Open Mic Night – 10 June 2009

One of my favorite nights of the week at Angelryon is Wednesday. That is the night we gather round the campfire at the Lodge and share what, for some may be their innermost feelings. For the most part, everything I share is of my own creation, however, I have been known to do the odd reading gleaned from one of the many books on my bookcase now and then.

This week, I shared a poem that was comprised around three groups of nine words that I surreptitiously gathered from a “9 word challenge” thread.

The words were:
core, being, limits, fornication, beast, blackened, stone, psychadelic, fairytale, edge, portrayed, defiant, elf, mystical, endevours, betray, vibrant, devil, amethyst, sunny, autumn, subversive, blush, twist, brown, sugar, duck, morning star.

I sit on the edge of the wooden pier gazing down into what, even on this sunny day, must be stone cold water. It is early, so much so that the morning star has not laid her head upon a pillow made of clouds and closed her twinkling eyes. The rising sun breathes a warm blush over brown sugar soil that rises behind me on the hillside as she, vibrant subversive that she is, overthrows the once blackened sky turning autumn night into winter day.

The devil, portrayed in my daydream by some Vulpine hunter, lies in wait amidst itchy blankets of camouflage. Patiently waiting for dinner to appear. A lone duck, riding windswept ripples, dives below the nature-borne psychedelic surface as sunbeams and clouds dance. The waltz creating a kaleidoscope for my eyes to behold.

With an unseen twist, the mallard appears again. Bobbing, defiant in the search for food. Nearer and nearer to the shore it paddles until webbed feet tread, leaving delicate indentations in the cool mud. Waddling along towards the beckoning nest built in rushes just above the tide line.

The core of my being screams, endeavors to sound a warning, to betray, like some fairytale elf the beast that lies, muscles taut, yellow eyes keened just beyond the limits of my hearing. What mystical fornication created this? That with stealth and pounce could cause the red to ooze, the life to drain from another?

Later, as sun baked red turns amethyst, then black, below stars, will I still wonder? I think not, we all must eat sometime.

This entry was posted in Musings and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s