Cold Warrior

The Moskva in winter...
Iron water painted by snow.
She and I, bundled, tangled,
Nursing our warming tryst...
Gushing...all that the Moskva
In winter is not...fluid...
Lusty nights, scant daylight
By which to come up for air.

No cares we had that season
Hidden in the teeming city...
Not pretty, but the trains
Always ran on time, afraid
To do otherwise...people died
For such oversight, did they not?
In our little kvartira, the sting
Of secret police was forgotten.

Come spring, she begged
To stroll in Novodevichy,
To gaze upon monuments
Mute, some new, many old,
All cold stone, stark reminders
Of the fate awaiting us:
Ruby cheeks fade to gray,
Hands, hearts, all wither.

Too soon the fateful day came
As I knew it must...duty called.
A coded note, blind dropped
A single line, a chilling phrase...
My glaciated heart crumbled.
Russians don't do happy endings,
She once told me...prophetic...
She barely felt the needle's prick.

A twist on Magpie Tales. For more takes on this prompt, click here!

Aging Star
(for Vincent, Robin, and me)

I pour out my heart’s fire

Like water in the bird bath,

Sustenance for each of you.

I serve up cracked corn,

Simple seeds of wisdom,

Nutty, crunchy knowledge.

My spilled blood nurtures,

Fertile seed beds flourish,

Sprouts rise, buds bloom.

Some birds take flight, soar;

A tidy garden grows, thrives,

But my light wanes, steadily.

You shine, my young friends,

My spirit flows through you,

But my soul is growing dim.

If a wick, I, me would trim,

Shed the excess, diminish,

Lose light, gain longevity.

But I am not a wick—

Enjoy my light, bask,

It will not last for long.

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A Hopeful Magpie

Still Life, 1670, detail by Jean François de Le Motte

Into The Void

Gone…you were there one day,

The next, only generic ‘droid head

Like Miki uses sometimes

Just to be a social contrarian…

All you had shared, vanished…poof:

Words, images, so many months

Of you, evaporated in a click,

As if you had never been real…

But you were! You so very were…

Tucked away in my messages

You are still here…I can see you

In my mind’s eye as I read…

There are many kinds of love letters,

Those between my Heart and I

That are NOT for publication,

And those between kindred souls…

In archived notes, you my spirit sister

Still abide, invisible, present, always.

Someday new images will emerge,

New words, new hopes, new dreams.

Until that day, I keep the faith

And send prayers for peace into the void,

Trusting you to know this poem

Is one more way to say I care.

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Broken
By Lemuel Crouse

It is broken and I cannot fix it
On my own and so I cry...and cry.
I have pulled back some layers,
Tried to see what lies beneath,
But it is beyond my understanding,
This machine that runs my world.

I clumsily prod with a spanner,
Nudging random bolts, hoping
To help more than hurt, wishing
I knew just what to do to set it
Again in motion, flying, whirring,
Happily dancing with love of life.

I am like a gearbox, broken by
A thrown cog, bollox, busted,
Locked up, going to rust fast.
I just want to pull the blanket
Over my head like lush sod,
Until the grinding scream stops.


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A 10-speed Magpie

Living on the Edge

Gi’me that there old ten-speed—

Don’t need 15, and 7 ain’t enough.

Gi’me one o' them springy seats, too—

Don’t want t' wreck the plumbin'.

Got smooth shifters, does she?

And brakes that work, si’vu play—

I ain’t no dang Lance Armstrong,

And this sure as hell ain’t France.

Gonna need knobby dirt tires—

Them thin racers is too wimpy

For these here rough roads—

And one of them water bottles.

Reckon I’ll take that air pump,

And one of them cable locks—

Don’t pay t' take no chances,

What with th' zombies and all.

Huh? Oh, nuthin’…just mutterin’...

Yeah, I’ll take one o' them hats, too.

Put it all on this here Visa card—

I’ll pay it off next month, I reckon…

Me? Yeah, I'm used t' th' desert—

Been livin' on th' edge for years...

Where to? Don't know just yet—

Gotta get outa this phone booth.

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A Sea Island Magpie

Fanny's Nightmare


Not again! She awoke, soaked,
The same damned, damning vision:
Dusky men writhing around her,
She, oblivious, lustful even, smiling.
Wailing wafted upward to deaf ears...
From beneath, unseen women,
African women...wives, mothers
Sisters, daughters cried to no avail...
Whatever the white men wanted,
They took...and took...and took.


