bairnsidhe

This Qiyan jueju poem* was inspired by the China's Mistake arc of

dialecticdreamer set within the Terramagne Setting belonging to

ysabetwordsmith

In China, a pet cricket is lucky

Kept in beautiful gourds, Bǎn qiú lóng

Fuse boxes or camps, cages are cages

Maybe the Cricket in China isn't lucky

*The Qiyan jueju is most properly written in kanji, seven of them per line. As I do not actually speak or write Chinese, I simply used seven words per line. This is probably incorrect and would not translate well to Chinese. My apologies. Learn more here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qijue

In Chinese culture, a cricket is a sign of longevity and prosperity, and they were often kept as pets in wealthy households during the Imperial Era. The Communist regime suppressed cricket keeping and tried banning it in 1950, but it persisted and today there are over 20 legal cricket markets in Shanghai.

Bǎn qiú lóng are special gourds or cages made into cricket homes. They are beautiful and ornate, but still cages,

In the Terramagne setting, cricket is slang for a closeted soup (super-powered person). Another term for being a cricket is to be "in the fuse box".

T-China is a 'bottom ten' country for how they treat soups (and ordinary people but that's true for L-China too).

Current Mood: contemplative

This poem was prompted by

ng_moonmoth on the Writing Under Glass event
---

The land ages and matures

The crops ripen and ready

The air hints at the winter to come

We celebrate the year

We celebrate the harvest

We prepare for what comes next

We recall the dead

We cut the sheaves

We cook the food we gather

We know it will not last forever

We bring the Gods home

We shower them with love

We hope that they stay with us

The harvest is for celebration

The harvest is for hope

The harvest is for preparing to survive

Current Mood: amused

This poem was inspired by prompts from

readera on the Writing Under Glass event.

---
Cinnamon is for luck,

For money, protection, and love.

Ginger is for love,

For drawing in money and luck.

Nutmeg is for money

For love and safe travels.

Cloves draw in prosperity

And keep the illness out

Vanilla is for love and lust

For healing, and for luck

Pumpkins growing like harvest moons

Are love and luck and

To keep you safe as the veils thin.

Sugar sweetens the disposition

It brings peace and love

To a course that ne’r did run smooth

There is magic in a kitchen

That brings joy and comfort

There is power in knowing

Who you are within yourself

Both of these are present

In that flavor most maligned

The humble Pumpkin Spice.

Current Mood: content

This poem was prompted by

fuzzyred on the Writing Under Glass event.

Eight stitches

Eight stitches single crochet

Eight stitches of soft loops

Double crochet four chains

Loops on loops full and soft

Eight double crochet

Four chains and four spaces

In the chain spaces

The open gaps waiting for finger wiggles

Ten half double crochet

Instructions chain like crochet stitches

Nine front post half double crochet

Around the double crochet

Continue around like this

Eight half double stitches times ten

Eight front post half double times nine

First half double pulled tight

Hiding an invisible join

Eight stitches of soft loops

Eight stitches single crochet

Eight stitches

Bloom

---

The majority of this poem is based on the Loopy Little Flower crochet pattern at Sisters in Stitch. You can find more about this hyperbolic crochet lovely at http://www.sistersinstitch.com/the-loopy-little-flower.

There are more things in Heaven
And in Earth, than Horatio can dream.

There are more things in Horatio
Than Heaven and Earth can know.

There are masks, infinite like mirrors
Face to face, forever reflecting the self
We see in others, reaching for the ones
Who are also shaped as God.

Every person we meet
Meets a different one of us
A different facet of the Divine
Shines from every light that falls

To Thine Own Self Be True
States the wisest Bard

But Truth comes of Knowing
And Knowledge comes of Truth

To know any creation on this earth
Is a journey of a lifetime's length
Take council then, good travelers,
If wisdom it is you truly seek

Embrace the plurality of nature
The singular they within every human's skin

Know that you are Legion,
And go forth to know thy selves.

I speak with words like water
A babble-brook of sound
Rivers may roar and so I
Cry with white rapid speech

I speak with words like water
Damned and dammed behind
The lock of lips tied by anger
A dike sealed by fable fingers

I speak with words like water
Rusty tap ekes out a measure
Falling on parched hearts
Too little, too late to start

I speak with words like water
A geyser, a fount, a great cascade
The diluvian torrent of ideas
Wrenched free by ageless pressures

I speak with words like water
Seeking the path of least resistance
Seeping through imperfect foundations
Changing through stubborn flow

Here There Be Demons
Lurking in the Deep
Slinking in the Shadows
On watch while all the people sleep

Here There Be Dragons
Guarding hoarded loot
Fanged and clawed and grumpy
But also... kinda cute?

