Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Some Haiku

October 14, 2018

Kohut-Bartels-LS-2

(Watercolor, Jane Kohut-Bartels)

I chase one red leaf

Across dry and brittle grass

Juice of summer gone.

The garden spiders

Fold their black spindly legs,

Die, all work now done.

Pale lavender sky

Balances the moon and sun

The scale shifts to night.

 —

 Fallen leaves crackle.

Sparrows add the treble notes.

Season’s musical.

 —

Dogwoods blooming

The crucifixion appears

White moths in the night.

— 

Fall’s crispness compels

Apples to tumble from trees.

Worms make the journey.

 —

 The frost at morning

Makes the birds plump their feathers

Squirrels add chatter.

— 

 A swirl of blossoms

Caught in the water’s current

Begins the season.

 

The cold moon shines down

Upon hollow dried grasses.

Earth prepares to sleep.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

 

A few favorite tanka….

October 9, 2018

Kohut-Bartels-LS-17

(Oil, “Dusk”, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2002)

 

 

Mist drifts in waves

Ribbon-ing maple branches

The rising of moon

Make Egrets shimmer silver-

Gauzy ghosts of nothingness.

 

 

Like the lithe bowing

Of a red maple sapling

My heart turns to you,

Yearns for those nights long ago

When pale skin challenged the moon.

 

How could I forget

The beauty of the pale moon!

A face of sorrow

Growing thin upon the tide

No one now visits me.

 

——

The full moon above

floats on blackened velvet seas,

poet’s perfection!

But who does not yearn for a

crescent in lavender sky?

Autumn wind startles–

Lowered to an ominous

Key—Ah! Mournful sounds!

The fat mountain deer listen-

Add their bellowing sorrow.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Night Fire Road”…..

September 30, 2018

D’versepoets.com : This Thursday is Open Link Night.  Come and read some great poetry!

PICT1020.JPG

(Watercolor done by JKB to illustrate “Night Fire Road”)

 

NIGHT FIRE ROAD

Sharp right into mystery,

Down black macadam churning

The guts and apprehension,

Pot-holed surface falling

Either side into waterlogged ditches.

Hurtling towards a tunnel

Of dark, smothering trees,

Deep in the mountain.

This is Night Fire Road

Spiraling down and up

Like the dark flames of its name.

Tires dumped in the tar of night

Maybe a car or two

Stolen, torched,

Liquor bottles christening the

Games of drunken fools.

Maybe it was meant

To be named for foxfire—

Bioluminescence come down from

The borders of Heaven

A gleaming fool’s gold

Only appearing at night

To tease greed and imagination.

Or perhaps it was named

For the illicit meetings

Of furtive lovers

Who shun daylight

And go enflame passion on

Night Fire Road.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

“After Harvest Song”

September 26, 2018

0403Whe-R01-009

 

This waning autumn season,

That burst upon the mindscape

Hijacked a summer landscape,

Dared mingle dazzling elements

Of color, odors, tangled undergrowth,

Where things are lost in each other

And plausible limits vanish.

 

And with the passage of these days

The Earth transformed in scarcity,

A stretching silence,

A gathering solitude

Where Pan’s pipes are brittle straw

Made golden, hollow by harvest.

 

Come celebrate this solitude

Rejoice with me in silence

Where time warps

And darkness gathers,

Where mystery is beckoned

By hoar frost and shadows.

All color now corralled

Like old dun horses

Barely moving against the grey of day.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016-18

 

“Storm Drain Baby”

September 24, 2018

Children of Aleppo pix

This ‘event’ happened a few years ago in Atlanta.

 

STORM DRAIN BABY

 

Yesterday a baby was born,

Placed in a storm drain

To die by a father who wasn’t.

Three days of heavy rain

Washed the Blood of this Lamb

Into the sea.

 

He was found, expected to live

And died,

His short life measured in scant public

Outrage.

 

The 19 year old father said as they

Led him away:

“It was a miscarriage gone wrong.”

 

The rain continues today

Rushing down streets

To storm drains,

Making a gurgling sound.

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017-18

“Poems of Autumn”

September 23, 2018

Kohut-Bartels-LS-19

(Watercolor, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2003)

Tanka

 

Autumn wind startles,

Lowered to an ominous

Key—Ah! Mournful sounds!

The fat mountain deer listen-

And add their sounds of sorrow.

 

Autumn coming

 

Bullfrogs bellow a different pitch

Autumn’s fast approaching.

And though they soak in a rocky pond

Summer’s heat they can’t escape.

 

Full moon reflects in half-sunk eyes

Perhaps fish mistake the moons of Mars

And in their algaed depth by night

They travel the cosmos past the stars.


 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

Kohut-Bartels-LS-5b

(Watercolor, Jane Kohut-Bartels, ’03)

“9-11”

September 9, 2018

kohut-Bartels-LS-8

(watercolor by Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2001 an English vessel that hauled coal in 1955)

 

9-11

 

That beautiful morning–

Teasing taste of early Autumn

The unthinkable happened

And our world stopped turning

I saw the plane, I saw the fire

I saw the smoke descend like

A blanket of blinding grief

Too late to spare those on the ground

The sight of Armageddon.

