Dust to Dust

If the gods turned you to stone,

I'd lie in long sleep at your feet,

dissolve to the ground and wait

for time to chisel you to dust,

so we could be one, once again.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Aergia Will Rest

The sun is up and Horme is moving about.

She never rests.
"Zing, zing," her blade sings
on the sharpening stone.

The sun reflects her face in the killing steel.
A tight smile, she is to her task,
hilt to stinging tip,
grinding the length of the blade's edge
for battle this day.

Eager, Horme sees the battle as a dream -
     
     rehearsing her moves like
     virgins dancing for the gods.
    
     The field just over
     the shallow river is her temple.
     Men rush to meet her,

     beauty, they try to embrace her beauty
     - a long reach for them,
     lying on her green altar,
     sodden in their own blood.

I see the glint, the restlessness in her eye.
"Zing, zing," her blade sings
in the middle of the camp.

I recline in my chair,
sweat beads dot my face
in this pathetic season of war.

Horme pauses from her deadly study,
sneers at my canopy of shade,
calls out from five paces away
in a blood scorched jest,

"Aergia, will you not go out with me today?"

I turn away,
my answer rests in a thought
- less than a thought,
I bite down on a grape,
its redness fills my mouth.

Any word I may have considered
dies with no effort,
no escape from my throat.

I hold another grape to my eye,
examining it closely.

"Zing, zing," Horme's blade sings.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets ~ Meeting the Bar: Volition & Velleity

In Greek mythology Horme embodies the spirit of intense action and preparation, especially in the furious moments leading up to the first clash of battle. Her opposite, the goddess Aergia, was quite lazy and ill-prepared. Such lovely contrasts the Greeks gave us. I felt these ancient spirits might suffice for Anna's request at dVerse Poets Pub: write a poem that incorporates the concepts of volition and velleity. This my attempt.

Embrace

Photo credit: NASA

 

Embrace

 

Light from

bright heaven eyes

winks in dark dome of night,

distant witness, our love's tender

embrace.

 

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

 

A cinquain written for dVerse Poets ~ Open Link Night 96

Origins (1)

From early on, looking for an answer,
One single, clear explanation enthralled,
To ease an intellectual fracture

Of how this grayish world came to be called
The home of many, of various kind,
Together and apart, hopelessly walled

From an origin they're hoping to find.
Wandering in thought, as nomads by birth,
Was it a good God - or a watchmaker blind?

Upon their suspicion they base their worth.
Where are we from, the argument begins.
A battle for high ground, there is no mirth.

Each to his own thoughts, on this earth, it spins,
Until tribe against tribe - and no one wins.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

A Terza Rima Sonnet written for dVerse Poets ~ Form for All ~ Terza Rima

Volkodlak

Keeping my distance,
sitting calmly outside
in the dark
on the porch
alone,
picking at my nails
running fingers through my hair
fighting an urge to eat
when I heard again
through the window
the story,
our old myth
told in the small, stuffy kitchen
a few sitting around the wobbly table
others leaning against the dated wallpaper

Teta, wrinkled, small,
with a slight five-o-clock shadow
commanded the room
breathed the legend out
in wispy stutters

     ...Her voice merges with my thoughts,
     there is no difference
     but for my perspective
     having lived and heard the myth
     since my birth...

Our people, descended from the
Kingdom of Illyria
crossed the waters and their fears
not for freedom from oppression
   - no war so great the the world was invited
     to attend, had spewed its curse yet -
but to flee the small village
our own had named
as home for untold time,
myths being persuasive in
our culture

Volkodlak had returned

Immortal
our ancient wolf-skinned man
left tufts of bristling hair in the pew
the vivid corpse eviscerated
in the ancient chapel
where crusaders
said their final prayers
before never coming back
from the land of Saracens...

Legend does not leave so much evidence
eh, Teta croaked

...wagons were loaded
deep rutted roads
led down the Adriatic coast
to harbors
departures
with haste arranged

Mati was young, single
and scandalous
swollen with child
a pretty peasant
on a slow
undulating voyage
barely into her adventure
  
     Cries in muffled echoes of steerage
     
     ...I hear them

     This world brought my life and
     took hers -
     a perverse exchange...

Uniforms slid her sheet-less body
over the side
in the dark
her prayers
making the bigger splash
as the void
swallowed them whole

     ...Teta and Stric wrapped me,
     fitted a bonnet of sorts over my
     unusual thick bristled hair, and
     I came to this land as
     their own...

