A dance by the fire

She danced by the fire

her arms around life

her arms around the flame

that would become her life

She danced before me

she danced around me

and she danced for me

as the flame climbed high

I did not come to dance

fingernails too begrimed

I did not come to dance

to hold those soft white hands

But she stood before me

Before my sunburned face

she took my coal-stained hands

in hers and we danced

We danced by the fire

embracing the flame

and the dance became the fire

embracing our life

I danced before her

and the fire grew

the fire became the dance

and oh how we danced

and oh how we danced

In late August, the Tweetspeak Poetry staff and some of the T.S. Poetry authors met at West Bend, Indiana. One evening was devoted to reading poetry and an informal concert. We heard Tania Runyan on the fiddle, Laura Lynn Brown on the flute, and Laurie Klein on the guitar. They played Irish and Scot music, and it was difficult to keep from dancing (some of us danced, and some of us watched). The above is the second of the songs (or poems) I wrote as I listened to the music. The first is “A song from the sea.”

Sting Sisters: Shetland Fiddle Diva

Photograph by Axelle B via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

A song from the sea

I walked through the mountains

and I was seeking my fame

and I was seeking my name

and I looked in the river

and I was seeking my face

and I was seeing my face

And I walked through the forests

and I was seeking my name

and I was seeking my fame

And the tall trees spoke to me

they were weeping my name

they were weeping my fame

and the crows flew over me

and the winds passed around me

as I was looking for my name

as I was looking for my fame

and I danced before the mast

and I danced before the storm

and the ship flew onward

as it sailed across the sea

I danced beside my coffin

I danced beside my wreath

the crows flew onward

as I sailed across the sea

but I never found my name

but I never found my fame

and the ship sailed onward

and it sailed across the sea

In late August, the Tweetspeak Poetry staff and some of the T.S. Poetry authors met at French Lick, Indiana. One evening was devoted to reading poetry and an informal concert. We heard Tania Runyan on the fiddle, Laura Lynn Brown on the flute, and Laurie Klein on the guitar. They played Irish and Scot music, and it was difficult to keep from dancing (some of us danced, and some of us watched). Two of the songs they played were “Da Full Rigged Ship” and “Da New Rigged Ship,” Scottish reels that are typically played together. The above is one of the songs (or poems) I wrote as I listened to the music.

Wailing Banshees: Da Full Rigged Ship / Da New Rigged Ship

Photograph by Linnaea Mallette via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

The Mischief Cafe

There is mischief afoot.

No, Watson, the game’s afoot.

The Mischief Café has opened its doors,

poetry at home with toast,

buttered (not artisan), & tea, although

some insist upon coffee, grounds

for litigation by the tea crowd. Just so.

It is a book, you see, a book

of poems, and dreams,

of poems, and screams

of delights, oohs and ahs,

and prompts and pages

blank with expectancy

waiting to be filled and poured.

The Mischief Café’s a traveling café,

a minstrel show, a lyceum,

bawdy vaudeville, a hermit’s retreat,

a Facebook post, an introvert’s tweet,

filled with blank pages, a journal,

because all poetry begins, or hesitates,

upon blank pages, and dreams.

There is mischief afoot.

No, Watson, the game’s afoot.

No, Holmes, my ruler’s a foot.

So, if you wondering what this is all about, L.L. Barkat has published The Mischief Café, which is a book of poems and prompts with blank pages, inviting you to write your poems, and create some mischief. Three of my own poems are included, among many others.

It is a strange thing to see one’s own poems published in a collection. I first had to ask myself if I really wrote them, and the answer is yes, I did; I even remember when I did. And the second thing I asked myself is why am I feeling so mischievous? The poem above is the result. 

If you’re feeling mischievous, The Mischief Café is a good way to start.