Amputated Moon

Nest by Polly Chandler

the nest was found fallen

alone and battered

among the dirt and debris of the season

three mottled eggs remained

an intact remembrance

of life denied

beginnings are often only

fragile dreams

blown down or blown free

Pamela Olson, 1/30/09

For Every Photo Tells a Story

and Meme Express

I stand here

at this ruthless intersection

cobbled street beneath my feet

to the north lies a jagged caress

of mountain and sky

to the south steep hills

as far as my eye can see

east and west—

there is only fog

impenetrable

obscuring

like Dorothy

I stand here

waiting for a sign

Where will the scarecrow point?

Pamela Olson, 1/28/09

For Three Word Wednesday

and Totally Optional Prompts

there is a solitude of darkness

left here and there

within the day’s deep light

along the grass blade’s edge

caught quick within the sharpness

lies the dark of the humid dirt

memories of night’s full dark

found beside the train tracks

falling into darkness as the train passes

beneath the house eaves

the spider gathers the shadows

spinning night in the late afternoon

at the base of the tree

the violets cup the dusk

drinking the evening’s ink

there is a solitude of darkness

left here and there in day’s deep light

to be found if you only look

Pamela Olson, 1/26/09

For Monday Poetry Train Revisited

In the lens of the naked day

the sun’s scant-clad rays

pour upon her

there is no shattered

child-shadow beneath her

no darkness cast on the water

see her bent at the hips

one hand is reaching forward

her face is turned toward the water

from her hand drips

drop after drop

caught fast in a shuttered moment

Pamela Olson 1/16/09

See One Single Impression’s

prompt “fading memories”

the furnace hums

clicks and purrs

winter sounds

dreams of heat

the scent of honeysuckle

and the song of cicadas

linger on the edge

of this gray day

Pamela Olson, 1/11/09

For One Single Impression’s

prompt, “Summer Day”

Stone upon stone and fertile earth

all overgrown by cunning moss;

silent beneath the fallen leaves,

the forest floor awaits.

Firs reach out with narrowed leaf

while oak’s bare branches wait

for the slight slanting of the earth

and rainfall on the moss.

How quietly the forest waits—

gray winter’s cold within the earth.

Oak branches hide a future leaf;

truth stored inside the moss.

So heavy is the winter’s weight;

all is brown except fir and moss,

whose green reminds the fertile earth

this season too will leave.

Oh cunning moss and fallen leaf

Cry, “End the wait!” and wake the Earth.

Pamela Olson, 1/10/09

A quartina for Totally Optional Prompts

Inspired by a line from Poem #148

from “The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson”

edited by Thomas H. Johnson

cloud burst

gutters overflow

rivers flood

drops of water

miniature baptisms

grace for the thirsty

f

a

l

l

i

n

g

still it comes down

shall I build an ark

should I seek high ground

in the depth of summer

heavy with drought

remember the rain

Pamela Olson, 1/7/09

I read that continents

go someplace to die

this bedrock

where we plant our buildings

anchored deep for safety

will disappear

right from under our unsteady feet

the rock and ground

eaten

digested

old cold plates pushed down

into Earth’s mantle

collecting large amounts of iron

imagine it

like water condensation

weighted down by iron

the plates sink

into the hot molten rock

until they reach the inner sanctum

and finally halt their descent

resting in a tectonic plate graveyard

all things end

everything ordered

moves toward

chaos

but the firm ground

where crops are planted

houses built

where children dig to China

does this too disappear

the land shifts some

moves and shakes

sometimes slides downward

occasionally a wind picks some up

and takes it to a new place

rivers grind their way through

and carry it to the ocean’s edge

but still it remains somewhere

to be found and used again

should I bare my feet

and cover my head

should I entreat the Holy for salvation

for this dirt is necessary

to walk on— to lie down on

to rest and then start a new day on

to bury our dead in

where shall I journey

without the pathway

worn deep in this earth

Pamela Olson, 1/3/09

Inspired by Where Continents Go to Die

a theory by Maruyama Shigenori.

come with me

past the thick day

into the thinning time

where our shadows

run long and swift

like a river

squeezed between steep

rock canyon walls

darkly snaking

forward to the evening

pouring itself out

along the wide horizon

the boat to night

travels quickly

come with me now

Pamela Olson, 1/1/09