The glamorous Fanny Kemble,
Floating adrift on an African sea...
The stuff of deeply troubling dreams.
She well knew what lay beneath
The little shell-topped mounds
In plots on Butler and St. Simons:
Slavery eats children like candy.
Sickened but still stout of heart,
She would flee "Negroland" for good,
Determined to stop the screaming...

Fanny Kemble, a famous English actress, left the stage in the 1830s to become Mrs. Pierce Butler. A few years later, Butler, an American, inherited two plantation islands on the Georgia coast, Butler and St. Simons, along with the hundreds of slaves who lived and worked there. The plantations were managed by white overseers, including a father-son combo that reputedly fathered many "mulatto" children. Pierce made regular visits to the islands, and, reluctantly, he took Fanny down to see the source of the family's wealth, a place she came to call "Negroland." She soon left the Sea Islands and, eventually, left Butler. Fanny, a talented and avid writer, kept a journal in which she described in detail the horrific reality of slave life on a plantation. For more about Fanny Kemble and Pierce Butler, see this PBS resource:
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/aia/part4/4p1569.html; 
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/aia/part4/4p2920.html

This is a Magpie Tale. To read more or to participate, click here!

A Russian Magpie

Cold Warrior

The Moskva in winter...
Iron water painted by snow.
She and I, bundled, tangled,
Nursing our warming tryst...
Gushing...all that the Moskva
In winter is not...fluid...
Lusty nights, scant daylight
By which to come up for air.

No cares we had that season
Hidden in the teeming city...
Not pretty, but the trains
Always ran on time, afraid
To do otherwise...people died
For such oversight, did they not?
In our little kvartira, the sting
Of secret police was forgotten.

Come spring, she begged
To stroll in Novodevichy,
To gaze upon monuments
Mute, some new, many old,
All cold stone, stark reminders
Of the fate awaiting us:
Ruby cheeks fade to gray,
Hands, hearts, all wither.

Too soon the fateful day came
As I knew it must...duty called.
A coded note, blind dropped
A single line, a chilling phrase...
My glaciated heart crumbled.
Russians don't do happy endings,
She once told me...prophetic...
She barely felt the needle's prick.


This is a Magpie Tale. To read more or to participate, click here!

Out, Out, Damned Magpie

Red Spot II, Wallisy Kandinsky

There is no "red spot" quite comparable to a drop of blood, no "paint" so telling as a bloodstain, whether it be on Gessoed canvas, linen, or bleached cotton. I can't explain all that brought me back to the following poem...I have been obsessing a bit about Orion's movement across the winter sky, the prompt has elements within it that may be interpreted as somehow connected, but, yeah, there's more to it than that.  In any event, the first draft of this was written over twenty years ago about events that occurred a dozen years prior to that, so please don't think I'm about to engage in any sort of blood-letting. I'm just...haunted.

Hunted: A Poem from The Nadir

 By Lemuel Crouse

The sun is cold today--
cold and penetrating--
an icy arrow shot by him
who hunts the frozen winter sky.

Cold, too, are faces
that seem to look intently
but do not see within the silent man
the whimpering child.

Today I am hunted--
haunted, some would say--
but they have not seen the smiling terror
which stalks my dreams.

The sun is cold today--
cold and glowing--
an endless bright night
devoid of blessed, concealing darkness.

                                                         Cold, too, are lungs
                                                         that burn but still
                                                         are not consumed by flames
                                                         from the longed-for final fire.

Today I am running--
avoiding, some would say--
but they have not been served
a draught from the well of hell.

The sun is cold today--
cold and unredemptive--
a puppet knight crucified on the clouds,
unable to save himself, let alone me.

Cold, too, are words
which sound the hollow knell of faith
and smell of bitter ashes
blown down from hope’s cremation.

Today I am alone--
selfish, some would say--
but they have not felt this searing sting,
this thrust from a trusted sword.

(Additional images: stock photo of the Orion constellation; my pic of winter sun setting)

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Magpie Senryu

Since Tess has made us ponder, er, sushi...ahem...I've chosen to write senryu, of a sort (Thanks, Heaven, for reminding me of the difference between haiku and senryu! This definitely involves human nature and humor:-):

A present? For me?
A gift-wrapped, bare-assed brunette?
Thanks! You shouldn't have...

Artists love their nudes...
Willowy, supple bodies...
Mouthwat'ring visions.

She takes center stage...
Luscious, exquisite, ready
To be devoured.

