Crow Beneath the Moon

I am combining challenges from Mindlovemiserys Menagerie where today’s Tale Weaver challenge is to write about the moon and Real Toads where Fireblossom Friday is back to challenge us to write about crows.  I choose to do the challenge in the form of a triolet.  I’m also sharing with the open mic for d’Verse Poets.


A murder of crows
beneath the silver moon;
from the tree tops arose
a murder of crows.

Their raucous cry grows
leaving me in a swoon–
a murder of crows
beneath the silver moon.



The Good Old Days

Fireblossom has given us a new challenge over at Real Toads.  The task was to reflect on simpler times (and use one of the images–I chose the second).

Eye of newt; must add wing of bat;
Damn!  They’re endangered–
Well then, substitute a handful
of seed from the bull thistle;
Damn government!  They’re banned–
but I need a noxious weed.

Oh for the good ol’ days when
we could exploit the fat of the land
and cast spells and curse our neighbors
without fear of being politically incorrect.
A pox went unnoticed; the gout easily believed.
Now science uncovers the homicide.

Human rights!  Animal rights!  The environment!
People are destroying the world without
gun laws and safety recalls
and reducing gigantic carbon footprints.
We must protect our overpopulated selves,
killing each other faster than we used to.

Nightly news filled with horrific
bad tidings and tragic human loss.
Anyone who dies less than a healthy
centenarian was stolen too soon!
Diseases must be stopped in their tracks;
we can’t have any sick people dying.

Keep us safely locked in glass cages–
No!  Glass breaks!
Sharp shards to slit our bored wrists
as we escape from the safety
of a legislated and deathless world.
Ah. Give me the good old days!

The Muse

It’s Fireblossom Friday over at Real Toads.  We’ve been challenged to write a poem inspired by the work or life of artist Seraphine Louis.  She has an interesting story of cleaning woman, artist, success, Depression, and asylum.  I’ve chosen to focus on that link between creativity and insanity.


A poem jotted under
cover of darkness
for no eyes to read
or heart to hear.

The muse whispers
in my silent ear
the fantastic ideas
I dare not speak.

Obey the command
to create private poetry
or perish by those
thoughts trapped inside.

Scorching flames that
consume my sanity,
leaving the charred
remains of an artist denied.