The pulsing sounds of color
reverberate
in kaleidoscopic bits
that scatter in
pieces of beat,
strands of band,
shards of bard,
high vibes,
low tones,
that burst onto
the scene in shouting
shades of boom,
a syncopated wheel
of reeling shapes,
radiant madcap whirls—
a world unto itself,
a sounding board
for a vibrant
dervish
that dances
and dreams
in living
color.
—Marilyn Duncan
ODD Monday Prompt Poem
9-7-20
+++++
I kicked up a storm of leaves
indigo, black, orange—green.
The wind whirled and swirled
clothing me in their disarray, until
I was literally swept away on
a gust and a Go! that gustled me
here in to this rather cramped
glass globe.
It can’t be a snowball, the colors
aren’t right. I pray no more shake
ups—until I can get my head on
tight. How will I appease the god
of leaves, gain freedom, or is this
just a real wacky dream? Images
of me lined on black flying squares.
Jeez, I’m neither here nor all there.
I am down in the dumps these Covid
nights, I toss and turn, as REMs
flicker faster, and give me a fright.
Perhaps it’s that egg salad I ate or was
it potato, tossing my tummy at my mind’s
gate? What’s to become of all these pieces
of me? O, sweet Morning, break open
this dream! Release me to whatever
the “real world” seems.
—Martha Ward
Kim’s ODD Prompt 9.7.20
+++++
Dancer
At the center a figure
dances. Around him the
bubble of the world spins.
Fragments float and fall,
reflections and objects:
gate, lightbulb, plant and bird.
A foot raises, a mouth gapes.
Cornets and lines of crops
moon launches and petroglyphs.
Dancing the world into being, dancing
the end. Continuous beginning
out of continuous decay.
Exhausting, exhilarating,
exhausting, creating order
out of a chaos of sticks and gravel.
Juggler, the man keeps the world
in the air, will not let it crash
will not let it sling into chaos.
The mind tires, the body falters.
Who can keep a world alive,
keep a world from breaking?
What man can do it?
Dancers stumble and lose hold.
Their mouths go slack.
Turn then to the one inside the man
who speaks from the dancer
through a hidden ordering
who shapes his dance
—Sarah Webb, 9/7/20
+++++
The boy faces west. Or south.
Or left. Kicking about in his
unconscious orb. His friends
cavort around him while
leaf fragments of September
source sun prisms, jewel
pigments for a bluegreenred
home. Music is in him. Dance
surrounds him. Sound escapes
into the ether. Now the boy
gallops through his egg-shaped
world. Do his friends run with
him? Are they imaginary mates
or figments of his own story, his
own magical mind? Here…a
toast, Skole, Cin-Cin, Bottoms
Up….to all the dancing boys.
May they never grow into the
men who lose their song, their
dance and their vibrant,
secret sphere.
—Beverly Voss
09-07-20
Moth poems
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