Dab of wasabi
Drizzle of soy...senses are
Open for bus'ness!

Succulent tidbit
Ready to pop in my mouth
Sex on a rice ball!


Sorry, that's all I got...this is a Magpie Tale. To read more or to participate, click here!

A Wet Magpie

Home Again

You have left me breathless
Like whale song, low, vibrant,
You resonate around me,
Sounding out the depths.

Strident, I press on, always
Splashing, flailing, sloshing about,
Toward some distant shore
As if it must be swiftly reached.

I should know by now, alack,
No sun-bleached beach can match
This liquid calm, this clinging balm,
This home, wherein I now lie.

Eyes still closed, I breathe out,
Relishing in the flow of our tide.
As the swell subsides, I'm sure
There's nowhere else I'd rather be.

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A cold, hard Magpie

Steel Waters
By Lemuel Crouse

Paints I have aplenty,
An ample color palette
Waiting in my wooden kit,
Sufficient to the task at hand,
Wanting, at last, to bask
In light, to sit rough-framed
On some stark mantel,
Art drawing the eye upward
From mounded ash, soot
And cold hearthstone.

Skill, I have some in hand
And heart; soul and eye enough
To see beauty and reflect it...
Like young firs towering
Over a placid pool
On some far western stream,
Or a supple autumn willow
Bowing to touch a quiet pond...
But honor demands response,
And so I set aside the brushes.

On what shall this day's hushed
Work be drawn? Neither wood
Nor Gessoed canvas will hold
The havoc lurking behind
An artist's slighted eye. You choose...
Polished steel, eh? Well, now...
Will this battered easel stand
The strain, or shall my heartstain
Be the beauty your slender mirror
Evermore splendidly reflects?

To hear me read it, click Play:

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Christmas Poem 2011

Friends, dear, far and near, some of you are on our mailing list, but alack, not all. Every year we write a poem at Christmas. Sometimes it is a collaboration, and often one or the other makes editorial suggestions, some stronger than others...heh. This year I was the author. By The Bug's official tally, that makes us even at ten each. This year's poem was inspired, at least indirectly, by Tess Kincaid, author of the blog Life at Willow Manor, poet extraordinaire, and producer of Magpie Tales, which features a weekly writing prompt. Thank you so much for Magpie Tales, Tess! I responded to this prompt last December with a poem, a revised and expanded version of which follows:

Queen Mother

Mother, invested with crown,

Blood-stain red halo,

Glassy-eyed pale visage,

Lead-solder heavy burden

Cradled in your strong arms...

Master craftsmen of yore

Immortalized you this way,

And so, in turn, do we.

What happened to that

Brown-eyed, dark-haired girl,

Still young, but naïve no more?

How often did you cry “Why”

As your child grew within

While you were shunned

From without? Did you shout

“eli eli lama sabachthani” too?

We appeal to you, Mary,

In our times of trouble,

For you are the one

Who brought forth

The Son on whom

We now gaze in wonder:

“Vision of glory, this Child

Asleep on the hay.”

Pray, should we also ponder

What was asked of you,

Oh Blessed Madonna,

By Our Father in Heaven

Whose child you carried,

Raised, loved, and buried:

The One who made your belly

A swelling vessel of Presence?

Mike & Dana Rhyne

Christmas 2011

May you experience grace, peace, and love, 

in this season and always!  

Dr. L.

A light and shadow Magpie

First Blush

Interplay of night and day

Stark…primary white light

Versus deep shadow

null, void, pitch black…

Back in the day tv hues

No confusion between

Good and bad…hats

Tell the tale every time.

But I’m addlepated as you

Rise before me, shaded

Jaded, cast in darkness,

Seeking out its mystery

I have a history, you know

I fear you do, too, sooo...

I swear I would kiss you

If I could find your mouth

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A funny thing happened on the way to a magpie

I Drown
by Lemuel Crouse

I drown in your absence,
Gasping, flailing, sputtering
Like a boat motor guttering
Out on the last bit of gasoline.

I cling, fling, grasp for oars,
Bringing all down with me,
Like a man overboard
Not wanting to die alone.

Gone is reason, sense,
Any essence of my pride,
Like a tribe of sand crabs
Scattering before the gulls.

As I founder, ever deeper,
That old reaper closes in
Like the tide, sweeping
Ever higher up the beach.

A grand peach of a pit,
Stranded thus in this bind,
Like finally learning one is
Stale, fit only to be cast out.

