eyes of the lagoon.

Father of gunmetal, fingers and sap

kneeling to the blood-red of our faces

from my formaldehyde Grandfather,

in the black elms, a crown of sun pencils

on white skin, now the eyes I find of the lagoon

were treed in artichoke; father’s eyes are mine,

the shore is from the foolish matriarch, babushka’s daughter

and herself.

Occam’s razor had slit feet: bloodlines cannot drown us

from ancestor or ancestress to become their very worst.

Sand-thrown, gallows cripple upon the neck

the eyes that hanged upon father’s head,

burning, gnawing,

into the oak’s edge of wasteland knees

creaking and cracking to a child of stone,

less moonlight on the prey,

the swoon its death will bring, gripping no sea to swim

or ankle to grab quaked with sparred skins; steppes void

in ox eyes, a ghost of dead men,

what fools we must be to believe

that these things can change.

© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.


Written for the dVerse prompt. I chose prompt 1.


48 thoughts on “eyes of the lagoon.

  1. Just as madness and genius lock arms, and love & lust share the same skin, your gothic filters find darkness at noon, and death in half-eaten grapefruits (which is unique, and clings to you wonderfully). I liked,”a crown of sun-pencils on white skin”–marvelous take on sun shafts of light.

    Liked by 4 people

  2. I love the visual images and the metaphorical images in you poem. The pond with eye all around of every kind. And the thought that only a fool would believe you could change the cycle of nature. Very well done as always!

    Liked by 3 people

  3. Among the darkness of gunmetal and formaldehyde there is a beautiful lit-up moment, Lucy, which lends this poem its delicacy, the image in ‘a crown of sun pencils on white skin’. I also love the Gothic richness of the lines:
    ‘Sand-thrown, gallows cripple upon the neck
    the eyes that hanged upon father’s head,
    burning, gnawing,
    into the oak’s edge of wasteland knees
    creaking and cracking to a child of stone’.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. I’m imagining a father or grandfather who was hanged and the narrator having more sympathy with them than with the soft female heritage.
    ‘in the black elms, a crown of sun pencils on white skin,’ —I love that image.

    Liked by 3 people

  5. So many exquisite descriptions to indulge in….”treed in artichoke” , “oak’s edge of wasteland knees”, “ox eyes” and “quaked with sparred skins”. I like the dark side that “eyes” took you to.

    Liked by 3 people

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