in womb, the fingers of tree
an ancestress trunk in sects of strife,
as born and lived through roots
like fossil teeth, pressing to death’s bouquet
in November’s winds; shackled
in ebbs and flows, mosaics of flattered
seas are astray, where they are now writhing
for their shamed skeletons;
they are conches swayed, rocking
for what never existed.
I drown into the ancient
mist, mouth in the red heart
of the ocean’s bosom, lain yet a shyness
or coldness nigh roses, never dust.
Fingers pried in circuity,
displeased at winter’s eye lay bare
in cosseted hibernations, scorn
elk and deer; your ancient words
die, yet still it is abused delighted
in elysian tombs, in times thrilled
too soon, unbridled in naught shadows
but the dither of the moon, and the dying echoes
as a sequitur.
Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a poem about November and tell us what it means to you.
Mainly a stream of consciousness piece, but with a cycle of reflection of oneself and loving/hating the cold weather that comes with November. That’s what it means to me. 🙂
“Some Of Us” by King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard was a large inspiration for this poem. I played it on repeat while writing.