I am but a bitter-sweet tale
Of woes compounded,
Like Crane's Open Boat, if it
Ran aground on quicksand.

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A Bleak Magpie

Hunger Pangs
by Lemuel Crouse

Look at them grazing...
Sipping coffee black and
Gnawing on white bread
Sandwiches at mid-day.

Not cursed with vampyric
Pallor, they...rather
tan, accustomed to sitting
in sunlight once in awhile.

I would smile at them
From my dark alcove but
Methinks they would not
Return the kindness...ha!

Wait, I shall, until night
blindness takes them
And then I will have my
Fill of dark, steamy draught.

Painting of Rainer Maria Rilke
Born 12/4/1875

Artist Unknown

(VERY vampyric, don't you think?)

Thanks, tk (!)

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A Comfy Magpie

Poor, White, and Alright

Random red loveseat
sitting on a curb
in this distant, cold
city to which I ran...
away from the hunter
who stalked my nights...
away from the family
that could only see
Preacher Friday
when they looked at me...
away from you, too,
dear brother of mine.
I had to find myself,
be myself...sit alone
in the office chair
of my life.
That does not mean
I do not long for one
last night of sharing
the old sofa we put
out on granny's porch...
smoking and sipping and
annoying the neighbors
with rock and/or roll
and lots and lots
of laughter.

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Magpie with a view

The Room We Share
by Lemuel Crouse

A kiss? A tryst? Sweaty
Sheets completely undone...
Our love is all that and more.
With you, my forever mate
Have I shared, cared, cried,
Lost, found, lived, mourned,
died and been reborn...
We two know what love is.

And what of you, bloggy friend
For whom I've come to care?
Is love less for never having held

Your hand...touched your face...
Brushed an unruly strand of hair

Back into place for you?

Is there not a space in which

Our love abides and grows?

Or, you, whose gentle hand

I’ve held as tears welled,

Though I stand no longer

By your side, as time

And distance have divided

Us, is our love now less?

My once and always friend,

How can it not be the same?

If not love, what name are we

To give what we also share?

Or do we dare proclaim

What we know to be,

And stand, hand in hand,

Together in this room

We have built, wherein

Our hearts still beat as one?


As my dear Bug knows so well, I am a hopeless romantic, or perhaps Romantic would be more correct, and generally more hopeful than hopeless. I fall in love...a lot. I wrestle with this, with understanding my penchant for tumbling head over heels, with my heart being ever exposed. I struggle with being carried away, in words especially, with being over the top. I am a peculiar soul...old beyond reckoning in some ways, ever an awkward teenager in others. I do wear my heart on my sleeve, and I dare the daws to peck at it. This is who I am.

To listen, press Play:

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A Vacant Magpie

Empty Chairs
by Lemuel Crouse

I see her alone now

Amongst the empty

Chairs where children

Once sat and sang

Clanging on triangles

And clapping blocks

Of wood in time

Well mostly in time

A kazoo she blew

Carefree swirling

Like the swishing skirt

Of a woman born to dance

As she busies herself

About the house

Singing as she dusts

The knick-knacks

Silence settles over

The scene as music

Fades and grass grows

Where once art

And joyous laughter

Rang free as cow bells

Only a solemn knell is heard

Tolling a conformist dirge

To listen, click the Play button:

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Driven to write a Magpie

Driving North*

I cry over dishes, laundry

Spilt milk...beer...bourbon

A flipped plate of left-overs

The cup of coffee I forgot

On top of the Cherokee

I agonize over words

Typed, said and unsaid

To people I don’t even know

And family I know too well

Life in Hell, is what it is

Someday I’ll just drive

North, I think, Toledo, Detroit

Flint, on up to Mackinac,

Never looking back to see

Who, if anyone, is following

I’ll find a quiet spit of beach

State park, most likely

Strip and with my Mother

Commune one last time

Then spin the loaded wheel

*based on a dream I had a number of years ago.

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Grave Affair: A Magpie Tale

Still Sitting Shivah

by Lemuel Crouse

Honored buried dead

Broken-down bodies

Resting deep in red clay
I find cold comfort here

Ritual and rite observed
Voice given to The Word

Mourners brought low by

Song and grief now gone

A solemn vigil I still keep
Ever weeping seven days 

Seven months seven
Years seven times seven

Heaven knows how long

In abiding sadness I

Have watched and prayed
For the day of resurrection

No marble monument bears
My story no marker or name

I alone will ever know whose
 Death forlorn is mourned here

I know, Lemuel...

*lights candle*

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