Invocation to Sekhmet - Lady of Pestilence

Gracious lady, your power is well known
bringing fear and carnage to the world.
But your goodwill spreads enchantment
protecting us from suffering and plague.
 
May you be soothed by the music of the harp and the flute,
be calmed by the fragrance of the incense we burn.
Drink and be fulfilled by this tasty red beer
Gorge on these meats and the succulent fruit.
 
You, who can summon pestilence, can cast it aside.
Hear the whispers of the people imploring your kindness
Please, we beg you, end the curse that’s infecting the land.
 
When it is gone, we’ll dance in the streets.
We’ll drink and eat and laugh with joy.
And we’ll keep your offering table
Piled high with your favourite treats.
 
Each year we will gather to celebrate together
the beer and the wine will flow in the streets
when we honour your name and remember your kindness.
See you next year at the Festival of Drunkenness.

Diamente poem - Metamorphosis

caterpillar
plump, striped
munching, growing, cocooning
metamorphosis, transition, migration, change
emerging, expanding, flexing
majestic, colourful
butterfly

Featured in Mythos Poetry Society Parnassus Chapter weekly prompt

Published in Quillkeepers Press Anthology "Harvest." October 2022

LAMENTING MY MUSE

 

My muse has gone silent, leaving me  alone with unformed phrases and words in random patterns.

We played joyfully together last spring creating abundant rhymes and verses.
Haiku happily graced the page.
Even a lonely limerick found a home.
Now bereft, I pluck pitifully at a tuneless lyre.

Perhaps it is the glory of the garden that has stolen her away.

What words compare to the luscious frills of peony petals, the palette of thrusting lupin spikes, the purple, yellow-bearded irises in proud majestic rows?

I am defeated by an ode to oxalis, with its tangy, trefoil leaves.
Delicate daisies rampant in the lawn, defy description and wild strawberries creep silently underfoot.

Will my muse be tempted by the fragrance of mixed herbs; mint, rosemary, basil, lemon balm?

Is she loitering on a lofty treetop distracted by the blue jays' chatter and the persistent pecking of the woodpecker?

Dear muse, don't judge me while you languish out of sight leaving me awash in adjectives, free to mangle metaphors and clutch at cliches.

I won't let your absence lead to despair. 

In time you will return to guide me.  

For now, I sit quietly on this rock beside my stone inuksuk that keeps watch at the water’s edge.

No need to hurry. I have company with the lush birth of greening growth around me; the miracle of a world reborn after winter's sleep.

And when you return, I'll be here, waiting.

First Prize Winner- Poetry in the Scugog Council for the Arts Ekphrastic Literary Contest 2021 

Cascade Poem

 

The fickle wind of time

has taken you from me

leaving me lost and lonely.

 

Together, forever, we said

not accounting for

the fickle wind of time

 

You did not deserve

the twisted fate that

has taken you from me.

 

Trying to hold onto memories

that fade and disappear

leaving me lost and lonely.

Featured in Mythos Poetry Society 

Southward

 

Flocks of geese gather
take flight in v-formations
southward, without me

Published in Quillkeepers Press anthology, "Harvest" October 2022

BALANCING THE SEASONS

 

Greetings your Majesty, Ruler of the Two Lands

Please accept these humble offerings
      pots of milk and beer to quench your thirst
      a feast of fowl that I netted in the marsh
      and fine incense to purify the air.
It is only you my Lord, the living god
      who can intercede with the river god Hapi
      to ensure the seasons change in harmony and balance.
I implore my Lord, that you make the river run high
      during the Season of the Inundation
      to fill the ponds and flood the fields.
Then in the Season of the Emergence
      the crops will flourish and be plentiful.
When you bless the Season of the Harvest
      the granaries will be filled to feed your people.
We need the Season of the Inundation to be strong, my Lord
      for while the fields are flooded, the people are free
      to labour at your tomb that rises majestically in the desert,
      raising its pinnacle to the mighty sun god Ra.
I beseech you, my Lord, to let the river run high
      for each season paves the way toward
      your celestial journey to the Underworld.

Your humble servant, Chief Steward of the Granaries

Published in Mythos Poetry Society Literary Journal "TALES OF THE CHANGING SEASONS"  October 2021. 

 

THE MEMORIAL

 

And when it was all said,
a solemn hush descended
‘cept for the flute’s sweet notes
Danny Boy rising above the trees,
shimmering leaves applauding a life well lived.

 

      

   To the memory of Scott Collie. 1958-2021