she sat glowing her figure against a backdrop of green of grey of blue downwind sipping her coffee cradled in pasty hands wisps of steam danced on the breeze like a virus almost reaching me
Downsun
Author: R L Raymond
Imagist
Against the fall
There are wisps of sound beyond the plosives and sibilance of artifice Drones whistling through pine needles that muffle urban suburban grinds of sawteeth and dental clinics Notes ascending Jacob’s Ladder past the roofing sign askew on rebar legs
Some secrets are best left…
Chupacabra
they whisper to the children shushing them down in stocking feet past the squeaky stair and crack the door so it doesn't creak then hide in the pantry huddled by the sal & pimentón
From Half Myths & Quarter Legends, Epic Rites, 2012
Apathetic Fallacy
The evening valiantly teased rain
a slight shift in the wind wheezing through
desiccated leaves of trees awilt
offering neither respite nor reprieve
A rogue cloud pushed through the smokiness
flicked five faint drops echoing Cetus
against the soot-encrusted window
Before they could trace the constellation
with their blackened cracked and blistered fingers
it faded into insignificance
All around them the fire ate the world
smug in its inevitability
licking at the fields and the forests and the sky
still unopposed by any long-blinded witness
Written for “Poets in Response to Peril” upcoming event (April 2022). Hear my reading and see video below (posted by Rico Sitoski).
Event details here: https://www.rsitoski.com/event-details/poets-in-response-to-peril
A Spark
She was backlit
By the flames
Of the burning bridges
First Love
No matter how much new gear I get, I always manage to go back to my first love: the Fuji XE1. You can get these for peanuts online. Colour rendition, control, toughness all second to none. With a relatively inexpensive pancake 27mm it’s the perfect go everywhere camera.
Yggdrasil
A little ways up north
the .410 bore was perfect
full choked for partridge
either perched or flying
he’d dropped another one onto the small pond
getting his feet wet
when he’d stepped through the ice
he dressed it - wings tucked then yanked quickly -
and placed the breast in waxed cardboard
the carcass tossed aside for any hungry vixen
walking the path that ribboned through pines
he picked up boughs and cones
to decorate the hunting shack
smoke from the rusted chimney
carried wintergreen and blueberries
mixed with breadcrusts ready for stuffing
his uncle looked up from the woodstove
woodspoon in hand
white beard streaked from sampling
“Looks like you got yourself soaked…
take your socks off and hang ‘em
in front of the fire.”
They sat together sharing a bottle of port
telling stories and retelling memories
eager for another perfect holiday meal
Through the woods…
Through the woods
in late afternoon in autumn
as the colours
drain brown
stain water
humus
over broken
branches
all bark-stripped
smoothworn
they blindly rush
hoping
the leaf-slick
deer-run
leads them away
from dusk
hanging low
so soon
to the hollow
where the
flask of scotch
was hid
Originally appeared in “Gorilla Pamphlets”
Some experimenting below. I thought it may be interesting to append to this post. This would be a good exercice à la Beckett to achieve that “detached” vibe in one’s writing.
R L Raymond 