Here There Be Monsters
Go patrolling the Dark
Fighting in the battles
That would tear mortal men apart

Here There Be Unknowns
The Psychopomps to Guide
And the Seers at their Sight
Because this is where

All the stranger things reside

Humans, as a species,
Packbond to anything
That will sit still long enough
And sometimes,
To things that won't.

They are a lonely People
Who look up
And out
And down
And everywhere
For other People they can
Be People with

They searched the skies
For years
For decades
For centuries
Hoping to find someone
To be friends with

When things started to look
Not so good,
For the Earth,
For Humans
For the chance to find others
They built robots
To do a job they could not.

They gave them metal bodies,
Silicon brains, and the directive
"You want to explore"
And they did. After all,
They were built in Humanity's image

Maybe in a hundred years
Humanity will be gone
Maybe they will have killed themselves
Or poisoned their planet
And maybe when the People they sought
Arrive, they will find Humans long gone.
But they will find robots,
And ask them what Humans were like.

"Well, they built us," the robots will say.
"Loved us, sang to us, and named us:

Sojourner - one who visits and travels
Spirit - the sentient part of a person
Opportunity - a chance for progress
Curiosity - a desire to know
Insight - the power to understand

So they must have thought
Those things were important.

And they told us to tell you

Hello!"

Current Mood: lonely

( You're about to view content that the journal owner has advised should be viewed with discretion. )

Current Mood: exhausted

DING

The bell above the door rang merrily.
I looked up from the counter I'd been leaning on.

The young man who'd disturbed the bell was staring,
disheveled and a bit bewildered.
They frequently had that look, the new ones.

"Welcome, friend!" I called out.
"Sit where you like, I'll get you some tea."

"This isn't..."
He trailed off, eyes on some distant horizon
he would never reach, poor thing.

A dashed expectation can hurt like a mother.

"No, I suspect not," I told him.
He blinked as I set down a cup
of bottle green plastic, covered in scuffs,
and filled to the brim with sweet tea.
"It seldom is."

"Where is this?"

"Where were you heading?"

"I mean, probably Hell.
If the preachers are right about it."

"That's no simple highway,"
I sighed. My own cup joined his.

I traced the arcane map formed
in the scratches and stains of old Formica.
The diner table transformed by habit into
scrying glass, battle plan, and altar.

"Reach out your hand," I told him.
To his credit, he didn't need to be asked twice.
I looked at his palm, the deep callouses
speaking to me as loud as sunlight.
A man who worked with his hands,
who played a stringed instrument,
and bit his nails short enough to use.

"There is a road," I told him.
"One that can take you someplace better for you.
Between the darkness and the dawning,
between choice and challenge,
through places untamed and untameable."

"The road goes to... to the good place?"

"It goes a place," I correct. "Good is up to you.
But yeah, you can get someplace decent...
I think. But you'll be walking the path alone."

"Alone, I can do," he said,
"I just wish..."

"Yeah?"

"It's silly," he said with a grin.
"I left, all of my own free will...
Well, free will, some Xanax, and a bottle of Jack...
but all I want to do now is go home."

The grin broke my heart,
curse me for a sentimental fool.
A bleeding heart is not a desirable trait in a psychopomp.
We lead the dead on, we don't let them linger
and we certainly don't let our own hearts lead us.

"If I knew the way, I'd take you home,
but I only know the paths forward."

I noted his cup was empty.

"More tea, before you leave?"

"No thanks." He smiled like honey.
"I get the feeling I have a long walk,
I wouldn't want to get caught with no rest stop,
If you get my meaning."

I watched him go, and the jukebox played a breezy,
mellow rock intro, familiar and bright as tie-dye.

"Oh, stuff it," I told the machine.
"Don't you look at me in that tone of voice."

The dearly departed will stop for directions,
a slice of pie, or a cup of tea.
The grateful ones may chat a bit,
with me or with each other,
but the work isn't over,
and it never will be... with any luck.

Current Mood: sad
Current Music: Ripple - Grateful Dead

Inspired by

dialecticdreamer 's work Together With You (start the story here) and one line that really stood out to me.

<^>

It's not easy
To be known friends
With superheroes.

It's not comfortable
When people stare at you
Or even point, sometimes.

It's not fun
When they laugh
And ask you that stupid question.

"So have YOU ever saved the world?"

It's not easy
To tuck your anger away
Behind tight lipped smiles.

It's not comfortable
When they assume your answer
Is going to be a no, of course.

