dust from the road.
“Was it for dignity?” but I saw
that wild animals had gnawed his feet.
Strange that I felt at one
with his studied silence, the bewildering
simplicity of his demise.
“Tell me it was not for love,
but for laughter, friend.”
Now his rictus grin disrupts my dreams.


For Izy's Out of Standard prompt in the Imaginary Garden, I have returned to the tarot card conversations, which began HERE on April 1st.
My chosen protest sign is taken from the many currently on display during the rolling mass action in South Africa this month.

Source: Sullivan Photography SA

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Green Light

10 April 2017
No poem today, folks. Just this perfect moment and my daughter's choice of song of the day. I will be back to writing tomorrow.

Sunday, April 9, 2017

Horizon Blue

“War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all;
but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.”
J.R.R. Tolkien

All Rights Reserved
Frederic Duriez
(Framed by blog author)


Light was muted then,
tamped down by soiled clouds
hanging low over
conquered ground, but still we wore
our horizon blue
and ate thin soup from jars
at Bois des Buttes,
or gnawed the sawdust bread
left behind in blitzed towns.

In the trenches, we felt full
of life, even surrounded by the bodies
at Verdun; the earthworks
became our mother in a reversal of birth
but something of comfort
to lean against in the dark,
shelter a struck match,
cushion a cheek in sleep
until day called us
to our deaths.

The land died with us,
trees became charcoal though still
many stood scratching the sky
to tears while the skin of fields lay peeled
or gouged  to bleeding lumps of flesh.
But the rivers ran on, and we washed
our clothes at Sainte Menehould
while one kept watch on the bridge.
Waiting for the sun.


With constant talk of the World War 3 to be heard these days, as hostile super-powers size one another up, I was so moved by this collection of photos colourized by graphic artist, Frédéric Duriez. 'The horrors of the First World War trenches have been brought to life...'  Read more: HERE

Poetry Pantry #348 is hosted by Mary.

April 9, 2017 marks the centenary of The Battle of Arras. Thanks to Kim, the Cheeseseller's Wife.

Since the images have automatic links to be shared on multiple social platforms, I have selected one for this post. If the owner of the image objects to the manner and purpose for which it is displayed, please contact the Blog author.

Saturday, April 8, 2017

Conversations with Birds

Be still and listen to the voices that belong
To the streambanks and the trees and the open fields.
There are songs and sayings that belong to this place,
By which it speaks for itself and no other.
Wendell Berry

Woodpeckers (1950)


Birds of my garden,
Why do you fly through my door
To perch upon kitchen sink?
You bring me news of
Morning rain, empty seed bowl.

Long-necks (1950)


It is Autumn now
And long-necked storks will gather
To confer of the journey,
Beaks delving in the
Bowl of my thoughts like chopsticks.

Owl (1960)


Night-visitor on
Moonlit wings, do you bring word
From my beloved?
Will he return home
Before the trees lose their leaves?

May (1960)


While moon is rising,
Whitening the tall grasses,
I sleep fitfully.
I am dreaming your low voice;
Trust in tomorrow.


All prints are the work of Japanese artist, Kaoru Kawano, and are displayed here under Fair Use Principles.
My series of tanka was written after revisiting the feature articles of Dr Hisashi Nakamura.

Sherry Blue Sky is hosting the prompt, Hope and the Places that Heal You in the Imaginary Garden.

Friday, April 7, 2017

Truth to Power

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
John McCrae

War or the Ride of Discord
Henri Rousseau (1894)


Lay weapons down, and join the peace.
Own this day, this flag and these streets
We are a chain, each link a hand:
A divided nation can stand
Together in communal grief.

Our fathers’ struggle does not cease,
When sons are given to caprice.
Their voices echo across the land:
Lay weapons down.

We cannot rewind the timepiece
Of history, but prevent repeat:
We have seen atrocity firsthand,
Oppression, freedom of speech banned
Thus we lay truth at power’s feet.
Lay weapons down.


This poem comes with Footnotes.

Today, I am breaking with my free verse themes to return to the classical form of Rondeau, which seems most apt for impassioned statement. Two noteworthy examples of the form are In Flanders Fields by John McCrae and We Wear the Mask, by Paul Lawrence Dunbar, both shown on this PAGE.

We seem to be living in a world converted to an arena of war, with missiles flying right and left, and many analysts believe we are headed irrevocably back to the 20th century phenomenon of World War.


Here in South Africa, the death of Apartheid struggle veteran, Ahmed Kathrada, has galvanised the nation to take a stand against a political move towards kleptocracy by our incumbent president, Jacob Zuma.
April 7, 2017 marks the advent of rolling mass action, rallying under the slogan #SAunites.
The scenes unfold on this News24 Feed.