     (I dozed through this portion, having a violent, vivid dream)

Teta wound her words to an end as
she shook the last of the slivovice from
the bottle on to her tongue.

     It is late and there is no need for a full moon

     ...I stir,
     chuckling at the irony
     of my people bringing more than their culture
     to these shores.
     Unknowing and eager
     they brought the myth
     that never dies...


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Slovenes tell the tale of Volkodlak, a wolf-man who transforms to hunt at night. So, go ahead, take your chance. Even if you manage to kill one, it will resurrect as a vampire, this time with the ability to transform to a wolf-man at will. They don't die easily by natural causes, and live as immortals unless killed in the usual, special ways. It was said the wearing of a wolf skin could turn one into a Volkodlak. Sometimes one was born as a Volkodlak, with the evidence being a baby with a head of wolf hair.

Slovene Translations:
Teta = Aunt
Stric = Uncle
Mati = Mother
Slivovice = a strong plum brandy


See Mythical Creatures List: Volkodlak

The dVerse Poets Pub doors swing open, myths and legends walk in with Fred, and another Poetics session begins.

No Room For Doubt

In the pious ghetto,

 

shuttered,

 

gated,

 

safe,

 

no room for

 

doubt

 

between the lines of

 

faith.

 

Pharisees mutter,

 

"apostate"

 

via emails of

 

concern

 

and the little children

 

run

 

from the

 

questioner.

 

 

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets ~ Open Link Night

coming back by leaving

 

i left around the month of
dog days -
     an afternoon
when the world blew up
survival was
split time
     'tween heart
          AND mind

you left too
a journey to
     never-LAND
places denied you by
    
     suckling infants
     car rides
     low tides
     rising incense &
     daily lessons

i waited
     in orbit
circling in a vacuum
     (absolute zero will freeze your - )
playing out my
con-tin-gen-cies
     to invoke

gravity pulled me
to a place
i never left
     when you
     teleported
     back from that
     far away look

ETA
on schedule


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVersePoets ~ Poetics Trip the Poem Fantastic

Pulling

Skies drop crystal rain waves, black sheets of reality overdose

Wiper blades alternate - slip slap - blur clear - with a lean forward

Wildflowers, satin rhythm, my images of you draw me home


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

A sijo, written with some freedom,  for dVerse Poets ~ Form for All hosted by Samuel Peralta.

Green

Nine go out today to protect
our emerald diamond,
the commons,
home,
from visitors who
menace,
swinging clubs
cut and hardened from
green forests
of ash.

They'll try to
run us out of
our home,
taking the field to
own our turf.
We'll slap
some leather and
keep them from
advancing until
we go on the
attack,

hoping to breathe
the raw intoxication of
a spring victory.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets Pub ~ Poetics - SpRinG hosted by Claudia

DreaMed Monster



Sunset was hours ago,
the moon made no mention
of itself.
I stood in the middle of the plowed field,
taking in the black sea of space around me
spreading from tree line to creek,
how it pressed in my chest,
short calibrated breaths,
the odor of soil and
its freshly sprayed cologne
made its way to my senses -
     not chemical,
     organic, yes, manure
     from dairy cows
     reserved for the day
     when it returned to feed the ground.

The D-cell Maglite in my left hand
and the Smith & Wesson Airweight 38-special
in my right back pocket gave
some reserve of confidence to
continue to the end of the property,
back a half-mile from the house
that already looked small, distant.

Why didn't I turn on the back porch lights?

I stood before the depth of forest,
my appointment complete,
feet settled slightly in a grip of
greeting from whatever had called
me each of these nights.

I knocked on the door,
shining my light on to the first
row of trees standing sentinel to
the gathering beyond.
A slight breeze produced more sound
than thought possible,
branches scratching their itches,
trunks twisting to get a better look,
leaves falling, hitting the damp forest floor,
sounding like footsteps approaching.

I twisted the lens to narrow the beam,
a flash of darknes as the bulb went cold and
x-ray images lingered on my retinas for
a brief moment before
real-time video returned and
I saw two yellow lights
beyond the edge of swaying trees,
focusing on me,
unblinking.

I turned the Maglite around so the head
now snuggled in the meaty base of my palm
and the six D-size battery tube became
a hefty club held slightly away as a
warning not to come near.