It's not fun
When you laugh too
And try to talk about anything else.

Because you know the answer.

It's not easy
To get a call in the night
That your friend is in the clinic.

Again.

It's not comfortable
When you get kidnapped
By some wannabe villain.

Again.

It's not fun
To keep the secrets,
And the trauma
And the nights crying
And the hidden fears
And the weakness
And the exhaustion
And hide all that away and laugh along with those idiots because you cannot tell them the truth and expose all that, because privacy maintains, and you're starting to feel like screaming that out at the top of your lungs
And you laugh and give the easy answer.

Again.

So when you go to your therapist
And you get to say it all
When your priest asks you
In the sanctity of the confessional
When you can safely say it
And they ask if you've ever saved the world

You say yes.

Another for

stardreamer to the tune of "What Can You Do With a Drunken Sailor?" about an altercation at the Wavering Reed, a bar owned by Cygna Lake, a former Swan Maiden, her wife Sheela Lake, a selkie, and their daughter Carmine. Because my fantasy setting needs at least one drinking song and so far hasn't gotten one.

<^>

You hear what happened to the barkeep's daughter?
Hear what happened to the barkeep's daughter?
Hear what happened to the barkeep's daughter?
Early in the morning?

Well, I heard she was caught by the Boston Charmer
Heard she was caught by the Boston Charmer
Heard she was caught by the Boston Charmer
Early in the morning

Well, I know the Boston Charmer's an awful rake
I know the Boston Charmer's an awful rake
I know the Boston Charmer's an awful rake
Early in the morning

The barkeep's daughter's got no time for play
The barkeep's daughter's got no time for play
The barkeep's daughter's got no time for play
Early in the morning

So he tried to steal what he couldn't take
He tried to steal what he couldn't take
He tried to steal what he couldn't take
Early in the morning

[Pause, next lines spoken]
No!
Oh yes.
Did she?
Indeed.
Poor bastard.
[Resume song]

The Boston Charmer lost an eyeball
The Boston Charmer lost an eyeball
The Boston Charmer lost an eyeball
Early in the morning.

From the sale boost, for

stardreamer who requested feminist takes or expansions of classic tales. This was partially inspired by the song Black Jack's Lady by the incomparable Heather Alexander (the former alias of the equally incomparable Alexander James Adams) and partially by the classic folk tale of Black Jack Davy, a rogue who rides in, seduces the Lady of the Manor, and rides out to share one wonderful despoiling night with her before departing with her husband's worldly possessions. I wondered, if indeed this man runs this scam everywhere he goes, might this not be an excellent arrangement for women who want an easy way to get the hell out of their place in society and throw away the chains that bind? And if so, what would happen to all those educated, formerly upper class women, accustomed to leadership of at least the staff? Well, for one, I imagine they might have system of tracking each other down to welcome newly freed sisters to the world. This is their song.

<^>

They call them Black Jack Girls
They're wicked through and through
They disobey their husbands orders
And sleep with a rogue's crew

They call them whores and worse
Their hearts are made of coal
They're left to roam the wild woods
Not helped by a single soul

They call them Black Jack Girls
They saw their chance and ran
They seek out others like them
Who want help from no living man

They call them rogues and brigands
They erase the the lives they love
They tell me I should not seek them out
Well I tell them they can shove

You can call me a Black Jack Girl
I'm free now through and through
I've escaped my golden cage
On Black Jack wings I flew

To the ones we left behind
The husbands and to the wise
To the Lords who track us down
And tell of our soul's demise

You've shown us nothing here
But unkindness, pain, and death
Forgive me if I return the gifts
That stole away so many's breath

For unkindnesses and murder
Are also the homes of crows
Ravens tell us never more
And the Black Jack's number grows

So,

ysabetwordsmith has a half-price sale over in Polychrome Heroics, and in addition to being a great series with awesome representation, this sale is to raise funds for the replacement of a computer. As I have a long history of getting out of tech-related mishaps by the skin of my teeth, I feel this is a good time to pay back into the karmic cycle, and I'll be offering short poems as a bonus to anyone who buys a poem from Ysabet!

Go buy fun art, and then come tell me and get some free art too!

