Her Apple Dance

On the walls I watch the moving shadows.
Imagining her apple dance,
the way she bowed to make us smile.

The tricks she used to bring a smile!
When we were sad she'd cast shadow
puppets on the wall and make them dance.

She brought to life both song and dance -
always a lilt in her voice; with a smile
she swept away all trace of shadows.

Shadows sway in apple dance; I see her smile.

© Gay Reiser Cannon * 8.30.2012 * All Rights Reserved


 Posted for the awesome Sam Peralta's article @dVersePoets Pub today on the Tritina Form -you can read it here and try it yourself!

Celtic Burial

Ivory innocent too young to die;
forest whispers why. Verdure covers her.
Indigo eyes now sleep, no longer cry;
harsh life's antidote - a killing measure.

Celtic snakes carved on a wooden casket;
flute notes tie and entwine the branchéd wood.
Wrens dart trailing reeds through curving foulards
where eggs lie still in braided baskets.

Women lead processions into the copse
Chant haunting songs for resurrecting breath
Even-fall sifts lattice leaves, linnet calls.

Murmurs of incantations for the corpse;
shoes leave footprints upon the eager earth.

One bell tolls. Beyond the mottled light falls.

© Gay Reiser Cannon * All Rights Reserved
This is my link for dVerse Poets Open Link Night, week 44.

The Shade

 I saw a shadow!
          I haven't been hiding.
You move so fast
          I have to work fast.
But you've been lingering?
          That happens sometimes.
Are you only a shadow?
          I have many names.
Why have you come?
          You know the answer.
Is time nearly up?
           It moves one way only.
It seems to stop sometimes.
           It seems to stop sometimes
                but it doesn't.
Why does it hurt?
           It ends the pain.
Why is it sudden?
           It is what it is..I am what I am.
Are you it or only the shadow.
           I am both..the dread and relief.
Are you here for me?
           You know I'm here and everywhere.
But life seems so permanent.
           Not feeling that way would be intolerable.
What happens afterwards?
          I cannot say, but this will be over, this will be..
Dead?
          Finished.

© Gay Reiser Cannon *2011* All Rights Reserved

I saw a shadow move across my bedroom wall while eating supper tonight. It led to this.

Before the End

                                            Moths in the shape of one moth
                                            hang from the eaves of the porch.

                                            They break pattern at night
                                            then return by day to stay in sight.

                                           The season turns soft late this year,
                                           noticeable only in the darkening
                                         
                                           of the dune grasses and bay water.
                                           Pale moon peaks through woolen skeins.

                                           Inside we ignore the pain and failings.
                                           We make each day work as close
                                         
                                           as we can to the one before, yet each
                                           ends with fewer words and less breath.

                                           The inner pain burns to ash the recent past.
                                           Yesterday's meals with local news blur to fog.

                                           In the midst of these doldrums, suddenly a passion
                                           fires to a vivid lucid state that lights this day.

                                           A laughing  moment of remembrance kept
                                           before falling back to earth a soft dull gray.

                                           Outside the multi-moth figure waivers
                                           as the light shivers and life begins to fade.

                                            © Gay Reiser Cannon * 2011 * All Rights Reserved
                                            Posted for OpenLinkNight @ dVersePoets on 10/18/2011

Free Spirit

 His death
                        An accident or fate?
                        Substance became surreal.

No wind      
                       Time stopped awhile, somewhere I heard a bell peal
                       Bereavement surrounds me, all seemed distant and late.

A loud clamor

                      The window lay
                      Unbroken on the kitchen tile
                      Had a phantom blown it
                      Out of its frame?

My thoughts confused and afraid

                      Overpowering my doubts
                      Unplanned words took form
                      I heard:

                                                    "Goodbye
                                                            I came back to say, ...No tears,
                                                            Keep faith, stay strong, and with
                                                            Courage endure the events of
                                                            Approaching years.

                                                            Don't forget me
                                                            Or the times we shared.
                                                            I couldn't leave
                                                            Without telling you I cared."

The stillness left the room
With an incandescent glare.
Outside the breeze took shape and direction.
I put the window back in its frame
And signed the relief of benediction.

                                         © Gay Reiser Cannon * All Rights Reserved

This was written about someone who died while
we were dating long ago; it is a true account.
I was alone, and the evening was still, hot, humid.

A Winter Sunset

Clouds freeze the winter sky
bare-bones of bark crisscross it,
soul haunting as a woman’s cry.

The aging house sags against
its ghostly garden in shredded rags
of summer’s last silhouette.

Sullen wind shrieks through shadows
whipping loosened boards leaving
frost to veil the timeworn windows.

An aperture to sky opens and
a single ray of light, delicate as a thread,
reveals a dried and broken chrysalis.

What butterfly has fled?

(c) Gay Reiser Cannon * All Rights Reserved