I heard a snickering laugh in my head and
ignored the impulse to process it.

My boots felt as if they would slide off my feet,
sticking slightly in the ground as I
stepped to the right,
following the furrow of tilled earth
conveniently lined parallel to the
primordial theater before me.

The yellow orbs,
eyes, I surmised,
moved with me,
cautious step by cautious step,
never relieving me of their focus but
for the briefness when they passed
behind the scaly bark of a tree trunk to
reappear on the other side.

It knew I was here.

The 38-special came up in my right hand,
my elbow tight against my hip,
carrying like a Prohibition gangster.

Ludicrous. Who keeps laughing at me?

The length of the field I walked and
the eyes came with me,
extending an invitation to enter the wood.
To the left I returned,
never unlocking the gaze between us,
peripherally other pairs of eyes appeared in
the ensuing hours to join the standoff.

This game wearied me for
I was not going in and
the eyes were not coming out.

I stood at the back door of the house,
flipped to lie on my other side,
fumbling for the keys until I realized
it was not locked,
pulled the sheets up to my chin,
before stepping through to
wakefulness,
I wondered would I return again
tomorrow night to the forest edge as
I had every night since coming off
the medication.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets Poetics ~ Monster

Brian Miller has us writing about monsters over at dVerse Poets. I let my imagination go and wrote the first thoughts that came to mind and followed them through to some kind of strange conclusion, a monstrosity of creation, if you will.


your love is like a paper dress

you announce yourself like a letterhead
wherever you go
engraving your persona
here I am

all the makings of royalty
crave the adulation
cherish being observed
live on the looks

your affection is cheap
men leave their marks
ink stains mix with tears
love marked junkie

your heart slips off quickly
ready for love post-disaster
ill fitting
does not suit you

stay away from passion's fire
emotions erupt
spontaneously
affection burns

crumpled in the hands of loveless brutes
not to be worn more than once
you give your love away like a novelty
it cannot last

men read you like yesterday's news
worn out
short-lived disposable
your love is like a paper dress

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets Open Link Night ~ 91

Social Discourse

Anger reigns, mocks, grows like spittle churning foam

in the backstreets of minds and hearts grown wild,
the post-modern pretense of those beguiled
by belief in a new improved genome
that helps reduce our violence syndrome,
spouting cherished beliefs, language defiled
against contrary others, so reviled,
that reject our views, no credence, no home.

Digital methods leave more to digress -
twitter, facebook, texts, emails, blogs and more
delve deep in views with which we disagree,
if only for the fact of their strangeness.
Might we give our respect and not abhor,
to find a way to see dif-fer-ent-ly.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written as a Miltonian sonnet for dVerse Poets Form for All: The Librarian, the Poet, and the Snowblower hosted by Samuel Peralta

Gather





Kitchen Table



At my best, twelve sit with me,

family feasting on penne pasta, gnocchi,

sizzling italian sausage, vinegar & oil salad,

warm garlic bread is the last to take its place.

I don't mind the Parmesan cheese or

spills of red wine covering me,

banter and laughter flowing around

me in spontaneous inspiration.

 

I bear it, unmoved, with

legs like pedestals and claw feet,

an island of stability.

Others rock back on two legs,

thrilled to tempt tipping,

reaching out to me for balance.

My support is steady, quiet.

They know me, even

love me in their own way,

knowing I am there, making

it all happen, taking

care to tidy me up,

anticipating

when I'll be needed next -

     

      short homework sessions,

      heads huddled in hushed tones, discussing

      living arrangements for Mom,

      usually morning coffee and pastry crumbs,

      board games in the loud.

 

Sometimes they need me for a late night

emergency. I got pounded

one time when the son called

to say he ran the car into a country ditch.

It wasn't personal,

just business.

 

I've been through it all with them,

be here for the many tomorrows.

Might lose a leaf, but

we'll adapt.

 

 

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

 

Written for dVerse Poets Meeting the Bar: Negative Capability as hosted by Anna Elizabeth Graham

Haiku 12

Emotional rant
refused entry to my head.
Eyes narrow to slits.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Immersion

"Immersion"

 

Breathing

deeply above

your scented neck, a vein

pulses, a small wave on warm blue

water.

 

 

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

 

Posted for dVerse Poets Form for All ~ The Cinquain