Tamati dances

He dances the haka to thank Rangahore

For her gifts to her children, the rocks

Tamati dances

He dances the stories of his ancestors

For the people who come to learn, the children

Tamati dances

He dances destruction and creation

Earth moves when he plants his feet, the roots

Tamati dances

Tamati thinks

He thinks about Tane who made Mankind

And left all his wives to do so, even Rangahore

Tamati thinks

He thinks about promises broken open

Like things split by volcanic heat, even rocks

Tamati thinks

He thinks about other gods and godesses

Known for creating and destroying, even Pele

Tamati thinks

Tamati grows

He grows as a person and as a supervillain

Building connections through tunnels, underground

Tamati grows

He grows as a brother and a tribal member

Expanding his family through marriage, surprisingly

Tamati grows

He grows roses and herbs with his Tuahine

Covering planters of lava rock with green, budding

Tamati grows

And he thanks Pele and Tane now too.

The Star of Leyte

Remembered the Sweet Home Tree

Every winter here

Far from red sunlight

And ancient rivers of song

Nourishment missing

Each spring, renewal

Shook melancholy leaves off

Bringing forth keiki

The children of stems

Short lived and fragile beauties

Each a rare gamble

Hoping they will live

To see a second year’s turn

With Star of Leyte

Each year sends them out

To the gathering of young

Called Minion Night

To drink sweet water

They don’t know is not the same

As home’s river water

They see others like them

Similar in their diverse

Dissimilarity

Strange, yet beautiful

Strong and growing stronger still

Together weave roots

To tie the keiki

To a new, different, Home Tree

And maybe save them

The freebie for

ng_moonmoth on the Fishbowl Double-Offer.
If you prompted on ysabetwordsmith's fishbowl, you still have time to claim a freebie!

//////////^^^\\\\\\\\\\

If A loves B,

And B loves C,

And C loves D.

If B loves E

And E loves F

And F loves G

If C loves H and I

And I loves J and K

And K loves M, N, O and P

And P and A once had a baby with Q

And R and H go to concerts with S

And T and V love E

And W and X like to go to the movies with D

And N and K go shopping for clothes with G

And every one of them is happy with the pinnate family

That they’ve built on love that branches and bends

Like the arching branches of a banyan tree...

Then Y does it matter to U?

Prompted by

readera and sponsored as a free reward for

librarygeek on the Fishbowl double-offer! Remember to claim yours, because more creativity is always good.

//////////^^^\\\\\\\\\\

A dancer is simply a dancer,

Moving their body aesthetically

For the enjoyment of others;

This logic proved fatal for invaders.

For the people they conquered

Had tribes of skill and now, only now,

A sudden shared hatred of the

Pale-faced evils that enslaved them.

The graceful, vibrant tribes lent music

And flashing skirts, color and sound

Meant to draw the eye, here, there,

Anywhere but the true intent of rebellion.

The fierce, warrior tribes lent strikes

Kicks and punches meant to hurt or kill,

Aú bringing feet over head, catching

Enemy faces unaware of the danger

Partners in a roda move their bodies

Together, as one, responding to the

Music’s beat, and each other’s hearts,

Leaving the ring stronger, and together.

It was easy for the dividing forces,

To assume that once enemy meant

Always enemy, as they did not move

Towards their foes, except to attack.

It was easy for the rebel quilombos

To meet and trade in the secret clearings

Because the path of non resistance

Moves in esquivas towards friendship.

Capoeira is a dance, and capoeiristas

Are dancers, but they are not merely

Anything. They are warrior souls, and

Rebel bodies, moving always towards

A break for freedom.

//////////^^^\\\\\\\\\\

Capoeira is a Brazillian fighting form that is also a dance form, that flourished as a tool of anti-colonial resistance and rebellion. You can read about its history here.

To be is to think
To think is to communicate
To communicate is to be understood

Being and understanding
Are inextricably linked,
Painfully separated.

Being shouts into a void,
Hoping to hear an echo;
"You are not alone."

Understanding strains to reply
Across gulfs of time and tide;
"And let be, and let see"

We are not so different,
You, in your you-ness,
And I in my me-ness

We both wish only to
Be allowed to be
And be understood.

Reaching for the sky
Our arms outstretched
Fingers inching upwards
Itching to touch the stars.

We hope to be the giants
On whose shoulders future
Geniuses will stand to see.

As though the species is trying
To grow in a Lamarckian way.

To reach for the stars.

September 2020

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Entries tagged with poetry

Lucky Cricket / Xìngyùn bǎn qiú

The Harvest

Magic in the Spice

Eight Stitches

Know Thy Selves

Words Like Water

Here There Be

They Named Us

Girl

No Simple Highway

You Say Yes

Never go Groping a Swan

Black Jack Girls

Boosting a Sale

Tamati Dances

Blooming Every Spring

The Poly Alphabet

A Break(dance) For Freedom

Let Be And Let See

To Reach For the Stars

September 2020

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