 

 

Mortar-grey people transformed

Into gritty moving statues,

Holding hands, blinded by smoke,

Move down streets where

Paper, bricks, metal, glass rained down

Like the Devil’s Ticket Parade,

Walked in silence towards the bridges,

Barely a moan heard,

An Exodus unexpected on this

Morning of such seasonal promise.

 

I saw worse.

I saw people jump

From the ledges, holding hands,

Some with briefcases

And all I could do

Was howl:

 

“I will catch you!

Jump into my arms

I will not drop you.

Do not be afraid,

Aim for my embracing arms,

With the last of my life—

I will catch you.”

 

That day of fire and ash,

Inexplicable funeral pyre,

Of brave souls rushing in

And frightened souls rushing out

And the ash, the ash, the ash,

Covered everything like a silent September snow.

 

Seventeen years later

Grieving when this day approaches,

I hear the words swell up in me:

 

“We will catch you!

Jump into our arms,

We will not drop you.

You will not be forgotten,

With the last of our breath–

We will catch you.”

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 9-11-2011-2016, (This poem, “9-11” was published in “Pitcher of Moon”, and can be purchased at Amazon.com. Published, 2014)

“Autumn Dusk”

August 31, 2018

0403Whe-R01-001

 

Stuttering winds blow across

Clouds tinted by the failing sun.

Brittle air softens,

Now a faded blue–

Shade of an old man’s watery eyes.

 

A late flock of Sandhill cranes lift off,

Pale bodies blending in the

Twilight with legs

Flowing dark streamers,

Their celestial cries fall to

Earth–

A harsh, chiding rain.

 

The trees in the valley

Are massed in darkness

As waning light leaches

Color from nature,

Creeps from field to hillock

And all below prepares for the

Rising of the Corn Moon.

 

Even frogs in the pond

Listen between croaks

For the intention of the night.

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

DSCF2570

All paintings by the author.

“Original Blessing”, a poem.

August 14, 2018
DSCF2572

Sailboat, watercolor, Jane kohut-bartels, 2006

 

I wrote this when I felt  battered from Baha’i to Fundamentalist Christians.  I was dizzy with anger and then realized  these people were nothing of great consequence except for trouble and worry.  Their actions were nothing of love but of dominance and hatred.  We all must find our own way in our beliefs. 

Lady Nyo

Original Blessing”

 

I am dizzy with love,

Standing in the rain,

This cosmic blessing

Pouring on my head,

Mingling with tears of gratitude

Til one stream

can not be deciphered

From the other.

 

I am an Original Blessing,

As are you,

And we are not born in sin,

But brought into the light of life

In great joy and anticipation.

 

Our first bellows are not of pain

But surprise at the roominess of the Cosmos,

As we kick our feet, flail our arms

And finally open our eyes at the glorious colors

Of Nature.

 

Original sin would have us

Born rotten,

A theological monkey on our back–

But I know no God of the Cosmos

Who would scar these tiny blessings

With such a heavy burden.

 

Original Blessing is a deliverance,

A deliverance of hope, trust and pride

A heritage where we can discern and save

Ourselves,

Walk in harmony with the Earth,

Stride with God across the span of life–

For this Earth is our cradle,

And all in it our kin.

 

For a truly wise person

Kneels at the feet of all creatures

And is not afraid to endure

The mockery of others.

 

And when the day sidles up to night

I will settle into the nest of the Earth,

Draw the dark blanket of the Cosmos

Across me,

Pillow my head upon stars

And know that the blessings I have been

Graced with today and always

Have come from the womb of God.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017-2018

 

 

 

“Spring Orgy” for dversepoets.com

July 24, 2018

backyard with OLWeeks rose.jpg(O.L. Weeks Rose, non fragrant)

Sarah over at dversepoets.com is hosting today, poems about the meanings of flowers.  This is my take.  I have 60 some rose bushes here on the property, some 40 years old and older.  Many just planted this spring.  Husband dragged home 11 rose bushes from a movie set they were throwing away.  All lived.

Lady Nyo

Spring Orgy

 

The roses are having an orgy.

They haven’t the decency to wait for the dark,

But ply their lust in the soft, morning light.

 

Randy Graham Thomas is leering.

Madame Carriere is blushing.

Her pink silk-petal gown flutters

As she twists coyly to avoid his embrace.

 

By 10am the sun warms their scents and foreplay is over.

The wind at 11am entwines the two.

Pistils and stamens are seriously ‘at it’

Brushing languorously over parts

An hour ago were covered discreetly.

 

At high noon in the heat of the day

Pollen is floating all over the air

And even the wide-eyed cats

Sitting under tender foliage are blushing.

 

The garden gnome is licking his lips

While a concrete hand creeps to his crotch.

 

This fall there will be rose-hips aplenty.

Red nipples packed with tiny seeds,

Evidence of a spring-time lust.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018


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