With this poem, I lend my voice to the movement.
Kerry Says ~ Let's Paint a Picture

Thursday, April 6, 2017

April Fools

April this year, not otherwise
Than April of a year ago
Is full of whispers, full of sighs
Edna St Vincent Malay

April Fool
Raphael Kirchner


We came together
April Fools
and not a meeting so much
by chance
nor, for the matter,
design. A confluence,
I shall call it.

Do you see two rivers
like hands,
palm to palm, joined as if in prayer?
But this is water flowing into water
and a swifter current
drags all away.

You spoke first.
And every small thing
the poets have said about April
left metaphor behind and came true.
I wished I had such words
for you but offered instead my hand
with the trust of a child.


Poets United: Susan is hosting the Midweek Motif: April.

Dreaming with Stacie in The Imaginary Garden features Children's Poetry.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017


The universe has three dimensions of space and one of time and putting them together we get four dimensional spacetime. The curvature that leads to gravity is not a curving of space, it's a curving in spacetime.
Jon Hurwitz 

Moonlight, 1895
Edvard Munch


What care I
for the curvature of spacetime
or gravity?
I leave that to the scientists
and speak my layman’s terms:
for I have seen the curve
of earth and beyond that space
which we call sky, for being blue;
and the curve of your spine, I have felt
as I hung like a moon
heavy with reflected light.
I learn the joy
of gravity when you lay
your head upon my breastbone;
my heart will beat the measure as time
slips away.


Physics with Bjorn brings in Day 5 of Poetry Writing Month.

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

A Lesson for Tuesday

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
James Wright

Nude Woman Reclining
Vincent Van Gogh (1887)


If Spring held back, too trepidatious,
there would be no tomorrow
no end to this dull shroud-surrounded day –
in which I stepped out to walk the corridors
where people meet and ply their trade.
I felt like I had no place for myself in my body
though it behaved admirably
and even had a nod and a smile for strangers –
How does my soulless self look to you?
I asked a withered woman.
She smiled, quite shy, and assured me
she was not yet fifty but her eyes slid
from mine as if the glare were too bright –
My soul belongs to you, and this they do not know.
I hold nothing from your mouth, hands, eyes
and, yes, the past is long lost, maybe even redemption,
for who may enter heaven bereft of soul –
but I would give that up for another day
to feel you make love to my true name.


Marian is hosting The Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden. She suggested a 5 line poem featuring three colours but James Wright did it in 3. However, this gave me the opportunity to read more of Wright's poetry, which I am finding extremely inspiring.

The photographic art work I had originally included with my post is under copyright. It is entitled Union Libre (Poem by Andre Breton Embossed in Braille on A Photograph) by Leon Ferrari and may be viewed HERE.

And a reading...

Monday, April 3, 2017

False Spring

Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body
I would break
Into blossom.”
James Wright

Blossoming Almond Branch
Vincent van Gogh (1888)


My lips had been sealed
all through winter
But –
How I yearned
to part them for a word
to slip out, or
a tongue to slip in.
When nights are long
a certain darkness clings
to root and vein
distilled by the pale light of day
Yet –
I had set a single bud
upon the bough
in hope that a warm breath
would sing to it, or
a gentle touch might remind
the sap to rise.
Soon, too soon,
for any heart once frozen
knows that coldness
always returns
to burn, to burn.

Sunday, April 2, 2017

Sonnet 34 ~ Voice

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair...
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest...
Sonnet XI, Pablo Neruda

Planet Mercury Passing in Front of the Sun
Giacomo Balla (1914)


You enter first with sound –
tender vibrations
pulse unseen
and every violin-string nerve

in my back quivers –
your tone deep as heaven
vast as the divide
between worlds

yet, closer
than sun’s heat on skin
or light from
more distant stars –

closer than the vein throbbing
in my throat as my heart answers your voice


Flash 55 PLUS!

My notion was to write a sonnet in 55 words.

Saturday, April 1, 2017

Conversation with a Fool

Lo, the ship, at this opportunity, 
slipped slyly, 
Making cunning noiseless travel down the ways.
The Black Riders and Other Lines ~ Stephen Crane

Source Unkown


Once, I stepped out into the world
and met a youthful magician
beside a stagnant pool who sought
to conjure away the torment of death:
upright of stature and unswerving
in his grasp of the matter.
“Young fellow, your wand has burned
in the heat of fervour;
your cup has spilled all but the dregs;
Why do you persist in failure?”
At once he hacked me with his sword, crying,
“Fool! Do you not see?
It hangs on the flip of a coin.”


On the first day of NaPoWriMo 2017, Brendan reminds us that it's A Fine Day for Sailing Away.