FOG

WOMB

The morning fog is a quiet womb

that hides the birth of day

anticipating nerves and noise and news

as the saber tooth sun is born  

with great cat feet

and arrogant gaze

to devour from my bones

any trace of you.

TOMB

The evening fog is a quiet tomb

softening a half-remembered tree

and the gray shadow of this rock

where we sometimes rest

as I am resting now

inside my ashen shroud

listening for a lonely blues guitar

to sing a song of you.

LOOM

The midnight fog is a quiet loom

weaving muffled sounds of madness

a weft of scratches inside the wall

a warp of tapping on the glass

yesterday’s spiders spinning

surreal threads of webs 

to paralyze my dreams

as I nestle close to you.

Reviews

[Relic]

These poems - the first having a slight advantage over the others, but only slightly - is the reason I like poetry. I read each slow and pictured your images and let them simmer in my brain like a hot cup of joe, or tea.

I have nothing but applause and appreciation for each poem here. Excellent job.

[Vol]

Relic,
Thank you so much, you've got my heart already. Poetry is at the heart of everything. To me, poems are like loose jewels. No one asks who cut that diamond, or what other gems have they cut? Each stands alone, and either succeeds or not, creeps into our bones and changes things... or fails. Good poems make us richer, and gives us a rich new mine for our conversation, acquaint us with an original perspective about something important A good poem leaves us satisfied... like a slow steeped cup of tea, or a shot of Four Roses.
Vol

[Relic]

........................... 😊😉

[Lorry]

I have never before thought about the different flavours of fog, but now that I do, midnight fog can be spooky, if you are walking through it alone at night and it can make you put your feet in a quicker gear, while every scene from every horror film you've ever watched plays out in your head, with you as the victim, I mean main character in the death scenes, I mean ARGH! I just noticed it gone just past midnight and I forgot to put the bins out! If I go out there and it's foggy, I might just need to change my clothes when I get back... If I make it back!
But fast forward a few hours to Dawn breaking, which here right now is about four am, and it becomes an almost serene and dream like quality setting, where nature begins its soundtrack of the day and you are filled with a new found hope and optimism that today will be a good day and you can forget the blood filled death scenes that played in your head but a few hours ago and are now replaced with gentle chirps and sounds of things croaking their good mornings and the sounds of a girl, happily skipping her way along the road, with a basket, on her way to grandma's to show her the nice red hood she is wearing... And then the screaming starts as you picture a wolf chewing on her face!!! 😊
So in summation, lay off watching those horror flicks late at night and immediately bur those bloody fairy tales!!! 😊

[Vol]

Lorry,
I know, right? Did you know that Michaelangelo wanted to be remembered as a poet? In one of his poems he mentioned waiting for someone on "this rock" and was the muse for these three... It would have been four, but I don't recall there ever being an afternoon fog.
Thank you for taking the time... one foggy evening in Wisconsin I was walking by a lake across the road from a cemetery I did not know would hold the grave of my first wife. I stopped and sat on the stones where the sign said, Spencer Lake Cemetary, and smoked a cigarette, On the way over I told myself, "Dude, it's just dirt, and gravestones... ghosts, pshaw!" I was about nhalfway through when something dislodged some little balls of dirt to roll down the mound of some new occupant. I was to proud to scream and run the rest of the way home, but my guts did.
Vol

[Neville]

now that sure feels so much better .. you can beat an egg but you just can't beat a decent bit of nestling :)

[Vol]

Neville,
Nestling cures everything...
Vol

[Maria Morisot]

We wrestle with our demons in different ways;
the cat that bore the womb,
the day, the morning;
she rides the Eastern sky.

And when the loom has now consumed,
it seems as though a thunder shower
were the fit of tents,
the rising voices of your madness,
covered in paralysis.

But the tomb, it baffles me.

[Vol]

Masria,
Thank you for your thoughtful reading and response. When great love is lost because life is random, and all we are left with is ashes and memories, it is a very hard thing to seal the tomb where all dead things belong, but when we visit the grave, the music is still there echoing in the distance.
Vol