The Waxing Moon: bitter snake

Saturday, November 12, 2011

bitter snake

You crush the sunlight in my day
and scatter it, broken and dead,
like litter on the ground.

I wonder if you’re pleased
with this dull grey light
you’ve wrought. I wonder

if you stop to reflect at all.

Bitter snake, your venom
drives me out, despairing
for clean air, fresh joy.

Rachel Westfall
November 12, 2011

10 comments:

Fireblossom said...: Oh those bitter snakes. They are destroyers indeed.; November 13, 2011
namingconstellations said...: Love that opening stanza!; November 15, 2011
Rob-bear said...: Too complex for an ol' Bear who should be hibernating.

But interesting.

Can't say that I love snakes.; November 19, 2011
RachelW said...: My dear old bear, Yes. I think I should be hibernating now too, along with the snakes.; November 20, 2011
Rob-bear said...: Yeah, but I don't want the snakes hibernating with me! I could get really wrapped up and suffocate during the winter.; November 20, 2011
RachelW said...: True, that. Maybe that's what I've been doing wrong all this time.; November 20, 2011
Moanerplicity said...: I've known the bitter remorse of sticking my hand blindly inside a sack of snakes, & so this poem speaks directly to that place in me which understands.

Very well rendered, my poetic friend.

Snatch JOY!

One.; November 22, 2011
Scrappy Wolf said...: Is the Devil in the details? ;); December 07, 2011
Rachel Westfall said...: More likely, the Devil is on my doorstep. I can hear him knocking. He kept me up all night.; December 10, 2011
Scrappy Wolf said...: Maybe it's the wolf at your doorstep, & not the Devil. And he is the good wolf with gentle, loving bites ;)...; December 19, 2011

This place is a story

The Waxing Moon was a thin book, well-worn and poorly bound, spine inexpertly repaired with tape. After school, sheltered by the stacks of the public library, the children secretly read spells from the book, never daring to borrow it. It was full of mysteries: spells that disappeared warts with knotted red string and dripping eaves; how to become invisible by placing amethyst under the tongue; stranger things involving cat bones. One day, the book was gone, and I always wondered which one of us had taken it. I'm pretty sure it wasn't me.

Coyote Grief

Sometimes the night stills,
hardens, and the tight stars choke
and fall to flat earth,
dead embers. The sky
is no longer black, dim gray.

Coyote's sadness
is deeper than hope.

She snuffs at dead stars amazed,
confused, wants to put
them back, cannot reach
that high, to the dim flat sky.
They won't burn again.

This beautiful, sad poem was written by Christopher in response to my poem Without memorial. It was too lovely to remain buried in the comments, so I put it here on my windowsill, where the sunlight may fall across the words to heal Coyote's grief.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

bitter snake

10 comments:

This place is a story

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